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enough to repel the pirates who are trying to take over this corporation."
Hawks was pacing up and down the length of the long polished table, forcing the directors who sat on that
side of it to turn in their chairs to follow him. The head of Webb Press was wearing a military-style suit
vaguely reminiscent of a World War II general named Patton. Even down to his glossy calf-length cavalry
boots and the fake ivory-handled revolvers buckled to his waddling hips.
"Snotty ungrateful sonofabitch," Weldon muttered to himself. I streamline his operation for him, get Webb
Press ready to shift over to electronic publishing, and he rewards me with this stab in the back.
"..and to show you just what kind of senility we're dealing with here"-Hawks had raised his voice to a near
shout-"let me introduce you to the vaunted efficiency expert that was foisted on me, the superbrain who
was given carte blanche by our beloved CEO to wipe out most of Webb Press's staff and move our base of
operations out of Manhattan altogether!"
He snapped his fingers, and the flunky sitting next to the conference room's only entrance jumped to his
feet and opened the leather-padded door. There was a slight commotion in the outer room, and then two
burly men in white uniforms led in Gunther Axhelm, who was securely wrapped in a straitjacket.
Gasps went around the long conference table. Cigars fell out of hanging mouths. Pouchy eyes widened.
They all knew Axhelm, by reputation if nothing else. They knew of his Prussian precision and the ruthless
thoroughness of his operations. What they now saw was a wild man, red-rimmed eyes and drooling
maniacal grin, straitjacket stained with spittle, baggy gray hospital drawers and bare feet. Even his crew-
cut blond hair seemed askew.
"This is the result of breathing too much of the glue that he himself demanded we use in binding our
books, instead of the glue we normally used. It has cost Webb Press roughly a hundred million dollars; it's
cost Gunther Axhelm his sanity."
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Of course, Hawks had made certain that Axhelm had all the glue he wanted to sniff in the private hospital
where he had stashed the loopy Axe. That, and a steady diet of Gene Kelly videos.
Axhelm suddenly shouldered free of his two handlers and, with a deranged shriek, ran to the conference
table and jumped atop it. Two directors tumbled backwards in their chairs and fell gracelessly to the floor.
The others backed away in sudden fright.
But Gunther Axheim meant them no harm. In his bare feet he capered along the table in a mad parody of
tap dancing, the strap ends of his straitjacket flapping away, singing at the top of his lungs in a decidedly
Teutonic accent, "Be a clown, be a clown, all the world loves a clown.."
THE WRITER
In his miserable roach-infested room in the welfare hotel, the Writer pored over the current issue of
Publishers Wee/dy that he had stolen from the local branch of the public library.
The State had stepped in and taken charge of his life. When the drugged-out staff of the warehouse had
tried to burn the building down (with materials and helpful instructions from the management,
incidentally), the apparatus of the State wheeled itself up in the form of (in order of appearance) Fire
Department, Police Department, Bureau of Drug Enforcement, the Public Defender's Office, Department
of Rehabilitation, Bureau of Unemployment, and the welfare offices of the state of New Jersey and the city
of New York, borough of Queens.
Now he lived in a crumbling welfare hotel in Queens, detoxified, unemployed, and seething with an anger
that seemed to grow hotter and deeper with every passing useless day.
But now it all focused down to a single point in space and time. For in his trembling hands he saw how
and why it would all come together.
BUNKER SALES FORCE SUIT
OPENS IN FEDERAL COURT
The headline in Publishers Weekly caught his eye. Bunker Books. They were in a courtroom. All of them.
The publisher, the editors. Out there in a public courtroom, where any member of the public could come
in and see them, face to face.
With an immense effort of will, the Writer forced his hands to stop trembling so he could read the entire
article and learn exactly where they would be and when.
As he finished reading, he looked up and saw a single ray of light shining through the filth that covered
the room's only window. The shaft was blood red. Sunset.
The Writer smiled. Where can I get a gun? he asked himself.
TWENTY-ONE
Junior sat!T was not easy being the son of Pandro T. Bunker. the last row of the half-empty courtroom,
listening with only half his attention to the testimony being given up on the witness stand. No one sat near
him; he had the entire pew of seats to himself. None of the sales people in the audience wanted to be seen
sitting near the son of the publisher. And all of his dad's people, including his mom, were up in the front.
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