So here I am still reading The Black Mountain, by Rex Stout, months after starting it — not because it’s a long book or because it’s a slog but because it’s made of paper, and if I attempt to read a paper book anywhere near Saya the Mighty she will try her best to steal it and shred it, and we can’t have that, now can we?
So between keeping the puppy entertained and keeping her teeth off the book, it’s taken a while to re-read it. But I’m almost finished; I’m at the point near the end where a couple of officials in Montenegro are trying to persuade an incognito Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin that they should go back to America and kill Nero Wolfe. Good plan, no?
I looked serious. I would have given eight thousand cents to be able to reply that I had been wanting to kill a man named Nero Wolfe for years, but I wasn’t sure that Stritar and Zov understood no English.
The language barrier. Sometimes it works in your favor, and sometimes it doesn’t. Just ask Chuck, over in the alternate-reality Adirondacks of my current work in progress, Television Man …
Hoping these things understood English and weren’t very bright, Chuck cupped his hands around his mouth, pitched his voice as low as he could, and shouted: “Stop!”
The dragging noises came to a halt.
What’s being dragged? And who’s doing the dragging? Sorry, can’t tell. You know …