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    #1

    A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Would you please correct the fourth part of my short story?

    My wife and I had a pleasant day, which we used to visit local tourist attractions and some shops. She seemed better, although something must have bothered her because she showed no interest in architecture as the previous years. She has a habit to stop at certain buildings, look at them and comment on the changes they had underwent, but this time she was indifferent. Neither did she show the interest in bric-a-brac, which was sold on every corner. She is an avid collector of ceramic figurines, which she had collected all her life. We would usually return home with a dozen of them, but now as we went in shops, she picked them up and, without giving them much attention, she put them back. I attributed this odd behaviour to the incident with Mr Schultz, which had shaken us all. A better rational explanation I could not find.

    In the afternoon, we returned to the hotel and noticed that more quests had arrived. A choir on a tour consisting of old ladies had invaded the lobby and made terrible racket. Can you imagine being confined with twenty cackling and flapping hens in a little coop? The noise grated at out nerves and we hastily retreated to our room, which after the departure of the Norwegian singer was quiet and pleasant to be in.
    Dinner went on as usual, except for the clucking of the choir ladies, who luckily were unable to use their vocal cords fully because of the food they were gulping, as if they had not eaten anything in days. The two charming young Polish girls, who were quick to take the orders and spoke English fluently, served us. Despite not seeing Mr Schulz around, I was on my guard. With such people you are not sure what comes next. But my main concern was the mental state of my wife. She was picking listlessly at her food as if she were not present in the room. I was worried she was going to fall into one of her bouts of depression she was frequently prone to.

    I chewed my food slowly, with one eye looking at my plate, with another observing the dining room, with one ear listening to the clucking of the choir ladies, with another to the clattering of cutlery and the Polish waitresses talking with each other in their mother tongue. Suddenly, a gnarled hand shot up in the air. A woman with a wrinkled face was trying to catch the attention of the waitress. As is someone had pushed the button in my chest, my heart suddenly began to race. “What do you want, you old witch?” I thought. “This is probably your last trip ever, so why do you have to complain just now?” Unfortunately, both waitresses were busy with other diners, and they were unable to see the old hand, which persistently hung in the air. I shuddered when I saw the dark-clad man standing beside the old woman and bending towards her fuzzy white hair. “Meat...tough...chew. Pain...jaws...” I overheard her saying with her thin bloodless lips, and I hated her. Mr Schultz bowed almost to the table, clicked his shoes together and strode across the room and into the kitchen. He banged the door shut behind him and let out an almighty roar. The dining room hushed. Even the clucking stopped.

    The upper half of the kitchen door was of frosted glass, and through it, you could make figures of two men exchanging blows. A cacophony of shouts, screams, swearwords and the loud clank and bang of pots and pans filled the kitchen where the men seem to be fighting for their lives. Everybody’s eyes were on the kitchen door, but for my wife’s, who yawned and rolled her eyes as if bored with the racket.
    Finally, the door opened and Mr Schultz, his face contorted with blood, cuts and bruises, stumbled out. His dark suit was in tatters and hung on him like on a scarecrow. Behind him appeared a Stalin lookalike, only much larger than the original. He scowled, waggled his moustache, and with a skillet hit Mr Schultz across his head. He collapsed to the ground and lay unconscious. A room filled with gasps and cackle. The chef threw the skillet to the ground, unfastened his bloodstained apron, and with scorn in his eyes threw it at the prone body. “I’m up to here; you’ll never see me again!” he bellowed and strode out without looking at anyone.
    TO BE CONTINUED

  2. Tarheel's Avatar
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    #2

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    First paragraph. Say:

    ...because she showed no interest in architecture as in previous years.

  3. Tarheel's Avatar
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    #3

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Say:

    She has the habit of stopping at certain buildings, looking at them and commenting on the changes they had undergone...

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    #4

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Say:

    Nor did she show any interest in bric-a-brac, which was sold on every corner.

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    #5

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Say:

    She is an avid collector of ceramic figures, which she has collected all her life.

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    #6

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Say:

    A more rational explanation I could not find.

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    #7

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Second paragraph. Say:

    I was worried that she was going to fall into one of her bouts of depression she is prone to.

  8. Tarheel's Avatar
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    #8

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Say:

    In the afternoon, we returned to the hotel and noticed that more GUESTS had arrived. A choir on a tour consisting of old ladies had invaded the lobby and made a terrible racket.

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    #9

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Third paragraph. Say:

    As if someone had pushed a button in my chest....

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    #10

    Re: A Letter of Complaint, part four

    Say:

    ...let out a mighty roar.

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