At exactly ten minutes till eight, the double doors of the publishing firm of Doubledeck, Bachlor, and Runt swung inward; and Ms. Turtle entered. With a few grim nods to acknowledge the sleepy -- "Good morning, Ms. Biddle," she marched to the office marked Mildred Biddle, Managing editor, opened the door, and disappeared from view.

Behind her back they called her Ms. Turtle because of her posture when she walked. She knew what they called her, but it had always been that way, even when she was a little girl in grade school. She was one of those unfortunate people, who inherit the most undesirable features from both parents.

From her father, she got her gangling, boney frame and hunched shoulders. From her mother, she inherited her mouse colored straight stringy hair and close set pale blue eyes. And from forty years of self pity and bitterness, she had developed a small, thin lipped mouth that never had been contorted into a smile.

It was Monday morning. The most hated time of the week for most working folks, but Mildred loved it. She wasn't married, and she had no close friends, so the only time she felt really alive and fulfilled was when she was working.

The coffee had finished perking and although it was too hot to drink, Mildred drank the deep rich aroma as she sat at her desk getting ready to read her mail. While waiting for the coffee to cool, her thoughts went back to her time spent at the University of Ohio.

"If that damn idiot hadn't fired me, I would never have had the nerve to change careers. I'd still be wasting my time trying to teach those spoiled brats how to write their job applications."

Early in life she had decided on Journalism as a career. After graduating with honors at the University, she chose to go for her teaching credential. She stayed on at the University: first doing post graduate work and then as a teacher.

As a teacher working with young people, she had only one problem. That was: her hatred of loud boisterous boys and pretty popular girls. Her feelings were often reflected in her grading of the students in her classroom.

This tendency to give low grades to popular, pretty people finally caused her dismissal from the University. A remarkably intelligent, but totally arrogant class clown had pushed her to the point of giving him a failing grade for the year. She was aware that his test scores were high, but she wasn't aware that his stepfather was the Dean of the University.

When the Dean confronted her, she told him that his stepson, in her opinion, was an arrogant bastard.

Being fired and blackballed was motivation enough to force her to change vocations.

After sending out numerous resumes, she finally got a job with the publishing firm of Doubledeck, Bachlor, and Runt. She moved to New York. After five years of hard work, Mildred Biddle was now the managing editor.

Now, after all those years, she was finally in a position where she could make other people's lives as miserable as her's had been. She interrupted her pleasant daydream with a grunt, drank the last of the luke warm coffee, and picked up a pile of incoming mail. Mildred Biddle was ready for action.

She was going through her stack of queries, when she noticed one envelope. It was stamped CENSORED and the return address was San Quentin Prison. Her curiosity aroused, she opened the envelope and read,

"Dear Ms. Biddle:

My name is Allen Poo. I am an unpublished writer. I have degrees in literature and Journalism and have recently finished my first book. I would like to submit it for your approval and I'm sure you'll want to publish it. It is non fiction and entitled IN PURSUIT OF DINING EXCELLENCE."

"It covers the specialties of the restaurant, the quality of the ingredients, the cleanliness of the kitchen and storage facilities, and rates the service for more than two hundred restaurants in California, Oregon, and Nevada.

"It is illustrated with actual photos of food preparation in each place of business. All data is current and up to date as of the first of this month.

"If you are interested, please use the SASE and reply as soon as possible because I haven't submitted this to anyone else.

Sincerely,
Allen Poo"

She finished reading and muttered to herself, "How the Hell can a prisoner in San Quentin, write a book about dining throughout three states? Well, he's got plenty of time so, I'll just let him stew in his own juices for a month or so. Then I'll ask him if his book is still current and up to date. That ought to tee him off.

She threw the query onto the pile of unanswered letters at the back of her desk. She smiled with pleasure because, for some reason, she always felt better after adding to that pile.

Meanwhile, three thousand miles away, Allen Poo was also reminiscing about events and conditions that had placed him behind bars. He was doing ten years for just being in a hurry. It just wasn't fair!

Eager Allen Poo was told that he was born impatient. His disappointed parents had named him Eager because, immediately after birth, he started throwing temper tantrums.

If he was hungry, he would scream until he was fed. If he saw a bright shining toy, he would scream until his desires were satisfied. The longer he waited the louder he would scream.

There was an older brother, Roger. Roger was ten when Eager came along. Fred and Silvia Poo couldn't stand the screaming little brat.

They even told Roger that they really wanted a little girl not another nasty squalling boy. When they saw how much Roger loved the little monster, they decided to let Roger take care of him.

Throughout the years, it was Roger and Eager against the World. Roger made sure that Eager got everything he wanted and that he got it QUICKLY.

Fred and Silvia died in an automobile accident when Roger was twenty-one and little Eager Allen was eleven. Roger left college and took a job as a salesman for a restaurant supply company.

He told Eager that if he was working, he stood a better chance of keeping custody. He was right. The court awarded Roger custody as long as he could support and provide Eager a good home.

Roger turned out to be such a good salesman that he was soon awarded a territory that encompassed California, Oregon, and Nevada. He was hardly ever home and this gave Eager plenty of opportunity to get in trouble.

