Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best books to read for self development TXT) 📗

eloped with Mitch, she immediately ran out and spent three grand on clothes.

I stopped at the table of a dealer who was selling Beyond Earth lunch boxes, board games, and action figures, most of which appeared to be in their original packaging.

There were even unopened packs of Beyond Earth bubblegum, the ones with trading cards featuring pictures of the cast and scenes from the show. The price tag showed the packs were $350 each. I figured the decimal had to be in the wrong place.

I reached out to examine the price tag more closely when the woman behind the table lightly slapped my hand and gave me a stern look.

She was my age and twice as wide, wearing a Confederation uniform that was too tight to hold her girth.

“Don’t touch. These are antiques,” she said. “They can only be handled with gloves. Moisture from your fingertips could harm the packaging.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t you get the ’FAQs for Newbies’ at the registration desk?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“It’s required reading,” she said. “It also has recommendations for newbies on how to begin building a collection. Beyond Earth plates are a fun and inexpensive way to start.”

“Why couldn’t I start with Beyond Earth toys?” I gestured to some plastic spaceships that were still in their original wrapping.

“That’s like starting your art collection with a Picasso. You really have to be an expert to appreciate their value and understand how to care for them,” she said. “These are very rare, museum-quality pieces.”

I couldn’t imagine what museum would be interested in them.

“They are? What makes them so rare?”

“The only way you could get one of these was by purchasing a Burgerville kid’s meal in February 1978. These have been kept in pristine condition in a dust-free, temperature-controlled room ever since.”

“I used to treat my toys the same way,” Monk said.

He was on the far side of the table, looking at some Beyond Earth cereal boxes.

“It was more fun than a barrel of monkeys,” he said. “If there aren’t actually any monkeys in the barrel, and never were any monkeys in the barrel, because monkeys make a mess and they are very unsanitary. In fact, it’s the most fun of all when the barrel is untouched and the monkeys are on another continent.”

I gave him a look. “So you’re saying that keeping your toys hermetically sealed was as much fun as an empty barrel.”

“Those were good times.”

I turned back to the Beyond Earth kid’s meal toys.

“It’s a shame they were never opened,” I said to the woman. “I think it’s cruel to give a toy to a child but not let them play with it.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said. “I never played with any of my Beyond Earth toys.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to break them,” she said.

“But toys are meant to be played with and broken,” I said.

“That’s just crazy talk,” Monk said to me.

“It’s fun, Mr. Monk. It’s part of growing up. It’s called childhood.”

The dealer held up one of the toys in her gloved hand. “You wouldn’t say that if this was a Ming vase.”

“But it’s not,” I said.

“It is to me,” she said.

That was when she was distracted by a movement at the other end of the table. And then she let out an anguished wail, an expression of pain and fury that seemed to claw its way out from the depths of her soul. In fact, it sounded just like the cries people made when they were being devoured by the Sharplings.

She was staring in horror at Monk, who was standing in front of a trash can at the far end of the table.

“What have you done?” she yelled at him.

“I just cleaned up a few things,” Monk said. Then he motioned to me. “Wipe. Wipe.”

I gave him two.

The woman’s wail drew dozens of people, who gathered around the garbage can to see what the fuss was about. I joined them and we all peered inside.

On top of a bunch of hot dogs, melted ice cream, and other sticky garbage were four unopened cartons of Beyond Earth breakfast cereal. The front of each box showed a smiling Captain Stryker about to joyfully eat a spoonful of glittering, sugar-coated cereal shaped like stars. Mr. Snork stood at his side, enthusiastically snorting up cereal with his trunk.

At least that’s what the boxes looked like before they were tossed in the trash on top of catsup, chocolate, whipped cream, and soft drinks.

The saleswoman’s lip trembled with rage, her eyes filled with tears.

“Those were authentic boxes of Beyond Earth cereal,” she said. “They survived three earthquakes, a flood, two marriages, three moves, and six cats. They have never been opened.”

“It’s a good thing they weren’t,” Monk said. “That cereal expired thirty years ago.”

“Do you know how much those boxes were worth? I could have gotten a thousand dollars for the set.” Her whole body shook with fury. “Now they’re ruined. No one will ever buy them.”

“You were selling them?” Monk was dismayed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. What if someone had eaten that cereal? It would have killed them faster than rat poison.”

“You want to know what kills fast? I’ll show you.” She grabbed a curved knife off her table. “An Umgluckian ceremonial dagger!”

She leapt up on the table and threw herself at Monk, but I grabbed her by the ankle in midflight and sent her toppling into the trash can instead.

“Time to go,” I said, leading Monk away.

Monk looked back at her. “You’ll thank me later.”

9

Mr. Monk and the Galactic Uprising

"I think she did it,” Monk said as I hustled him into the crowd and across the convention floor as fast as I could. “I think she killed Stipe.”