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Leprechaun, v. 1, issue 3, Summer 1942

Page 5

LEPRECHAUN     5

"You're hired!" exploded the great man. "And get off the floor!"
* * * *
Next day, the frosted-glass door emblazoned with the words Chilling Blunder Stories also bore the legend "Ephriam Q. Stingbummer, Editor." Let us pass through that door. There are two desks, one garnished with young Mr. Stingbummer, the other with his secretary. There is a filing cabinet and part of a rug. Our hero is expostulating "But --!" to a dictaphone, which snaps back to him in Guggenheimer's voice, "Don't interrupt! Where was I? Oh, yes! Please grasp the idea that you are editing a science fiction magazine, and that consequently no science fiction must be allowed to appear in it. Do you understand?"
"But -- !"
"Didn't I tell you to keep quiet?" the machine roars. "Ahem. Remember, your readers are all blood-and-thunder fans, except, I understand, for one science fiction fan in Timbuctoo or somewhere. Your secretary has his name so she won't have to bother opening his letters. And please observe our motto: 'No Stories Scientifically Accurate.' We printed that on the cover once, but the printer made an error, so we discontinued it. Ahem. Also, keep the letters department full. If you can't write that much, have your secretary give you a hand -- metaphorically, that is. Of course, you realize that the major qualifications for any story are 'At least 1 gal. blood spilt; at least two juicy clinches (and --- kaff-kaff! --- I do mean juicy); and at least 10 scientific errors. That's all for now."
Such was Ephriam Q. Stingbummer's initiation into the delights of editorship. It was only the beginning, of course. And despite the very real pleasure our youthful hero derived from the thousand and one real though arduous tasks, which, he found, editorship involves, Mr. Stingbummer found himself chaffing at the bit.
It took him some time to arrive at this conclusion. At first he thought it was just the trouble of breaking into a new job; then it was the late hours he kept; then -- well, in short, he manufactured reasons right and left, as the presses rolled off thousands and thousands of copies of several issues of CBS; but in the end he faced the facts.
He did not like J.P. Guggenheimer. He did like the other editors; he liked his secretary; he liked the janitor; he liked E.P. Phipps; he even liked the CBS fans who dropped in on him occasionally; but he realized, in the end, that he emphatically did not like J.P. Guggenheimer. He supposed that J. P. Guggenheimer was an admirable man in some respects; but J. P. Guggenheimer's insistence on mad scientists, beautiful heroines (preferably the offspring of said mad scientists), dauntless heroes, and endless clinches, and various other attributes of the typical[[?]] CBS story, Mr. Stingbummer could not admire. J. P. Guggenheimer began to get on his nerves. Moreover, and far more distressing, Mr. Stingbummer found he could not regard any of the finished issues of CBS without wincing. But, after all, what could he do?
Matters came to a head one day when J. P. Guggenheimer stopped Mr. Stingbummer on the street. "Ahem, Stingbummer," he announced imperiously. "And what is that magazine I see under your arm?"
"Why, er --" said our hero, wishing violently that he were elsewhere.
J. P. Guggenheimer grabbed the periodical in question. He took one look at the cover, and bellowed like a mad bull. "TITANIC STORIES! Our nearest rival! How dare you read such trash?"
Mr, Stingbummer hung his head and clenched his fists.
"Stingbummer! Look at me!"         (turn page)

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LEPRECHAUN 5 "You're hired!" exploded the great man. "And get off the floor!" * * * * Next day, the frosted-glass door emblazoned with the words Chilling Blunder Stories also bore the legend "Ephriam Q. Stingbummer, Editor." Let us pass through that door. There are two desks, one garnished with young Mr. Stingbummer, the other with his secretary. There is a filing cabinet and part of a rug. Our hero is expostulating "But --!" to a dictaphone, which snaps back to him in Guggenheimer's voice, "Don't interrupt! Where was I? Oh, yes! Please grasp the idea that you are editing a science fiction magazine, and that consequently no science fiction must be allowed to appear in it. Do you understand?" "But -- !" "Didn't I tell you to keep quiet?" the machine roars. "Ahem. Remember, your readers are all blood-and-thunder fans, except, I understand, for one science fiction fan in Timbuctoo or somewhere. Your secretary has his name so she won't have to bother opening his letters. And please observe our motto: 'No Stories Scientifically Accurate.' We printed that on the cover once, but the printer made an error, so we discontinued it. Ahem. Also, keep the letters department full. If you can't write that much, have your secretary give you a hand -- metaphorically, that is. Of course, you realize that the major qualifications for any story are 'At least 1 gal. blood spilt; at least two juicy clinches (and --- kaff-kaff! --- I do mean juicy); and at least 10 scientific errors. That's all for now." Such was Ephriam Q. Stingbummer's initiation into the delights of editorship. It was only the beginning, of course. And despite the very real pleasure our youthful hero derived from the thousand and one real though arduous tasks, which, he found, editorship involves, Mr. Stingbummer found himself chaffing at the bit. It took him some time to arrive at this conclusion. At first he thought it was just the trouble of breaking into a new job; then it was the late hours he kept; then -- well, in short, he manufactured reasons right and left, as the presses rolled off thousands and thousands of copies of several issues of CBS; but in the end he faced the facts. He did not like J.P. Guggenheimer. He did like the other editors; he liked his secretary; he liked the janitor; he liked E.P. Phipps; he even liked the CBS fans who dropped in on him occasionally; but he realized, in the end, that he emphatically did not like J.P. Guggenheimer. He supposed that J. P. Guggenheimer was an admirable man in some respects; but J. P. Guggenheimer's insistence on mad scientists, beautiful heroines (preferably the offspring of said mad scientists), dauntless heroes, and endless clinches, and various other attributes of the typical[[?]] CBS story, Mr. Stingbummer could not admire. J. P. Guggenheimer began to get on his nerves. Moreover, and far more distressing, Mr. Stingbummer found he could not regard any of the finished issues of CBS without wincing. But, after all, what could he do? Matters came to a head one day when J. P. Guggenheimer stopped Mr. Stingbummer on the street. "Ahem, Stingbummer," he announced imperiously. "And what is that magazine I see under your arm?" "Why, er --" said our hero, wishing violently that he were elsewhere. J. P. Guggenheimer grabbed the periodical in question. He took one look at the cover, and bellowed like a mad bull. "TITANIC STORIES! Our nearest rival! How dare you read such trash?" Mr, Stingbummer hung his head and clenched his fists. "Stingbummer! Look at me!" (turn page)