Dogs of Wrath, The: Part 7

India woke up in a strange bed. Where am I? she wondered, as she tried to get up. She couldn’t because there was a large strap over her stomach, which only increased her unease. Why am I being kept here? She gazed around the dark room, trying to pick out some identifying features, but it was too shadowy for her to see anything.

She lay back in the bed. All right, I don’t know where I am, or why I’m here. I have a massive headache and I am hungry. And to top it all off, I can’t feel my foot. Wait, foot?

The events of the afternoon rushed back to her and she nher foot exploding after Robb moved his hand. After that, it was dark. I must have blacked out, or fainted, she decided. Not unlikely, considering the pain she must have been in at the time. Her body couldn’t deal with it and had shut down to shelter her from the distress. Ok, if my foot is gone, then I must be somewhere where they’d take care of it, since I’m not dead. Am I dead?

She explored her surroundings and felt soft cloth, and sheets. Ok, I may be dead, but I may not be. Back to square one then. I’ll assume I’m not dead, since my head hurts like hell. Then, I’m probably in a hospital or something.

Reassured now that she had puzzled out her location, she relaxed, not expecting any immediate harm. Of course, when one relaxes, one’s guard is down and if one is a target, this is the moment when one’s enemies are apt to strike. This stream of thought came into India’s head as soon as she rested it upon the plush pillow, which shocked her back from the state of lethargy that she had been in. Luckily, no one chose this moment to harm India and she soon fell into a light, fitful sleep.

______________________________________

Mr. Duke looked up from the manuscript he was reading and stood. He took off his reading glasses and stuck his head into the busy hallway of Duke and Shelby Publishing Corporation. He grabbed an intern and said, “Can you call Loretta for me?” The intern nodded and ran off.

Mr. Duke closed the door and rubbed his temples. The manuscript he was reading was perfect trash, not even worthy to grace his trash can. The largest of many problems with the manuscript that sprung to Mr. Duke’s mind was the complete and rather noticeable absence of any overarching plot at all. Some books could get away with no plot, but with this one, because of the relatively nondescript characters, the complete lack of scene description, awkward phrasing and the odious dialogue, it needed an unbelievably stellar plot to even have a chance of breaking even on the world market. And this it simply did not have.

Mr. Duke sat at his desk. Make no mistake, he thought, this author, Eric Glencoe, he has a lot of promise, but this thing he’s written is garbage. He’d be better off scrapping it and starting anew.

His intercom buzzed. “Yes, Loretta?” Mr. Duke answered, pressing the button.

“You asked for me, Mr. Duke?” The intercom crackled with Loretta’s voice. She had a beautiful voice, but the intercom could take the most beautiful sound and turn it into a static-filled, crackling, nearly indecipherable mess.

“I did. I wanted to know if you had any means of contacting Mr. Glencoe. Did he leave a phone number, an address, anything?”

“Yes, he did indeed, Mr. Duke. He left his home address with me. I’ll fax it up to you if you want.”

“Yes, that would be splendid,” Mr. Duke responded.

“He also left a message this morning asking if you had finished his manuscript yet. He’s really quite anxious to see it published, Mr. Duke.”

Mr. Duke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for passing that along. That will be all, Loretta.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Duke. Good night.”

Mr. Duke shut off the intercom. Another problem with Glencoe was that he had the most annoying, cloying, abrasive, irritating personality Mr. Duke had ever encountered. He didn’t want to break the kid’s heart, but he hated the guy’s personality. If he were a little more charming, and actually had a plot, Mr. Duke would give his book a shot, but because he wasn’t, the book was going in the trash and Mr. Glencoe was getting the standard Duke and Shelby Publishing Corporation rejection letter. It was five pages long and one of the best pieces of writing Mr. Duke had ever produced. He had worked on it for three months, and it was a masterpiece. It would be used for decades longer, with only slight alterations and was designed to let disappointed authors down gently, without the name of Duke and Shelby leaving a bad taste in their mouths.

While Mr. Duke waited for the fax to arrive, his thoughts wandered, until he began to think about writing his own book. It can’t be that hard, he reasoned. I mean, I’m the CEO and Editor in chief at a huge, multinational publishing corporation. Hundreds of manuscripts find their way to my desk every day. I know what the average reader wants and I’ve had thousands of story ideas bouncing around in my head for years. I can do this. It’s not that hard.

Mr. Duke’s reverie was interrupted by the whirring of his fax machine as it prepared to spit out the paper with Eric’s address. Mr. Duke grabbed the paper and opened the file. He changed the name and address portion of the letter to that of Eric Glencoe and searched the document for any recurrences of the name of the person the letter had last been sent to.

Satisfied that the only name in the letter was Eric’s he printed the rejection out, saved the template and shut down the computer. Grabbing his gray felt fedora, his darker gray wool – cashmere blend overcoat and his black briefcase, he dropped the letter in his OUT bin, turned off his lights, exited his office and tipped his hat to Loretta as he passed her cubicle. He entered the hallway, pressed the button for the elevator, and when it arrived, he quickly entered the empty car, pressed the button for the basement and headed for his car.

Once inside his Aston Martin DB9 COUPE, on the way to his apartment, Mr. Duke couldn’t stop thinking about perhaps writing his own story. All I need to do, he reasoned, is to get started. Some authors write a book a month, like that R.L. Stine with his Goosebumps series. I don’t expect to be able to do that, but perhaps I could write this book in a year. But, again, I’ll never know until I get started.

He arrived at his apartment building, disembarked from his Aston Martin, grabbed his briefcase and over coat from the backseat, tossed the keys to the adolescent valet, mentally cringing at the idea of this pimply, gangly, oily, teenager driving his car. He’ll probably destroy the suspension, pretending he’s James Bond, or something. He made a note of the boy’s name, resolving to call the super and get the boy fired if something happened to his car.

Mr. Duke entered the elevator that was always waiting in the garage and took it to the penthouse. A slot opened where he inserted his key, and without further delay, the elevator sped up to the penthouse floor.

He stepped out of the elevator and eyed his foyer. Nothing had been touched, as he had requested. Mr. Duke took of his overcoat and hung it in his closet, which was full of coats and hats similar to the ones he had been wearing. He stepped into his office, where he placed his briefcase and then went into his bedroom, where he changed from his suit and tie into more comfortable clothes. A few hours later, Mr. Duke sat in front of his fireplace with a glass of Mondavi, still thinking about writing a book. Airheads like Britney Spears, Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson have done it, he reflected. I am a very rich man with a degree from Yale. My IQ is 144. He placed his wineglass on the table and abruptly stood up. You know what? I am going to write this thing now.

Mr. Duke walked into his office and turned on his computer. He logged in, opened a new document and typed one word. The. He stared at the screen for a minute, his fingers poised over the keyboard, ready for action, awaiting commands that were not forthcoming. A brief flurry of motion produced another word. Man. The screen now read, The man. Five fingers flashed and the word walked appeared on the screen. Slowly, and with great effort and long pauses in between each word, The man walked over to the newsstand and picked up a paper, finally emerged onto the screen. Mr. Duke sat in his chair, sweating at the exertion.

He realized he was sweating and laughed at the ridiculous notion that twelve little words could cause him to feel as winded as if he had run a marathon. An idea materialized in his mind, and without second – guessing himself, he typed, On the front page, there was a story about a man who had dropped dead writing a book. Bit by bit, and with gratuitous use of the backspace button and long pauses in between words and sentences and paragraphs, the following words began to materialize on Mr. Duke’s screen.

Copyright ©2009 Malcolm Clarke