EDITOR MURDERS UnMystery
Inquire for bookstore special order
Outside the USA, please inquire for shipping rates before ordering.
Writer Exacts Horrible Revenge
For mature readers
Sample - from Chapter 1
Round face, short-trimmed neat white beard, short-trimmed neat white hair, P. Eaton Norge professionally plucked a rose-colored rejection slip from the pad on the elegant plastic desk before him. The surface of the desk was immaculate, the office spacious, over there at BIG MAGAZINE, with the clean large window with the large view of the great big dirty city that looked clean from here.
He folded the slip briskly into the frightened manuscript which he then slipped into the SASE with the deftness of long experience.
What was the story about? Who knew? Who cared? Not P. E. That was the beauty of the job.
Rejection was a work of art, better art than that which was being rejected, if for no other reason than that it had the last word, which, in art as in real life, is reason enough. Concentrated and organized to the nth degree, the rejection slip was poetry in motion. It cut out the nasty bother of being an editor, most of it anyway.
So who was this latest pathetic, self-styled, wanna-be, this -- what's his name anyway? Who cared? Definitely not P. E., the Editor.
His name was Helmsley Nesbitt. He was an unknown, and he was going to stay that way forever. Norge would do his part to see to that. He licked the envelope with a practiced, white-coated tongue. He loved the SASE. It was such a cleverly devious device that made unknown writers pay to suffer, and anything to enhance their suffering was beautiful indeed. But could anyone but an editor fully appreciate how enjoyable it was that they had to pay to be rejected?
Norge accepted only knowns, preferably well-knowns. He didn't read their stuff either. But he didn't have to. It didn't matter whether the writing was good or not; they were known, and he knew them all: the Fitzblitzes, the Evansblatzes, the Marmosets, McFarters, Plachyderms, Oncolowitzes, Vilintergutzes. He knew them all right, the real ones.
Nesbitt. Nesbitt, Norge thought tunefully. Nesbitt. Nesbitt. Nesbitt. And he flicked the envelope into the tray marked, "Death," in which already had accrued a significant pile, and it was only just 10:45 in the a.m....
© Charles Martin Simon