ANDERS MAGE PAGE 2.0

"Tobin! Where are you! I need to speak with you on a matter of great importance." The man who barged through the door of the little shop was assaulted by a mound of papers that threatened to consume him. He warded them off with his hat and cane, then used the survivors to wipe the mud off his boots. "Tobin!"

"Coming, Lawrence!" The author burst down the tight spiral staircase that led from his apartment into the store shop that could never decide whether it was a printing establishment, book stores, or hangout for malcontents.

"Tobin, good Lord! It's the dead of winter! Where's the heat?"

"The coal man refuses delivery without payment. Do you have my royalties?"

Lawrence handed the wiry old man an envelope. Tobin, happy, slipped the package away. He turned back to his guest. "Lawrence, it's almost finished."

The visitor rolled his eyes, "What now, Tobin? No, not another..."

"Yes, another edition of my book. Besides, what's so wrong about being up to date on such subjects?"

"Tobin, you're a spiritualist! Most of your subjects are dead! It matters not to them how up to date you are. None of them are getting any older!"

Tobin looked at his agent hard. "Are my books selling?"

"Beyond belief..."

"Then why are you complaining?"

"Because you've done fifty editions in the past six months! The moment a new one comes out, half of London's loonies are at my door, searching for that one page you added to this one. Of course, some buy a whole new book for the extra page, but most are content with just ripping the damn thing out. It's become prohibitively expensive!"

Tobin looked at his feet, then spoke in a whisper. "This one's quite good... I haven't left anything out like before, and there's some new things too..."

"No more! Tobin, I'm you're agent, and in that capacity I must insist that you stop before your market exhausts itself. I'm you're publisher, and in that capacity I must tell you my resources are strained trying to maintain the copyrights on the fifty editions. I had to turn down some quite promising stuff today from a fellow named Joyce, who also seems to share your fetish for unintelligibleness. One more will break me! And as your friend..." he straightened his waistcoat, "I must advise you that if you do not contain yourself, I will have you locked up, before your obsessions turn foul."

"But Lawrence, this is my last one..."

"Didn't we have this conversation around the time of the 34th edition?"

"Honestly, Lawrence. There's quite a few improvements. Why the index alone..."

"Index! Did you dare to say index in front of me?" Lawrence was turning a shade of purple that, on a scarf, would be delightful.

"Well, yes. This one's the most complete yet."

The agent caught his breath. "Tobin, your problem has never been in your index being insufficient. I daresay 250 pages in a 600 page book is hardly insufficient, as was clearly demonstrated in the 12th edition. Although the 2 page index in the 13th must have been quite a humorous follow up for those whose sense of humor is severely retarded. For those who felt put out by that, I can recommend the 24th edition, with 1,127 pages, 750 of which are the index! For God's sake, you indexed every word as it appeared! You even indexed the index! For the love of God and my heart... Tobin, no... more... indexes!"

"I... see. The intangibles were always my problem. I'll just drop it out of this one altogether."

"No, you won't. There won't be a 51st edition. I forbid it."

Tobin turned slowly and regarded Lawrence. "There was another visitor, wasn't there?"

Lawrence turned ashen by the mere suggestion. "Yes... There was. Just last night, after closing."

"Any messages?"

Another envelope appeared in Lawrence's gloved hand. Tobin snatched it up and tore it open. It was his turn to grow deathly pale. "Time is short, Lawrence. Will you publish the book or not?"

Lawrence looked away and quietly whispered of balance sheets and overhead. Tobin looked at him in disgust.

"Very well, Lawrence. I'll have to do it on my own, then. Here."

"Here? Lawrence, the best this place has is a press a hundred years old! You'll never get the edition out, without funding."

"I have this." He waved the royalty cheque.

Lawrence laughed. "With that, you'd barely be able to make fifty! Come now. Reconsider."

"Lawrence, you do not understand. You never did. Bile filled my stomach when you called me 'friend.' Now leave, before I call a constable."

Lawrence was left speechless. With nothing to say, he stalked away into the cold winter night.

Tobin looked at the missive. It was the ritual he requested. The bottom was speckled in blood. Someone had died in order to deliver it. A dear friend. He would not let her down.

He began the ritual...