Murder Can't Stop by W.T. Ballard

1

BILL LENNOX was getting drunk. He had been working at it with steady purpose for almost an hour, and he was pleased to notice that the back-bar no longer made a sharp line against the yellow dirtiness of the wall.

Here, then, was proof that he was making progress, and that the quart of Scotch which he had already consumed had not been drunk in vain.

The excursion into the realm of alcoholic bliss was Lennox's way of illustrating a point. It was, he thought, as he watched the bartender open a second quart and pour a generous portion into the glass, what you could expect when a man stuck his neck out to help a friend.

Had he been one who became tearful while in his cups, he might have sobbed at this point, but he was not given to tears. He was angry, angry at himself for ever having embarked on such a life and for ever having let personal friendship sway him in his course.

He had never dreamed that at thirty, he would be an executive in one of the world's largest picture studios. He had not gone to college with that in mind. Nor had he worked three years on a Chicago newspaper in preparation for a producer's existence.

Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West

MISS LONELYHEARTS, HELP ME, HELP ME

The Miss Lonelyhearts of The New York Post-Dispatch (Are-you-in-trouble? –Do-you-need-advice?–Write-to-Miss-Lonelyhearts-and-she-will-help-you) sat at his desk and stared at a piece of white cardboard. On it a prayer had been printed by Shrike, the feature editor.
“Soul of Miss L, glorify me. Body of Miss L, nourish me Blood of Miss L, intoxicate me. Tears of Miss L, wash me. Oh good Miss L, excuse my plea, And hide me in your heart, And defend me from mine enemies. Help me, Miss L, help me, help me. In saecula saeculorum. Amen.”
Although the deadline was less than a quarter of an hour away, he was still working on his leader. He had gone as far as: “Life is worth while, for it is full of dreams and peace, gentleness and ecstasy, and faith that burns like a clear white flame on a grim dark altar.” But he found it impossible to continue. The letters were no longer funny. He could not go on finding the same joke funny thirty times a day for months on end. And on most days he received more than thirty letters, all of them alike, stamped from the dough of suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
On his desk were piled those he had received this morning. He started through them again, searching for some clue to a sincere answer.
Dear Miss Lonelyhearts–
I am in such pain I dont know what to do sometimes I think I will kill myself my kidneys hurt so much. My husband thinks no woman can be a good catholic and not have children irregardless of the pain. I was married honorable from our church but I never knew what married life meant as I never was told about man and wife. My grandmother never told me and she was the only mother I had but made a big mistake by not telling me as it dont pay to be innocent and is only a big disappointment. I have 7 children in 12 yrs and ever since the last 2 I have been so sick. I was operated on twice and my husband promised no more children on the doctors advice as he said I might die but when I got back from the hospital he broke his promise and now I am going to have a baby and I dont think I can stand it my kidneys hurt so much. I am so sick and scared because I cant have an abortion on account of being a catholic and my husband so religious. I cry all the time it hurts so much and I dont know what to do.
Yours respectfully,
Sick-of-it-all
Miss Lonelyhearts threw the letter into an open drawer and lit a cigarette.