A Handicap of the Devil? Read Online Free

he won the club championship several times. He had to play with specially made cut-down clubs. The dwarf did extraordinarily well at golf and at a number of other things—until the drugs finally got hold of him. As he became more and more under the influence of the green weed, his game suffered ... until he finally gave it up altogether. Like many other things in his weed-induced torpor, it was all too much trouble.
    He drifted in and out of jobs for a while and then onto the dole permanently as he became so hooked on marijuana he became unemployable. It was a pity. Despite the handicap of his size—and the fact that he lost an eye and a leg in an accident involving an exploding illegal whisky still before he left the orphanage—he had shown tremendous potential in many things.
    Perhaps he had been doomed from the very start. When the baby dwarf was rescued by the good onion and apple-needing Samaritan, the children's hospital whence he was immediately transferred became aware of something more serious than his stature. The baby was addicted to heroin. Nurses everywhere who come into contact with drug-addicted babies will tell you that there is nothing more pathetic in this world. They weaned the dwarf off his addiction to heroin, but who can say whether this earliest of experiences was responsible for his own later craving for marijuana, or whether it was not?
    Whatever the cause, eventually the dwarf was rolling his first joint before breakfast—if he had any food for breakfast—and that is never good news for anyone long or short.
* * * *
    Jonathan and the dwarf reached the living room door and paused while the dwarf negotiated with the people inside. They had barricaded themselves in by placing items of furniture against the door. After much shuffling, pushing and grunting, the door swung open to reveal three people. The dwarf introduced them. “This is Cowley.” He indicated a young woman with no ears and a hump on her back. “And this is Sampson."
    A huge, muscular, black youth with his nose missing—and a misshapen hole where the mouth should have been—waved a hand at Jonathan.
    "I'm old Crone, old Crone.” The speaker, an older woman, stood off to the side. She had two wooden legs, and supported herself on crutches.
    "Hello.” Jonathan was abashed. Never before in his sheltered life had he encountered people with handicaps of any kind. He had always lived in a cloistered, comfortable world where everyone had legs and ears and noses and mouths ... and where no one only came up to your waist. “Do you mind terribly if I use your phone?"
    "Haven't got one. Haven't got one.” Old Crone stumped over on her crutches and tried to push him back into the hallway. “Haven't got one. Haven't got one.” She bullied Jonathan against the wall. The ringing of the telephone stopped her. Cowley went over to a desk against the wall, opened a drawer and answered it.
    "That's what you get for telling lies,” snapped the dwarf.
    "Lies, pies. We don't want him in here. He's a cop, he's a cop."
    "I'm not a cop. I fell asleep on the train and had to walk home. It's raining, and I want a taxi."
    "He's a cop or a private D, and he's here either to do a bust or evict us, evict us."
    "He just wants the phone, Crone. Get off his back."
    "Back, Shmack. He smells of cop, smells of cop."
    "Someone's been reading you detective stories again, haven't they?"
    "Shut up, Shorty. What would you know, you know?"
    "Don't call me Shorty, Stumpy."
    "Hey, ease off ... both of you.” Sampson manoeuvred between the increasingly agitated dwarf and Old Crone.
    While Crone was distracted, Jonathon slid away and escaped the crutches pinning him against the wall. “I'll just go at this stage.” The rain seemed preferable to remaining in this lunatic asylum.
    "No, don't go.” Jonathan looked over to the desk where Cowley had finished her phone call. She held a large handgun. Cowley's finger curled around the trigger and aimed the gun at Jonathan's