It's late at night.
I sneak quietly through the front door, across the living room, and into the kitchen. I'm hungry. But wait! What's that on the table?
"The Eck!" I shout. "The Eck, the Eck!"
"What the 'eck?" The growl issues from the master bedroom. Heavy, deliberate footfalls in the hallway rattle the windows. I cringe.
"I thought I threw that thing away," snarls my wife. "Hand it over!"
"Never! It's mine!" Cowering under the table, I hug the little magazine tightly to my chest. The threat of parting with it emboldens me. "I'm keeping it, do you hear? Furthermore, I'm renewing my subscription! Who cares if it's late? I'll never give it up! Turn loose of my leg! Here! See? I'm writing a check! Let 'em stop the Bulletin! Let 'em stop the MAAM! I want my Eck!"
— letter accompanying a renewal check
Reader BILL BRANTNER submitted the vignette appearing in this issue as "a true story offered in dignified serenity." When not battling his wife for possession of THE ECPHORIZER he lives quietly in Chandler, AZ.
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