He escorted me to the door and placed his iron-tipped toe to my rump...
October 18, 2018 12:14 PM Subscribe
Friday flash fiction: What Happened to Auguste Clarot? A blast of sci-fi comedic nonsense reminiscent of Donald Bartleme. "When I was summoned posthaste to the topsy turvy office of Emile Becque, savage editor of L'Expresse, I knew in my bones that an assignment of extraordinary dimensions awaited me. Becque glared at me as I entered, his green-tinted eyeshade slanted forward like an enormous bill. We sat there, neither of us saying a word, for Becque is a strong believer in mental telepathy. After several moments I had gathered nothing but waves of hatred for a padded expense account and then, all at once, I knew. It was l'affaire Clarot. I leaped to my feet crying out, I will not let you down, Emile, and stumbled (almost blinded by tears) out of his office."
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