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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 97 'What do you think of us?' those ladies had asked. 'That's a fine magazine,' Dory had said, 'if I'm looking to re-upholster a corner chair or for a seventy-five year old recipe for a gingerbread man.' Still they had wanted to see more from him. Two hours before, the motorcade up and out of the Keys had swelled and passed, and he was alone. Weatherbound, he wrote on a blank page. And he had been so sure that she would have stopped. But maybe while he slept. Now to sell this magazine article. With the basic punch, so that your average working-class gentleman, come payday, loading up on Saga Magazine and Argosy, could have this serendipity experience. . . Aeolus, keeper of the bag of winds, he wrote, then scratched it out. There had to be a way to give those workingmen a feeling for what he'd seen in that western sky: By Eris, his sister, the goddess of discord, Ares was the sire of Deimos, fear, and Phobos, terror. . . "Not appropriate." He remembered Larry Flint on a barstool next to him in the little Akron Hustler Club down in that ravaged area of Main Street. "This ain't the Playboy Club. And on one of the points that I differ with Heffner is my philosophy that the customers should be able to leave with the girls, except that there's certain difficulties in getting a license for |
