Excerpt from short story -- leave you with a laugh.

This will be the last post of the day. I hope folks wander in late and read them. Please comment in an email if you wish. This is the opening of a short story that's not a romance. It's just funny.
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The Lawyer, the Ghost, and the Cursed Chair
by Ruth Sims
available from Untreed Reads
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Time and Age. They make bottoms sag, legs shake, and arms wobble. Every time the old chair was moved it left a trail of little Hansel-and-Gretel tufts of ancient gray stuffing. In the world of furniture it had once been a duchess. Now it was a bag lady.

H.L. (Horatio Lamar) Snodgrass IV never gave the old chair another thought after he placed it in the storage room of his office to await the junk man. He was too busy sniffing and stroking its replacement, experiencing almost orgasmic pleasure in the smell and feel of the tall-backed chair made from the hides of Pamplona fighting bulls, a chair fit for a king. Or a damn good lawyer. He was the best. When he spoke judges melted. When he spoke Justice took off her blindfold, winked, and hiked her skirt to the thigh.

His clothes were custom made. One car was foreign and expensive. Another was American and expensive. His favorite was old, low, and expensive. His wife, who was visiting her wealthy mother at the time, was petite and expensive. His boyfriend was not petite in any way, but neither was he cheap.

A series of bone-shattering blows against the door interrupted his thoughts. Normally he would have let his secretary answer the door, but since this was Saturday she was not there.

On his way to the door, H.L. had to pass the time-faded oil portrait of his Great-great-great Grandfather, Hawkins Forsythe Snodgrass and he felt a brief twinge of conscience. After all, the old fellow had brought the chair from England generations ago. Hawkins had been a famous barrister in his homeland and he became more famous in his adopted country. Part of his fame was due in part to the eccentricity of never abandoning the English wig and robe even after becoming an American citizen. This eccentric gentleman was the primogenitor of six generations of Snodgrass lawyers, each more successful and richer than the last.

“Perhaps,” H.L. thought, “I should keep the chair as a memento...but what the hell.”

The explosive knock came again. H.L. opened the door and came eye-to-Adam’s-apple with a hulking individual who sported a turned-about Chicago Cubs cap and a bushy beard. A fine gold chain led from the gold hoop in his left nostril to a large gold hoop in his left earlobe. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and a gold skull on a chain glinted upon a chest of black fur that a grizzly bear would have envied. Clamped between his teeth was a cigar that, judging from the smell, had been made from a mixture of rotten eggs and old rags.

“Are you the junk man?” H.L. asked.

“No, I ain’t no flippin’ junk man,” the Neanderthal growled. “I’m Vyvyan Smucker from Smucker’s Reclamation, Recycling, and Haulage.” He took a drag on the cigar and exhaled a choking cloud of smog. “Where at’s the junk?”

H.L. pointed to the chair. It seemed to shiver and huddle within itself.

“Five bucks,” said Smucker.

H.L. was pleased. He hadn’t realized he would make five dollars off the deal. However, Smucker did not move toward either the chair or his wallet.
“Well?” said H.L. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Me neither. Gimme my five smackers and me and the piece o’ junk are outta here.”

“What? I’m supposed to pay you?”

Smucker removed the cigar from between his teeth, dribbling ashes on the beige carpet. “Well, whadda you think?”

“Oh, hell,” grumbled H.L. as he forked over the five. “That’s the trouble with this country today. Everybody’s out to screw everybody else.”

Smucker’s eyes brightened. He replaced the cigar and thoughtfully looked H.L. up and down. Twice. After a minute he shrugged. “Nah. You ain’t my type. Too flimsy.” He hoisted the chair up under one arm and strolled out.

“Damned cretin. Probably drags his knuckles on the ground when no one’s looking,” H.L. muttered. “What did he mean I wasn’t his type? What did he mean ‘too flimsy?’ I work out.”