He hated standing in line. He was caught four times leaving the local Super-Market carrying items he had not paid for. He angrily told the manager he was damned if he was going to spend half his life waiting in that stupid checkout line. On the forth occurrence, the manager took him into custody and turned him over to the cops.

Roger got him out of Juvenile detention and made him promise to behave. He did fairly well until he was trying to enroll at the local University. He wanted to get his degree in Journalism, so he wouldn't have to work for a living.

The line was long on admittance day. He had all the necessary paperwork filled out, but he was about eightieth in line.

So, he slyly broke the little glass and pulled down the fire alarm. When order was restored, he was first in line.

Unfortunately, someone saw him do it, and he was expelled before school even started. Checking with a correspondence school, he found that the course in Journalism cost three thousand dollars.

He went to Roger's bank and told the teller he wanted three thousand dollars immediately. Roger would straighten everything out later. She told him to leave or she'd call a cop. Eager stuck his hand in his coat pocket and said he had a gun. He said to give him the damn money right now or he'd shoot her.

She started stacking the money, while she pressed the alarm. The security guard came running over with his gun drawn. Eager saw him coming and ran in panic toward the door. He tripped and fell just as the guard fired. He didn't hit Eager, but he did nail the incoming Brinks guard right between the eyes.

Roger tried to help, but Eager had turned eighteen and was considered an adult. He got seven years in San Quentin for attempted robbery involving a homicide.

Once inside, his impatience provoked two escape attempts and three more years added to his sentence. Brother Roger tried to keep him happy by buying the course in Journalism and having the lessons sent to San Quentin.

With plenty of time for study, it only took Eager two years to get his degree and to settle down to some serious writing. He and Roger collaborated. Roger did the research and the photography and Eager did the writing.

The following Monday, after receiving the Query from San Quentin, Mildred noticed in her mail was another envelope from San Quentin. It contained the same identical Query except at the bottom it said,

"Mildred,
It's been a whole week and I haven't heard from you. You've had plenty of time to answer, with three days to spare. Now, I want you to stop dilly dallying around.

Impatiently,
Allen Poo"

She threw the letter down on her desk angrily, "The nerve of that jerk. Lecturing her for not answering promptly and then practically ordering her to get busy and answer his goddamn Query. Well, she'd show him." She was used to dealing with impatient writers.

If she didn't like the tone of a Query, she would just lose it. She knew full well that somewhere, someone was impatiently waiting for an answer that would never come.

If a writer would submit a large bulky manuscript, she would use his return container and postage to send it back. She would use the smallest infraction of the rules of submission as an excuse. She'd tell him to do it right and resubmit, knowing full well that she had no intention of accepting the work.

She would carefully read the cover letter that came with the manuscript. If she didn't like the writer, she wouldn't read the manuscript. She'd carefully word the rejection slip so as to inflict the most pain. "Allen Poo indeed -- some nerve, telling her what to do and when to do it."

She tried to forget about Allen Poo during the next week. She took in a couple of shows and went out to diner for seafood on Friday night. As hard as she tried, she couldn't get the arrogance of the man out of her mind.

Monday morning, there was a new envelope from San Quentin. Inside was a letter and a picture. She picked up the picture and glanced at it. Her body went cold and her hand started to shake. She was looking at a picture of herself dining on seafood at her favorite restaurant.

She dropped the picture and with trembling hands picked up the letter, she read,

"Milly,
Damn it, your starting to make me mad. You're just being stubborn. I put a lot of time and effort into that book and by God, your going to publish it. Do you understand? I threw in the picture of you, to let you know that I know what you look like and where you are. Now, be a good little girl and answer my letter, or you'll be sorry.

Really angry,
Al"

Mildred was frightened. She didn't know how he had been able to get her picture on Friday and get it into her Monday mail. She was also stubborn.

She wasn't about to let some criminal coerce her into publishing his book. He was playing mind games, and by God, she'd give him back as good as he gave!

She shredded both copies of his queries and put them in his SASE. She kept the last threatening letter for evidence in case she might need it. Then she mailed the SASE to him.

Two weeks went by and she heard nothing from the obnoxious Mr. Poo. On Monday of the third week, she gritted her teeth in anger as she saw an envelope marked CENSORED.

It had a San Quentin return address. She grabbed it and tore it open... It blew up with a deafening roar. The last thing she saw, before fainting, was her bloody mutilated hands and thousands of tiny scraps of paper floating in the air.

She woke in the hospital. The attending physician told her they had been forced to amputate the thumb and forefinger of her left hand and the little and ringfinger of her right. They had successfully patched up all the other lacerations, and she could go home in about two weeks.

Her next visitor was a Police Detective Holt. He wanted to know if she had any enemies, or any idea who might have sent her a letter bomb.

She told him all about her correspondence with Allen Poo who resided at San Quentin. He assured her that it couldn't have been Allen because it would have been impossible for him or anyone to get explosives in or out of the Joint. When she told him about the picture, he thought she was probably confused about the dates.

