"A. R. Morlan - Dear DB" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morlan A R)

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"Dear D.B. ..."
by A. R. Morlan
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Copyright (c)1987 by A. R. Morlan


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Horror


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At first, I only thought that good old Super-super goofed, _again._
After all, the man's command of the "Engleesh as she is spoken" isn't the best
to begin with (but you would think that living in the City for umpteen years
would make a difference sometimes I'm sure that English is doomed to become
the United States' second language), but even _he_ should know the difference
between _gringa_ and _gringo_ (at least that's how I think the "Spanish she is
spoken" I never did take that course back in Ewerton High) but at the time I
decided that it would _not_ do to gripe about it. He does allow me to keep
Wolfie and Duke (neither of whom will ever be mistaken for lap dogs) up here
in the apartment, which is not the most common practice here in New York City.
(And if I'm not a good girl, he'll confiscate his Roach Motels!)
Anyhow, Roach Motels and the boys aside, when Mr. Hernandez said what
he did to me, I had just gotten back my proofs for "The Mouth That Would Not
Die" from _Bloodbath Quarterly._ The editor scribbled that the "...That
Wouldn't Die" sounded a bit "flip." _As in Wilson,_ I was tempted to scribble
back in the margins, but you learn to keep such thoughts to yourself
especially when there's a five foot high slush pile generated by writers just
dying to get a shot at _BQ._ (Instead, I told myself I'd change it back when
the anthology of my work came out.) As usual, the galleys came back with the
standard note, "Running late, get back ASAP," and so on. I had only found
three typos, all minor, when Mr. Hernandez knocked, asking for the rent, and
for once he _didn't_ make some crack about (pick one or more): my halter top,
my shorts, my body, and/or my single female status. (Thank goodness for two
mammoth _male_ doggies at a time like that! And I used to think good ole Dead
Fred Ferger back home in Wisconsin was bad! Spare me from the Latin lover
type!)
Instead of his usual "How's de preety senyorita?" line, Mr. H. kept it
short, but right before he left, he bent down to itch Wolfie's head and said