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"Grammarnoir 4: Final Edition": Part 3: "The Belly of the Beast"

This is the third installment of the fourth Grammarnoir serial. The final installment will be posted on National Grammar Day, March 4, a Sunday, because grammar never takes the day off.

Part 3: The belly of the beast

The Greyhound bus nosed through a darkened landscape as flat and barren as a corporate vice president’s conscience. The ride had lasted most of the night, with stops at one-horse burgs long enough for a stretch and a cup of coffee. Copy editor coffee: weak but bitter.

We rolled into Springfield a little after dawn. It was a two-horse town, and I laid siege to a booth in a diner to nurse more copy editor coffee and wait the day’s shift to begin.

Ambling over to the newspaper building, I entered and told the security guard at the front desk I wanted to take out a classified ad. She directed me to a counter, and I pretended to write on a form and waited. Within a few minutes—you can always depend on it—a homeless man wandered in, FedEx guy tried to deliver a package, and an elderly lady started screaming in fury about her subscription. I slipped past the guard and found a sign pointing to Production Hub.

It was a fetid basement room with narrow aisles between rows of desks, each desk with a computer terminal and a harried editor. Striding up and down the aisles like a bantam cock was a short, stocky man, some kind of straw boss, who would periodically shout, ā€œRunnin’ out of clock, runnin’ out of clock!ā€ Then a buzzer would sound, and he’d shout, ā€œHillsboro deadline!ā€ or ā€œEvansville deadline!ā€

Then a lull descended, and he took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and marched purposefully to a door at the other end of the room.

Peering around the doorway, I could see that the desk nearest the door was occupied by the specimen I was seeking. Skinny, hair parted in the middle, thick eyeglass lenses—the weedy figure who had inexplicably stirred passion in the impressive di Plossis bosom.

ā€œHearst!ā€ I hissed. He looked up.

ā€œWho are you?ā€

ā€œNever mind that. I’ve come for you.ā€

He shook his head. ā€œI can’t go.ā€

ā€œWhy?ā€

ā€œBecause I do not hope to turn again.ā€

ā€œWhat?ā€

ā€œBecause I do not hope to turnā€”ā€

ā€œSnap out of it, sunshine. I’m working for Anna. You’re just a damn copy editor, and out there there’s a sexy woman who, out of the unfathomable and imponderable vagaries and caprices of the human heart, wants you.ā€

ā€œYou can’t get me out of here. They monitor us with cameras. We have to sleep on bunks in a dormitory upstairs. They pay us in scrip, and we have to get our food at the company store. There’s a bracelet on my leg that sounds an alarm if I  try to leave the building. You can’t get me out, and you’d better get out. He takes less time to smoke a cigarette than you would have thought possible.ā€

ā€œAnna wants you back, and she sent me to fetch you. One way or another, I’m fetching you.ā€

A meaty hand grabbed my shoulder, and the straw boss’s hoarse voice said, ā€œYou’re not fetching anybody, you stinking peeper. You’re going to see The Chief.ā€

Next: The Chief

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