"Dear Mr. Donnelly.... Certainly enjoyed 'Death in the Ring' ... one of the best _Thrill Shows_ I've ever seen ... wonder if you would consider a football thriller I have in mind called 'Murder Kicks Off'...." "Dear Mr. Donnelly.... Let's have more shows like 'Snake Pit' ... that Mother and Baby idea was the greatest.... I really thought that woman would go nuts when she saw her kid with the cobra.... A shocker all the way...." "Dear Mr. Donnelly.... If 'Kiss of Death' was your idea of entertainment, you ought to retire ... sort of sex shmaltz went out with television ... give us real gutsy stuff and never mind the mush.... I'm only eleven years old, but I'll bet I could write a better scenario than that.... I have this idea for a show called...." "Dear Mr. Donnelly...." The Producer sighed again. He reached into his pill drawer and took an ulcer capsule. Then he went back to his correspondence. When the man entered his office, he didn't even glance up. "That you, Frick?" he said, eyes on a letter of praise from a Yonkers housewife. When the man didn't answer, the Producer looked up. He gasped. "Hey!" he said. "Shut up!" the man said harshly. He moved swiftly towards the desk and lifted a bronze ashtray in a lightning motion. He raised the object threateningly over the fat man's head. "Keep quiet!" he said. "What is this?" The Producer's voice quavered. Then he recognized the face. "You're the one from the Show--" The man blinked. His face relaxed, and he lowered the impromptu weapon. "I--I'm sorry...." The Producer came around the side of the desk. He took the ashtray from his hand, and helped him into the interview chair. The man collapsed limply at his touch. "How'd you get here?" the Producer said. "I don't know," the man mumbled. "I found a door ... back there...." He buried his chin on his chest. His clothes were shredded, and his hands were trembling. "Just take it easy," the Producer told him. He stabbed his finger on a desk button. The signal brought Frick into the office. "What's up, T.D.?" Then the assistant saw the man in the chair. "My God," he whispered, swallowing hard. "Gosh, I'm terribly sorry, T.D.--" "Never mind being sorry," the Producer said gratingly. "Let's just be thankful he found his way here instead of into the street. If he'd been picked up by the Police--" The assistant mopped his brow. "That would have been terrible. They'd surely recognize him from the show. If the FCC saw him in this condition--" "Yes," the Producer said grimly. "If they saw him in this condition, their medical office would slap an injunction on us so fast--we'd _all_ be out in the Jam. Do you realize that?" Frick blanched. "I'll get Dr. Stark in here right away. We'll get him an anti-dope shot immediately--" "That girl ..." the man said. "It's okay, fella," Frick said. "You're okay now." "Never mind him," said the Producer. "Get Spier in here. Right away!"