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Updated: May 27, 2025
At least Ive never suffered from it. No, Mr Weener, my trouble is something no amount of vacations can help, because I can't get away from a Voice." "Voice, Tony?" Hallucinations were certainly a symptom of overwork. I began mentally recalling names of prominent psychiatrists. "A Voice within," he repeated firmly. "I am a sinful man, a miserable backslider.
I don't believe it would bother the Old Man any if I sat out the duration in a C O camp, but it'd hurt his job like hell and the poor old boy is straining his guts to get into the trenches and twirl a theoretical saber. So I guess I'm slated to be your humble and obedient, Mr Weener."
"No wellconducted establishment, Mr Weener, is without chutney, curry or worcestershire." The insularity of the English is incredible. I have not tasted cocacola, hotdogs, or had a bottle of ketchup for more than a year, but I don't complain. The Grass is in the Schelde estuary, almost within sight of the English coast. I got nothing written on my history today.
I seated myself in the stern while he took the oars, cast off and rowed us down the river toward the estuary. I decided he must be one of that company of smugglers who were ferrying refugees into Britain despite the strictest watch. No doubt he thinks to make a pretty penny for tonight's work, I thought, but no coastguard would turn back Albert Weener.
"What other thirty, bum?" "Why, the balance of the fifty. For an introduction to Mi to the maker of the Metamorphizer. To compensate me, you know, for my loss of revenue." "Weener, you have all the earmarks of a castiron moocher. Let me tell you, suh such methods are unbecoming. They suggest damyankee push and blackmail. Remember Reconstruction and White Supremacy, suh."
So rest no more upon your accidental laurels, but transform yourself into what nature never intended, a useful member of the community. I will make a newspaperman of you, Weener, if I have to beat into your head an entire typefont, from fourpoint up to and including those rare boldfaced letters we keep in the cellar to announce on our final page one the end of the world.
"Or else youll have been left with nothing to sell. I despair of making the point about changing the formula; your trust in my powers is too reverent. Again, I'm not an arrogant woman and I'll admit to some responsibility. Make the world fit for Alfred Weener to make a living in." "It's Albert, not Alfred," I corrected her. I'm not touchy, goodness knows, but afterall a name's a piece of property.
"What the devil's the matter with you, Weener? Are your millions melting away? Or do you think any of the spies you set on me capable of carrying on or are you just trying to crack the whip?" "I set no spies and I have no whip. I merely feel it may not be profitable to waste any more money on fruitless experiments." She snorted. "Time has streamlined and inflated your platitudes.
"As for you, Weener, I doubt if you will ever be elevated to the ranks of idiocy. Get the sanguinary hell out of here and do humanity the favor to step in front of the first tentontruck driving by." "One minute, Chief," urged Gootes. "Don't be hasty. Seen the latest on the grass?
I feel a call to go on a mission to the poor heathens and urge on them submission to their Father's rod." "Among those savages across the Channel! They will tear you limb from limb." "Christ will make me whole again." "Tony, you are not yourself. Youre upset." "I am not myself, Mr Weener, I have become as a little child again and do my Father's bidding.
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