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Checklist of the Parasites of Fishes of Latvia

Not really about Latvian fishes

The award-winning scribe

By Archimedes J. Hartwell, urban crime & pestilence reporter of The Manhattan Estimable Dispatch

GOOD DAY. – Here I sit upon the docks and marvel at nature’s wrath. For within 48 hours, a great tempest will set upon this fair City. Her given name is Hermione; in general We are wont to call her a hurricane, typhoon, or feminine whirlwind. But no personal vibrating message-stick will calm this Hermione, no, we must wait her out, let her berate this City with all her might, and allow her to go not-so-quietly up the rest of the eastern seaboard: to old Boston, thence to the less-civilized realms of Nova Scotia and New-Found-Land.

What are New York’s gallant citizenry doing about this meteorological menace? Hwell. The fine gentlemen of the upper classes are heading inland. As I write there is an impressive line of horse-n-buggies and other assorted pack-mules and Negro and Irish help staff. Their fine housing will be shuttered for the duration of the Storm. There is no need to worry about the esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Thendyke nor should you harass yourself with dreadful visions involving Mr. George Abbott Puke, who is currently on his way to Pennsylvania. These paragons of society will carry on. After Hermione is safely away, these Men of Industry shall return.

As for the lower orders, anarchy reigns. One would hope these miscreants and ethnic leeches will control themselves, but life’s wisdom has taught me this is not the case. The Italians will no doubt start many a street battle; the pesky Irish will soak themselves in whisky; the Jews will scamper round the shadows like common rats; and I dare not entertain thoughts of the Negroes’ activities! With God’s grace they will not leave the City too much at a loss.

As for your humble reporter, I shall obtain a parasol and ride out this fusillade in my sturdy tenement. My neighbor Mr. George Emmett Lache is the foremost pinochle savant and I will do well to join him for a round or two. Pray for myself and this most hallowed of daily newspapers, my beloved Dispatch. Until next week, then. –

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