Huffing and puffing, Michael M. Twert, Editor in Chief of The RhyDin Post waddled as quickly as he could down Main street in RhyDin, terribly unkempt by his standards: mustache unwaxed, socks mismatched" And with not so much as a dab of cologne! How utterly humiliating, it was. But alas, the Post required his expert attention, and his expert attention it would receive, lest the whole place collapse by printing time Monday morning without he himself holding up the girders.
Wheezing and red-faced, Twert stopped to catch his breath at a corner, patting his forehead with a silk handkerchief. A practical joke, some had said the printing errors had been. They had published nonsense that was ancient history by news standards. Stormblade" Proposition 37" And then there was that column by Chase Dawson!
"No, I mean I seriously didn't write it!," she'd insisted when he phoned her personally, the spunky damsel.
The Post building came into view, new and pristine as the day they leased it. He entered, and up, up, up the elevator he went, until he reached a floor that would surely be derelict that time of night. Instead, the doors opened to the hustle and bustle of a busy newsroom, the digital timekeeper on the wall reading some date from years ago. But it wasn't the date he was looking at, it was his reflection. Or, rather, the mirror image of himself standing on the other side of those brand new, stainless steel elevator doors.
"Oh, my," he said.
"Isn't it, though?" said he of the same voice and body, but minus several pounds and missing a few gray hairs.
"Hmm' I suppose we should?"
"Yes, indeed!"
"Then I'll right away."
"Certainly, my good man."
And with that, they parted ways and waddled in opposite directions. This could take some time to sort out.
Sublimation.]]
Wheezing and red-faced, Twert stopped to catch his breath at a corner, patting his forehead with a silk handkerchief. A practical joke, some had said the printing errors had been. They had published nonsense that was ancient history by news standards. Stormblade" Proposition 37" And then there was that column by Chase Dawson!
"No, I mean I seriously didn't write it!," she'd insisted when he phoned her personally, the spunky damsel.
The Post building came into view, new and pristine as the day they leased it. He entered, and up, up, up the elevator he went, until he reached a floor that would surely be derelict that time of night. Instead, the doors opened to the hustle and bustle of a busy newsroom, the digital timekeeper on the wall reading some date from years ago. But it wasn't the date he was looking at, it was his reflection. Or, rather, the mirror image of himself standing on the other side of those brand new, stainless steel elevator doors.
"Oh, my," he said.
"Isn't it, though?" said he of the same voice and body, but minus several pounds and missing a few gray hairs.
"Hmm' I suppose we should?"
"Yes, indeed!"
"Then I'll right away."
"Certainly, my good man."
And with that, they parted ways and waddled in opposite directions. This could take some time to sort out.
Sublimation.]]