Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant

it difficult to concentrate and results in inappropriate adjectives creeping into my work, such as the time I referred to a local politician as succulent . Fortunately for both my editor and my waistline, I do most of my work from home.
    As usual, my mouth begins to water the moment I enter the stairwell to climb the three flights to the newsroom. The higher I climb, however, the fainter grow the smells of feta cheese, garlic tzatziki sauce, and the house specialty of fresh oven-baked pita finished with a light spray of olive oil and sprinkles of tarragon and cracked sea salt.
    My stomach stops grumbling when I spot my paycheck lying alone in the dark notch of my mail slot. I snap it up and carry it to my desk, wondering hopefully if the deposit stub inside feels just a little fatter.
    The spacious newsroom has the potential to be filled with natural light, since windows dot three sides, but because everyone sits in front of computer screens, the blinds are drawn tight to cut down on glare.
    When I first started in this business, the newsroom was a continual hive of excitement. The pounding of keyboards, the chatter of police scanners, and the still-functioning though archaic brass bell that rang whenever the production department sent a page proof through the vacuum tube delivery system. It was a cacophonic combination that fired a surge of adrenaline directly into my bloodstream.
    The reporters were noisier, the editors more belligerent, and a bottle of whiskey could usually be found in someone’s desk drawer when deadline pressure made your temples throb. Back then a rookie still started at the bottom and clawed her way up, trying to stay sober and smart and unmolested along the way.
    Today, the noise is gone and with it a lot of the energy. The rookies hold degrees in English, political science, economics, and psychology; their haircuts cost more than I used to earn in a day; they’re healthier and smarter and duller than you can imagine.
    The blinds stay closed. Welcome to the Word Factory.
    My desk sits in a corner, piles of books and paper making it look like an abandoned hovel for the resident troll. My antique wooden chair, which I refused to let them replace with some modern ergonomic contraption, awaits me, but looks bare. Someone has stolen my cushion.
    With a muttered curse, I sit on the hard seat, put my feet on the desk, and rip open the familiar aqua-blue envelope. The direct-deposit statement inside shows I am still being underpaid, and after a quick calculation of my outstanding bills, I come to the conclusion that a raise would be welcomed.
    From across the room, a bloated giant watches my mental gymnastics before lifting himself out of his chair.
    Edward Stoogan plods across the room like a Beluga whale that has suddenly sprouted legs, the strain of the exercise reddening his flour-white face. He stops halfway to catch his breath, disguising the fact by looking over a reporter’s shoulder and pointing out the obvious question she has failed to ask during an interview. The reporter blushes slightly before picking up the phone.
    When he reaches my desk, Stoogan pushes a large pile of paper from the edge and rests half his ass on the clearing. He is puffing slightly from the short walk and he peers down at me through moist salmon-pink eyes.
    Stoogan is senior news editor. An albino with shock-white hair, he is the kind of man you can’t help staring at. He tips the scales at around three hundred and his ghostly complexion makes my ancestral Celtic pigment appear as a healthy glow.
    In one puffy hand, Stoogan clutches a miniature extending telescope that he needs to read the small type on the computer screen. It is a handicap that hasn’t stopped him from being a master of his craft.
    Most of us in the newsroom have a hard time admitting that a man who wears purple socks with brown pants can bring such life to our prose. But he always does.
    â€œHave you seen my cushion, boss?” I ask