The Editor

If the road that leads to nowhere is long, the Editor will gladly make it shorter--for a price.

Always one to mince words with his blood-filled pen, his office walls were blush-colored. Not from decades of sun-bleached paint or even splattered ink and wine. Instead, they were so from as much time listening to him mutter scathing remarks as he slashed their prose, a drunken razorblade prima donna en pointe across the page.

Gerund. slash Adverb, slash Cliche. bang

Known for his coroner-like precision, he had earned the right to accept or deny clients as he pleased; they lined up for his services. A few of them even survived the process. Not many, but enough. Enough to spread the word of his services.

Word-of-mouth only, and wringing their hands to be slaughtered or salvaged. The feeling of power might have been ambrosia itself, but a hustler never kisses and tells because gold rings true.

The first rule, always, was money in the bag and that meant showing up cash in hand. Wouldn't look out the window for anything less than your soul, and that was when I first knew him.

The price has gone up, since then.

This is not the person you go to if you're timid, or shy, or precious about your darling words. This is who you seek out when you want your work to be seen for what it can and should be.

The work isn't making your story in his own image.

The work is making you in your own image.

It's the core of what he does, and it's why few people survive. They come out the other side changed, bettered, renewed.

There is only the work.