Issue 02
Citizen Luka Maro Margaret Connor Luka Maro was a small man in his middle thirties who kept quietly to himself and was prone to ulcers. He enjoyed easy listening music and was not fond of mustard. He lived in a little beige apartment in a little brown building in the middle of a little grey street and did not often have guests over. Luka Maro worked as a highly esteemed clerk at a big stately bank where, though his wages were nothing spectacular, he was entrusted with transfers of money so gargantuan that the average citizen’s eyes would goggle at the sight of so many zeros. When he managed an especially large transfer, he liked to read the little paper slip tied around the bills that said 3,025,000ƒ or 7,500,500ƒ and imagine what he would do with so much money. He thought of the newspaper advertisements for golden watches and country houses and smiled to himself, for he was content to live in his little beige apartment and wear nice, if plain, clothes. If one went to the Address Bureau and asked for the mailing address of one Luka Maro — Bank Clerk of the Seventh Degree, the pinch-faced woman behind the counter would flip through a great big binder before announcing, alas, that there was no Luka Maro registered with the bureau, and that one would do better to look him up in the phone book. Unbeknownst to her, however, there would be no Luka Maro in the phonebook. Only the post office had his address, to which every week they would deliver a small yellow letter and sometimes miscellaneous packages from a mail-order catalogue store.
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