Pure Contempt Is Not For Free

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“No, sir” The man said, “It is not for free.” Endless mass of junk was stretched to either side of the stinking ally. I picked up the rusty old trophy which bore my name. The cold iron surface was visible from the craters in the gold paint. I scratched the surface and a large chunk of the fake golden paint fell to the land. The person manning the junk glowered at me. I shrugged and put the trophy back. “Do you know that this piece of junk has my name carved on it?” I asked, amused. The man was confounded for a moment. He didn’t say anything. He knew me. Of course, he knew me! I used to see him every day. Every Sunday, he used to have a sale of all the junk he had collected from neighbourhood. I went last Sunday, but didn’t found anything of use. Today, I did. A look of pure contempt was coming from his small eyes. If I demanded for the trophy, he could have done nothing. He would have had to return it to me. “No, sir” He repeated himself, “It is not for free.” I smiled. I was not going to argue. My gaze went back to the trophy. Amidst all the junk, it was one piece that was attached to me. Funny, how we throw things that we feel are no longer attached to us and suddenly when we see it again, we remember why we loved it in the first place. On the one side of the trophy, set on the table, was a small used comb. A weird mixture of grey, black and white hair was sticking out from it. One thin strand of the hair was touching my trophy. Yes, my trophy. I could feel my own nerves
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