"The Buttinski"

“Here’s the thing, Pete,” said Dr. Weinberg, “you’re never going to be able to hold down a job, to have friends, maybe even someday – who knows – to find a girlfriend, until you learn to listen to other people instead of just waiting for an opportunity to butt in and spout your own opinions, to make yourself seem special, to –”


“Okay, I hear what you’re saying, Doc, but if I may just interject a moment.”

Dr. Weinberg sighed, and tapped out another one of her Vogue ladies’ cigarettes.

“Sure, Pete, what is it?”

“Can I help it if other people are so boring and stupid?”

She lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled. This guy was going to drive her nuts. She looked at her watch.

“Oh, my, look at the time. Okay, Pete, we’ll pick this up next time.”

“Sure, Doc. You have a nice day.”


Pete got the note to show his probation officer in case he got checked up on, went out and caught the subway back downtown. He would be just in time for the 2-for-1 “happy hour” at Bob’s Bowery Bar, which was practically the only bar in the city south of 42nd Street that he hadn’t been flagged from yet.



– The Buttinski, by Horace P. Sternwall, a Monarch “paperback original”, 1957; republished as The Tedious Fellow, by “Hugh Palmerston Stubbins”, the Quayside Press (U.K.), 1959.

"The Man Who Loved Himself"

Pete Willingham didn’t know why that court-appointed lady shrink Dr. Weinberg kept insisting that he was a narcissist, as if it was some kind of a bad thing. Narcissism meant you loved yourself, right? And what was so bad about loving yourself? Nobody else loved Pete, that was for sure, so he might as well darn tooting love himself himself, or at least that was the way Pete looked at it. Was it his fault that the rest of the world couldn’t see what a swell guy he was? 


– The Man Who Loved Himself, by Horace P. Sternwall, Midwood Books, 1957; revised and republished as The Chap Who Loved Himself, by “Hobart P. Shillingsworth”, Corgi Books (U.K.), 1959; both editions one printing only.

“Someone Is Murdering the Men of Wheeler’s Corners”

Someone was murdering the men of Wheeler’s Corners, one by one. First it was the mayor, Big Joe Gibbs, who was also the owner of the lumber mill. Then a month later it was Cal Burrowes, the lawyer. Six weeks after that Reverend McIntyre was shot in the back of the head while he was trimming and watering his roses early one morning. Mrs. McIntyre heard the shot but thought it was just a car backfiring, and so she didn’t find the reverend until a quarter of an hour later when she called him to breakfast and he didn’t come in. Five weeks after that Sheriff Boone was picked off as he was taking his evening stroll along Main Street. Some people said the shot came from up the hill, but nobody knew for sure.

The state police sent a man down a few days later, and the second night he was in town he got a bullet in the temple while he was driving over the Crippled Creek Bridge.

The next night Fred Baxter held a meeting in his store.

“Fellas, we gotta do somethin’, afore every man jack in this town winds up with a bullet in his head.”

“What the heck we gonna do, Fred?” said Willie Perkins, the grocery man.

“I’m packing up and gettin’ out,” said Red Durst, the dairy man. “I ain’t sitting around just wondering if I’m next. That ain’t no way to live.”

“I got an idea,” said Chester Higgins, who had never worked a day in his life and lived with his widowed mother and four spinster sisters.

“Oh, great, Chester’s got an idea,” said Bert Pope, who lived with his widower father and worked in the glove factory.

“Now just hear me out,” said Chester. “I been reading a book I got from the lending library, and I think there’s a man who can find this murderer. He’s one of them detective fellers.”

“You mean like a private detective?” said Mr. Moody, the undertaker.

“Yes, sir,” said Chester. “And the thing is, if he thinks a case is inneresting, money is no object, so we could probably hire him cheap.”

“What’s this feller’s name?” said Red.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Chester.

“I think I heard of him,” said Red.

“Me too,” said Willie. “But don’t he live over in England?”

“That he does,” said Chester. “But maybe if we all chip in for his aeroplane fare he’ll fly over, on accounta this case is so inneresting.”

Everybody was quiet for a moment, and then Fred Baxter said, “You got this feller’s address, Chester?”


“I sure do,” said Chester, and he took out a matchbook, opened it up and read what he had written inside it: 

“221B Baker Street, London, England.”



– Someone Is Murdering the Men of Wheeler’s Corners, by Horace P. Sternwall; a Hi-Quality Books paperback original, 1951; one printing, never republished.

"Chronicles of a Planet Called Mook, Vol. 1"

“Where ya goin’, Mabel?”



Clyde had been staring at the blank first page of his new novel. All he had so far was the title: Chronicles of a Planet Called Mook: Volume One.



“Shopping,” said Mabel.

“Dressed like that?”

“What’s the matter with the way I’m dressed?”

“Nothing, baby. You look nice.”

“You think maybe I should go to the A&P wearing curlers and a housecoat like the rest of them broads?”

“No, not at all. You look swell, babe.”

“I might be a while. I told Madge I’d meet her for lunch at the automat.”

“Tell Madge I said hi.”

“Sure.”

Mabel headed out the door, and down the four flights of stairs to the Bowery. She would have to ring up Madge and tell her that they were supposed to have had lunch at the automat. 



– Chronicles of a Planet Called Mook, Vol. 1, by Horace P. Sternwall (a Budget Books paperback original, 1953; republished as Indiscretions of a Hack Writer’s Wife, by “Herbert Pryce Stevenson”,  Jermyn Street Books {U.K.}, 1955.)