THE SIXTY-NINTH PAGE

Puerile as my prank might have been, I felt empowered and began to plot my next move as soon as I got back to the country. There had been so much pleasure gained in seeing the misery of my victims, especially in its escalation, that I decided capital punishment was out. If I made life a living hell for my tormentors, I could have a lot of fun. They could live without all their fingers and toes, and the idiot art director didn’t need both eyes. Mutilation could come later as I worked my way up through the corporate ranks.

After my general dosage of the staff at the water coolers, I thought it best to begin my campaign with the lower-ups, the snot-nosed editorial assistants, once known as secretaries and nowadays given the less servile title in lieu of a livable starting salary. Perhaps they should have been saved for more stringent punishments since they did most of the work in the publishing house, but I had to begin somewhere. They were the charter members of my Roadkill-of-the-Week Club.

In no time at all my refrigerator freezer became a memorial chamber to the smaller wildlife of the county. Any motoring ramble over the countryside could produce an abundance of little critters suitable for mailing 4th Class Book Rate to my subscribers. Any number could be picked up on the return trip from my postal forays in Albany and Poughkeepsie, my favored post offices.