Fantasy Writers 1860

Wait, what's with that serious expression on his face? He doesn't look like he's trying to suppress a laugh.

Dorian noticed Clancy's furrowed brow and sensed something was wrong; it wasn't the expression one would expect from someone who had seen a joke.

"Sir, what you wrote... makes a lot of sense. However, our magazine doesn't have a maxims section. I can suggest it to the editor-in-chief and see if we can add some content in that area..." Clancy said evasively, trying his best to choose some mild and less offensive words.

This guy must be insane!

Despite his seemingly calm demeanor, Clancy was in the midst of a turbulent storm.

First, he was so rude in public, then he showed me something that looked like a suicide note, and what was most terrifying was that the paper was covered with dried blood!

Although they all looked black, Clancy could still distinguish between the ink and the dried blood.

He had seen what real, large bloodstains looked like when the "Blue Blood Gang" fought with other gangs in the past.

So he simply couldn't convince himself that Dorian had spilled the ink.

So here's the question: where did all this blood come from? And why did he show it to me?

It's obvious that this guy must have become obsessed and insane because of his repeated missed shots, and started self-harming.

If he can be so ruthless to himself, let alone others.

Who knows if he's carrying a handgun right now, and if I don't perform to his liking, he might just shoot me?

There's no need to mess with a madman; saving your life is the priority.

Seeing Clancy's bizarre reaction, Dorian looked at him with confusion, which made Clancy even more chilled.

Those clear yet indifferent eyes are more like those of a psychopathic killer from a novel!

It was only then that Dorian realized that the pages he had taken out seemed a little strange.

"Sorry, I took the wrong one, this is the one." Dorian gave an awkward yet polite smile, quickly folded the blackened paper in his hand and put it back in his coat pocket, then took out another neatly folded paper and unfolded it.

Sure enough, this guy was threatening me in this way!

Clancy suddenly realized what was going on, but he dared not gamble on how much sanity a madman could retain, so he devised a delaying tactic:

"Mr. Dorian, this is really not a suitable place to read the manuscript and speak. Please come inside to my office so I can calm down and take a good look." Clancy himself did not realize that his voice was trembling slightly.

"it is good."

Dorian put away the papers in his hand again, and released Clancy's arm that he was clinging to tightly. Led by the latter, he walked step by step toward the narrow door in the depths of the hall. The many onlookers upstairs realized that there was no more fun, so they scattered like birds and beasts and returned to their respective work posts.

Dorian was naturally pleased with this development. Although he didn't know why the editor-in-chief had suddenly become so appreciative of him, the outcome was still good.

Led by editor-in-chief Clancy, they quickly arrived at the end of the first-floor lobby and pushed open the narrow door.

The first thing you smell is the air, which is a mixture of cheap tobacco and musty paper. Then you see a windowless corridor, narrow and dark, which needs to be lit by gas lamps even in broad daylight.

The walls on both sides of the corridor are covered with all kinds of old, thick pipes. The flanges at the joints are rusty and about to fall off. They are also covered with layers of yellowed, expired newspapers, the edges curled up like withered leaves.

At the end of the corridor was a slightly larger space, but it looked to be only a few dozen square meters in size. It was crammed full of desks, chairs and metal cabinets.

The floor, corners, and tops of cabinets were piled with all kinds of documents and papers, making it impossible to find a place to stand at a glance.

Although the Lontinion Weekly isn't a major newspaper, it still has some influence in the East End. Why is the editorial office so shabby?

He had initially thought this five-story building was their headquarters, but now it seems it's just a public office building, and their editorial department is just this one room on this floor.

In Dorian's memory, the original owner had never been to this place; each time, he was turned away in the hall.

"Good morning, Editor-in-Chief Clancy." A few young people, gathered in twos and threes around a long table, greeted Clancy.

"Good morning, everyone," Clancy replied with a smile and a greeting.

Seeing the enthusiastic faces of these young people, he instantly regretted it.

If I bring this madman here, what if he really loses control and suddenly attacks? Wouldn't that implicate them?

He dared not think any further; at this point, he could only take it one step at a time.

In such a cramped and cramped office environment, Clancy, as the editor-in-chief, did not have a private office; he simply did not have to share a table with others.

Only the editor-in-chief, who is also the president of the Lentinian Weekly magazine, has a separate office.

Clancy walked behind his chipped oak desk and slumped heavily into the leather chair that looked older than him, the seat immediately creaking.

"Now, please... please give me the manuscript." Clancy's fingers tapped rapidly on the table, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He added, "I will... I will read it carefully."

Does he value himself that much? He seems eager to find talented people.

Dorian was thinking this to himself, completely unaware of the other person's unusual nervousness.

He took the page filled with "Mr. Hakimi's Jokes" from his coat pocket, carefully unfolded it, and placed it on the coffee-stained table. Although the edges of the paper were slightly torn from repeated folding, the handwriting was still clear and neat.

Clancy's gaze fell on the paper, and when his eyes landed on the first joke, his fingers tapping on the table suddenly stopped, his eyes widened slightly, and he even pried himself out of the leather chair and sat up straight.

"Otherwise, how would I know I'm living a happy life?" Clancy repeated the sentence in a low voice, somewhat puzzled. What did that mean?

He read it again, but before he finished the second reading, he realized what it meant. He suddenly covered his mouth, and his shoulders began to shake uncontrollably.

He continued reading, quickly turning the page to the back. In the meantime, he hurriedly picked up the cup on the table and gulped down a large mouthful of cold coffee. Even so, he couldn't hide the smile in his eyes.

"What...what is this?" Clancy put down her cup, barely suppressing a laugh, her icy blue eyes gleaming with a mixture of shock and excitement.

His gaze seemed glued to the paper, his fingers tracing the black characters as if caressing some rare treasure.

When he read "The third from the left is Prime Minister Hollis," he briefly pondered and understood its meaning. He suddenly felt a sense of healing, enlightenment, and a sense of relief, like being shot.

He continued reading sentence by sentence, sometimes chuckling softly, sometimes bursting into laughter, and twice he even laughed so hard he almost slipped off his chair.

The two pages didn't contain much information, and Clancy finished reading them quickly. However, the jokes were so informative that even after reading them once, he couldn't help but reread them, finally reluctantly putting the pages down.

At this moment, he felt that whether Dorian in front of him was crazy or not was no longer important.

Only a madman could write such words!

And what does it matter if someone is crazy, as long as it increases the sales of their own magazine?