Mere Anarchy by Woody Allen Read Free Book Online Page A

screwdriver in the tripes from a burly fellow inmate at Angola.
    Although a fresh negative can be minted, albeit one of inferior quality, from the print I have, I would strongly suggest you instantly ship the original to yours truly before further defiling of its delicate coating occurs from either chicken fat or any other of the assorted noisome condiments you and that gargoyle that stares back at you over the breakfast table uses to render edible her cuisine. My patience is rapidly expiring.
    Winston Snell
    Listen, Snell:
    It’s you not me that’s heading to the slammer and if not for trying to sell a movie you don’t own by yourself then for at least kiting checks because your genius son talks in his sleep and Elsie’s hobby is taping. Meanwhile I try to protect the negative but believe me it’s not easy. First my nephew Shlomo, he’s six next week, such a lovely kid, can sing all the words to “Ragmop” in either Yiddish or English. But let’s face it, it’s a wild age and he took a sharp rock and put a long scratch right in the middle of reel two. He loves to take the negative out of the can and scrape the emulsion off with a penknife. Why? Do I know? I just know he scrapes and he kvells. Not to mention my sister Rose got Lubriderm on reel seven. The poor woman. Her husband died recently, a massive heart attack, but I warned him—don’t look directly at her when she steps out of the shower. Anyhow, it’s a shame you’re so stubborn because by now we both could be realizing a nice piece of change from this flick, but listen, you’re a man with principles. By the way, exactly what is kiting checks, and why is it a felony? Gotta go, the dog has the negative.
    Varnishke
    Varnishke:
    You vile little paramecium. I offer you a 10 percent participation in the distribution rights to Algae’s film. What you really deserve, in your own vernacular, is not one red cent but a good spritz from a can of Raid.
    I suggest you grab this deal before I regain my balance and take it off the table as it could be your passport from the grubby summer world of pubescent auteurs to the delights of Miami or Bermuda. Perhaps if some portion of your profits goes to a good plastic surgeon for a complete physical makeover, Mrs. Varnishke might even be allowed on a public beach.
    Winston Snell
    Mine dear boy:
    Elsie regained consciousness from a coma she was in, the result of an accident she had setting some mousetraps, she leaned in too far to smell the cheese to make sure it was fresh. Bingo! Anyhow, she woke up just long enough to whisper into my ear the words “Make it twenty percent.” Then, out again like one of those dolls when you tilt it back the eyes close. Meanwhile, the minute you put on the dotted line your Sam Hancock—and before a notary she also mentioned—you’ll not only get the negative but Elsie makes a wonderful stuffed cabbage which we’ll include gratis a few portions but return the jars please. You should live and be well.
    Your new partner,
    Moe Varnishke

N ANNY D EAREST

    “WHAT EVIL LURKS in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.” And with that came a fiendish cackle projecting shivers up my spine every Sunday when as a mesmerized youth I sat curled around our Stromberg Carlsen in the crepuscular winter light of my progenitors’ gloomy digs. The truth is, I never had the slightest idea what dark mischief gadded about even in my own pair of ventricles, until weeks back when I received a phone call from the better half at my office at Burke and Hare on Wall Street. The woman’s usual steady timbre jiggled like quantum particles, and I could tell she had gone back on smokes.
    “Harvey, we must talk,” she announced, her words fairly drenched in portent.
    “Are the children all right?” I snapped, expecting at any moment to be read the text of a ransom note.
    “Yes, yes, but our nanny—our nanny—that smiling and unfailingly polite Judas, Miss Velveeta Belknap.”
    “What about her? Don’t tell me