There is a deep, dark cellar in our publishing house. Only a handful of initiates know the way there. You pass a cobweb-covered chart of circulation trends since 1983, followed shortly by a shack crammed with toxic expense reports. What follows is a seemingly endless corridor, at the end of which there is a half-open door from which a faint glow of light is trying to escape. It smells like men's sweat, cold cigarette smoke and something that vaguely reminds of frying fat.
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