"Robert Reed - 555" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

snuggling at that extravagant little dinner party.
"Sonny loves Claudia now," says the writer.
I nod, in misery.
"He doesn't think about you anymore. Not even in passing."
I shiver and sob.
"But you can win him back again, Joan. If you really want him, that is."
"I do!" I blurt.
"In thirteen seconds," Mitchell tells me, "Claudia will walk through that
door. And you will pull the little pistol from your purse--the same pistol
Claudia gave you as a Christmas gift last year--and you will shoot her
once, with a devastator bullet, directly between her big beautiful tits."
"They are ugly and fat, and sloppy, and you should count your blessings
that you don't have to meet with the little bastards."
I always count my blessings.
Claudia was walking from my office door to my window and back again.
Pacing, it is called--one of many behaviors in which I have little ability.
She looked furious, and not in the merely dramatic fashion demanded by
dialogue and plot. She nearly shivered as she strode past my desk for the
umpteenth time, her deep powerful voice nearly cracking as she repeated
the words, "Little bastards."
This was ages ago. This was last week, nearly. But in that other world, a
week is not long, which makes the event recent and timely, and perhaps
important.
"Do you know what the little bastards want to do?"
I shook my head. "No, ma'am."
"What they're talking about doing--?"
"What, madam?"
 Claudia stopped in mid-stride, glancing at me as if noticing my
presence for the first time. She was lovely, of course. Always and
effortlessly beautiful. A tall ensemble built from elegant curves, she wore a
snug, well-tailored suit and the thick black hair that she preferred while at
work. In social occasions, her hair turned a deceptively friendly blond. In
sexual circumstances, a strawberry shade crawled out of its roots,
covering her head in flames as her arousal increased.
"Change," my mistress blurted.
"Pardon me?"
"These little writers... they want to change things...!"
I nodded, pretending to understand. This with a soft, apologetic tone, I
asked, "What kinds of things, madam?"
But she couldn't bring herself to say it. First, she needed to walk again.
To pace. Back and forth, and again, and on the third journey across my
office floor, she admitted, "They want to dump certain characters."
I didn't respond.
Claudia closed her hands, bright rings glittering as her fists trembled.
"They want to kill them off. Kill them, or ship them off to the sleep-files,
and forget they ever existed."
But wasn't that inevitable? Storylines and the need for fresh faces
require a certain level of attrition.
"This isn't business as usual," Claudia snapped at me.
"I didn't say it was," I muttered.