Hades

Karen Long, first, poked her bookediting head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated herself. Mr. Litblogger, disheveled and unnamed, stepped in after her, curving his metacarpals with care.

— Come on, Litblogger.

— After you, Mr. Litblogger said.

Mr. Reader covered himself from the spume and venom and got in, saying:

— I like to read.

— I know but isn’t Mr. Litblogger gleeful? Karen Long asked. Come along, Reader. I promise long-term.

Mr. Reader entered and sat in the vacant place, all printed and blogged for his perusal. He flipped the laptop open and fired wi-fi to find offerings and, seeing nary a difference, looked seriously from the open carriage window at the lowered blinds reminding him of divide between Long and Litblogger. Outside another reader aside: an old woman weeping. Books section flattened, no winners. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a needless corpse when there was time for resurgent vivacity.

— Gleeful how? asked Mr. Litblogger. Examples?

— Never you mind, said Long.

— I like to read.

Mr. Reader saw fists fly between Litblogger and Long and, having not anticipated violence, asked the carriage to stop. Reader wanted book recs, not strings of resentment.

— You two duke it out, said Reader. I’ll travel elsewhere.

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