/lit/ - Literature

>>2617726
By then, his bladder was full to bursting from the morning's coffee, so he headed to the latrine before he pissed his smallclothes. Reek, reek, it rhymes with leak. Along the way, he passed the receptionist from the adjoining office. She was a pretty brown-haired thing, a woman of about four-and-twenty, fully flowered.

"Where do whores go?", he asked her.

She slapped him.

He entered the men's bathroom and undid his breeches. The urinals were crofted from gleaming white porcelain and bore the seal of American Standard. Whilst it received his golden stream of the morning's piss, he contemplated how this was a metaphor for how Ser Martin had raised the leg and done the same to the continuity of A Song of Ice and Fire and the first three books.

He angrily composed an e-mail to Martin's editor whilst zipping up his breeches. He was only a man grown, unskilled in the ways of editing, but such was his wroth.

You know nothing, Anne Groell...