Cloud Atlas Page #4

It wasn't that bad.

No?!

"Mr. Hoggins should apologize to the trees felled

for the making of his

bloated autobio-novel. Four hundred vainglorious pages

expire in an ending that is flat and inane beyond belief."

Steady now, Dermot. What is a critic,

but one who reads quickly,

arrogantly, but never wisely.

F*** it.

Dermot!

Ladies and gentlemen!

We have an additional award tonight, fellow book fairies.

An award for "most eminent critic".

Mr... Oh, beg pardon,

Sir! Felix Finch! O, B and E!

And what might my prize be, I wonder?

A signed copy of an unpulped "Knuckle Sandwich"?

Can't be many of those left.

Well?

Just what does that leadless pencil you call an imagination

have in mind to end this scene, hmm?

I t'ink you're gonna love this one.

Now, that's "an ending that is flat and inane beyond belief."

My thoughts?

If I'm honest, I admit that the obvious emotions like shock

and horror flew as Finch had, here and gone.

Tequila, couple of fingers.

While deep down, I experienced a nascent sense

of a silver lining to this most tragic turn.

Overnight, Dermot "Dusty" Hoggins became a cult hero

to the common man.

"Knuckle Sandwich" shifted ninety thousand copies

in less than two months.

I was for the briefest of moments, Cinderella

and all memory of past misfortune receded

in the rearview mirror

of my dream come true.

- What the f***?!

- Timothy Cavendish, I presume.

Caught with your cacks down!

Uh, my office hours are eleven to two.

And my secretary

would be more than happy to schedule an appointment

if you so desire.

Friends like us don't need appointments.

We like it all cozy like this.

- Visited Dermot in the joint.

- Our brother's got a question for you.

Where's our f***in' money?

Boys. Boys, look here.

Dermot signed what we call a copyright

transfer contract,

which means that legally...

Dermot didn't sign no f***in' contract for the event

of the f***in' season!

Uh, uh-huh. What? Perhaps, uh, we could moot

a provisional sum

on the basis of... ongoing negotiation.

Okeydokey.

What sum we gonna moot?

Fifty K'd will do for starters.

Fifty sounds reasonable.

Tomorrow afternoon.

Tomorrow afternoon?!

Cash. No bullocks.

- No checks.

- Old-fashioned money.

Gentlemen,

- the law says...

- The law?!

What'd the law do... for Felix f***in' Finch?

[Neo-Seoul, the year 2144]

Ordinarily, I begin by asking prisoners to recall their

earliest memories...

to provide a context for the corpocratic historians

of the future.

Fabricants have no such memories, Archivist.

One twenty-four hour cycle in Papa Song's is identical

to every other.

May I say you speak consumer surprisingly well.

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