The Plagiarist From Rigel IV

Writing stories was hard work—unless Fred had a typewriter like Reggie that could write by itself! Nonsense? Fred agreed until he met—
I bought the typewriter in a pawn shop on Third Avenue.
The pawn shop proprietor was a balding old man with a walrus mustache.
How much? I asked him.
Five dollars, he said casually.
I glanced at him skeptically. The machine was a Remington Noiseless, with italics, probably worth a little over a hundred new, and it couldn't have been more than a year or two old.
How much? I asked.
Five dollars, is what I said. Five. He held up the fingers of his widespread hand. Five. One-two-three....
What's wrong with it? I asked suspiciously.
The old man shrugged. Something has to be wrong with it? Listen, young man, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
How come it's so cheap?
The old man sighed deeply. You try to do a favor, you get all kinds of questions. Would you feel happier if I charged you fifty-five dollars?