He said he thought it was probably some crazy disappointed writer. They had to be a little crazy to just sit around writing for a living, and this one was just trying to get even with the publishers for his failures.

He was turning to leave, when she started cursing him. She screamed, "You damn men are all alike. If I was a movie star or married to a MAN of influence, you'd get to the bottom of this and punish the bastard that did this to me. But no! Ms. Plain Jane must have done something to deserve it. You make me sick!"

She put her face into the pillow and started sobbing. Phillip Holt looked at her, shook his head, and picked up the phone from her bedstand.

"Operator, This is Detective Holt. Please bill this call to the New York Police Department. I want you to get the Warden at San Quentin Prison for me. San Quentin, that's in California, Operator."

"Warden Bell, this is Detective Phillip Holt, New York City Police. I'm calling about a prisoner you have there at your hotel. His name is Allen Poo."

Mildred listened as Holt told the warden the entire story almost verbatim. Occasionally, he would pause, listening and grunt an Uh Huh. Finally, he said,

"Well, I'd like to ask them a few questions, if you wouldn't mind?" He told the story again and again listened quietly as someone talked for several minutes. Then he thanked them and hung up.

He turned to Mildred, "The Warden says that Allen Poo is a model prisoner. He was a little wild when he first arrived, but after earning three additional years for two aborted escape attempts, he's been fine ever since. He teaches a large group of prisoners classes in Literature and Journalism. He has no access to any chemicals or explosive products.

"I talked to the prison censors and found that Allen Poo has never posted a letter addressed to Doubledeck, Bachlor, and Runt. Believe me Lady, they would know. He did receive one letter from you, and inside was nothing but shredded paper. They were really puzzled about that one.

"Ms. Biddle, my suggestion to you is to get some counseling. They have some very good clinical psychologists on staff here at this hospital." He turned and left the room.

Mildred sat quietly, thinking, as he left the room. This Poo character was far more clever than she had anticipated. He was obviously out to either destroy her or drive her insane.

"Allen Poo," she thought, "We'll see who gets destroyed in the battle."

Two weeks later, when she was released from the hospital, she was so eager for battle she practically ran down the steps to the waiting Taxi. She had the driver take her shopping, then to the Post Office, and then to work.

She had been resting for weeks. She needed work not rest. She opened her office and found a beautiful bouquet of red roses on her desk. Attached was a note. She read the note,

"Dear Mildred:
So sorry to hear about your unfortunate accident. Perhaps, it's for the best though. Now, you won't be able to sit around twiddling your thumbs while some poor writer waits, in agony, for an answer from you. If you are understaffed, then put on some temporary staff until you are caught up on your correspondence.

I would hate to have to punish you further for the same inconsiderate bad habit.

As Ever,
Allen"

Mildred smiled. She forced herself to forget the letter. She sat in front of her word processor and started typing,

"Dear Allen:
I know it's been awfully inconsiderate of me to have taken so long to get back to you about your proposal. I seem to have lost the first Query, and I think the second was destroyed at the time of my accident. However, all's well that ends well. I discussed the merits of your non-fiction book, In Pursuit of Dining Excellence, with my publishers."

We think you have a great idea and the publishers are anxiously awaiting the chance to look at your finished manuscript.

"Because of the inconveniences and delays you have already suffered, I am enclosing Five dollars and twenty-two cents in postage stamps. That should exactly cover your cost of mailing the manuscript.

Looking forward to reading your masterpiece.

Publications Editor,
Mildred Biddle"

It was at two in the afternoon, ten days later. News of the mysterious poisoning death of a San Quentin prisoner had been on television for two days. Mildred sat in her office, listening to the announcer saying,

"After two days of intensive investigation, authorities are still baffled as to how Eager Allen Poo was poisoned, or who could have murdered him."

"You stupid fools," she cackled, "You stupid fools, the stamps, the poison was on the stamps!" She looked across the room at the mailer with the large CENSORED stamp on it. "And Allen Dear, you mailed the evidence right back to me. How nice of you."

In the suite of offices, directly above Mildred's, behind a door labeled ACME Restaurant Supplies, A dark figure huddled over a video monitor muttered, "Gotcha!"

He rewound the video-recorder and removed the tape from the machine. He turned and the dim light illuminated his face. It was Roger.

Roger, who couldn't deny Eager Allen anything. Roger, who had re-addressed the letters, Allen sent to him. Who had then, taken them down the fire-escape to Mildred's office and put them with her mail. Roger, who had taken her picture. Roger, who had delivered the letter-bomb.

After Allen had received enough rejection slips to cover the walls of his cell, he had talked Roger into his mad scheme to either get his book published or destroy Mildred in the attempt. Roger hadn't wanted to plant the letter-bomb, but he knew how Eager got when he didn't get his way, so he went ahead and did it.

He put Mildred's last letter to Allen and the Video of her admitting to the crime in a package, added the postage, and mailed it to Detective Phillip Holt at New York City, Police headquarters. Then he hurriedly caught a plane to California. Eager Allen would be raising a big stink, if he didn't get buried real quick.