Manuscript now stands at 105,900 and is going to end considerably shorter than predicted. I think Fred is trying to outrun the chemo.
Writing up on revision will be a novel experience for me, as I am usually madly cutting down. Live and learn. (Or hopefully so, in my case.)
WIP...
If I couldn't make trouble out of a couple of barrels of high-grade lamp oil, then I might as well give up and open a restaurant.
Breaking in was trivial. Their locks were simple, meant to discourage drunks. On a night like this, the watchmen were off drinking with the thieves, or huddled over a stove somewhere in the back. And no stoves in this warehouse, I was certain of it. The air inside smelled like an accident waiting to happen. No one smoked tabac here either, I'd guess, or hempweed. Or really, anything involving matches.
Surely these people had heard of vents?
But not when the air was freezing. I'd guess it might get cold enough to even gel some of their oils.
| Originally published at jlake.com. |
