The Author lurched into the publishing offices out of breath, sweaty, clothes torn, stumbling at the receptionist’s desk like a human avalanche. Once there, he leaned on it heavily, for support.
The receptionist knew him from his book jacket photo, the same one four novels in a row. “You’re older than I thought. Also, you’re late.”
“Sorry,” he gasped, “but I barely made it here at all!”
“And what was the problem?” She asked without looking at him, in a tone that signified she had absolutely no interest in the answer.
“I was attacked by werewolves. Gang kids, four of them. Morphed right in front of me. Look at these gouges!” The Author put down his manuscript and lifted up his tattered shirt to show streaks of torn skin welling with dark blood. “I barely made it out of that alley alive!”
The receptionist sighed. “I’m sorry, but we don’t accept genre fiction.”