The Baddest Book Hunter Ever

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Are you thinking what I’m thinking? I’ll have to have a satchel with a secret flap. And a glove. 

 

I’ll have to have a fiddle. Yes.

 

And a tweezer. And a robotic seer-sucker-scope. A cat too, fitted with a secret high-def wide-angle Cat Cam. Drones wont work. Drones are a dead giveaway. Plus, they’ll scatter the rats.

 

The glove will have to be skin tight. Pure. Kept in a sanctified flat box that glows in the dark, a kind of holy light. Hands have to be clean. Spotless.

 

No warts.

 

As the Baddest Book Hunter Ever I will want the baddest horse ever. Lightening fast. And black. So fast, you’ll hear claps of thunder. By then I’ll be long gone. My horse will be called Cloud. I’m going to love that horse.

 

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I don’t know what books you have in mind, but I’d so love to know. However, seven are on my Most Wanted List, seven of the world’s best kept secrets, le prizes de los todos prizes. And I’m going to give myself a new name. The Pope has one. Rappers do the same. Soldiers have titles, so I’d have to have a title. I haven’t figured those yet.

 

You’re probably thinking I’m kidding, or that I’m inspired by some silly book, or that I have been in the St. Patty’s brew too long. You’d be dead wrong; it’s the other way around.

 

Two weeks ago, one of my adult athletes brought me a gift. It wasn’t my birthday or any special day of any kind; he just gave me a gift. Period. “Coach, I have a gift for you. Here.” Full stop. 

 

I like that.

 

  The gift? A Pulitzer Prize! Serious. National Book Award. The Swerve by Stephen Greenblatt. How The World Became Modern.

 

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I’m still reading it.

 

So far, I’ve carried that book into two coffee shops, one burger joint, a deli, and onto a park bench. Each time, it attracted strong attention, a few times from folks who are acquainted with my work and who asked, “Is that one of yours?” Ooh! Such flattery! So sexy! That kind of flattery can get a person places, but I digress. Three times, persons taking curiously quickened snapshots of its pages uttered, ‘book hunter, hmm?‘ at which I, full-blown jealous, retorted, “M-hm. I imagined that book hunter in my dreams; he booked him all the way to the Pulitzer. Now, who do you want to sleep with?”

 

But I digress, full-blown green!

 

  Wait ‘till you see what book is at the top of my Most Wanted List. Ooh-wee! However, my list is not in Most-Wanted order, it’s in Book-Hunting order – 1 to 7, first to last, easiest to hardest – expressively, you might say, from ‘Oh god, that’ll be the death of me‘ to ‘Lord God, that’ll make me king of the universe.’

 

The first book I’m hunting down, which of course is not the one at the top of the list, remember, is The Book Of Jesus. No, not the bible. Jesus said Precious Little there and lived out The Great Example in three years. That speaks volumes for itself and should be more than anyone should want to know, right?

 

Jesus was brilliant. Truly human. If he wasn’t everything would come falling down like stacked cards in a desert wind.

 

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Jesus knew people. He knew history. He knew all laws and all scriptures. He knew more than any man that has ever lived, even which fish has money in it. He must have studied a great lot. Don’t tell me he never wrote a scribble or a scrawl anywhere. Uh-oh! 

 

I duly declare: Jesus knew how to write.

 

The Book Of Jesus is not its real title. Nope. It spans his eighteen years between twelve and thirty, which the scripture is curiously silent about. Crucial years. This book – The Book Of Jesus – is being held in a place you wouldn’t suspect. It is guarded by, ahem, shall-be-nameless men and women of the Secret-of-all-Secrets Society – not the shake-hands kind. Oh no! Signs and signals! You have to be conversant with all of its signs and signals. You’ll  have know to scratch the back of your ears just so, cough just so, utter the correct gibberish sequence just so, flupsy just so, then drink the special potion without dropping dead, or you-no-getting-nowhere-near The Book Of Jesus.

 

It’s a small book, but it is jam-packed.

 

Every chapter begins thus: The First Time I … [fill in the blank] … And whatever anyone needs to know on the issue will be there – such and such – so that the next time someone asks What would Jesus do? I could scroll to that chapter of the Book Of Jesus, and Boom-shacka-lacka, There it is!

 

I know, when I capture this book, woe unto me if I announce I have it. I’d be the most hunted man on the planet – hunted down from all sides. Why do you think there’s been neither hey nor ho of The Book Of Jesus by the most brilliant writer of all times? And it isn’t called the Book Of Jesus. Oh no. It has a secret name. I know. But The Book of Jesus is what it is. I can tell you this, though: it contains this special note from the author to the reader: “We meet each other every day.” 

 

Here comes my horse, Cloud! And my cat. Just wait till you see the next book on our precious list.

 

Here’s a hint? 

 

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