A New Lease On Death

Mystery house. Mystery house. That strange publishing firm owned by Dan and Barbara Glenn. Where every new novel is acted out by the Mystery House staff before it is accepted for publication.

Mystery house. You lease on death. You know I like that title, Barbie. You like the story we're doing tonight too, Dan. What's the last time authors send in the manuscript of a book that's really different?

And this is one. Well, fine. You know, that's one trouble with stories. So many writers turn out of yarns that are just like all the rest of the stories they've ever written. Well, that's one thing you can't say about me, Mr. Glenn.

Oh, well, I didn't know you wrote stories, Guy. Well, I don't write stories. What I write is the absolute truth. And here's the material you'll think is different, too. Well, let's get on with the ninth story, huh?

Places, everybody. It's that scene, Guy. Our new least on death. The scene is a street in a rather undesirable part of town. A well-dressed couple is stopped by a speedy-looking character who is obviously after a handout.

Pardon me, bud. You've always been sick of a guy who was sandwiching a cup of coffee. You sure as far as sandwich? Oh, Larry, don't give the poor bum a lecture. Give him a quarter.

Larry. Hmm? What? I believe it. Larry. Oh, stop, and he's running away. Get him! Bring him back quick! Hey, hey, you! Come back here! Hold on! Hey, go on, hey, go on, tell me you haven't got any right to stop me.

I can go where I please without you. Hey, Sky. Miriam knew what you were talking about. All right. I made a mistake. But a senior, I wouldn't have stopped you. I go on living alone.