Word: hatcheted
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...shoe-shining device promptly begins whirring over the driver's toes. The seat flops back and a gas range appears. From an icebox which has handily sprung out of the vehicle's superstructure, Broadway Joe extracts the makings of a midnight snack, cutting the bread with a hatchet and finally nailing the sandwich to the roof. An escalator then lowers Mr. Cook to the stage where he relates at length the trip he has just made from Cripple Creek, Colo.-"a good night's work if I do say so." Unknown to him, Miss Ona Munson...
...Yorkers who frequent expensive speakeasies, Dwight Fiske has long been a familiar personality. Lean, hatchet-faced, with hands like carefully manicured claws and a bald-spot on his narrow skull, they have seen him hunched scornfully in front of a grand piano, intoning his unique compositions with an air at once chipper, elegant and insulting. Last winter Dwight Fiske progressed from speakeasies to Manhattan's most elegant café, the Mayfair Yacht Club. Last week two things made it appear that his celebrity- like that of Helen Morgan and Jimmy Durante who preceded him from the orchidaceous gloom...
Mayhem and yellow faces are allied for eternity in the card files of the Amalgamated American Cinematic Producers Inc. The "Son-Daughter" follows an ancient and well worn path. There are hatchet-men lurking in every misty street; twitching bodies are hurled from burly coaches into squalid streets; gentlemen with slanted eyes find their necks stretched in uncomfortable machines while a merry troop of rats nibbles their big toes; there is the sparse fellow with a shredded wheat beard who carries poison under his finger nails. And just because 5000 miles away a Revolution is being conducted in China...
...graceful bow, reverted quickly to Chim-Fen, the opium dealer. People forgot that the dark hollow voice was only a shell of what it used to be. Chim-Fen's sinister shadow filled the stage while he crept up on the child he wanted to kidnap, buried a hatchet in the neck of the man who found him out. When his own sleek cue was finally twisted around his neck, his murderer bolstered him against a lamp post, talked to him casually until a policeman approached on his rounds. The policeman passed. The body fell to the ground with...
...time when the day's news is freighted with thunders and portents it is soothing to know that the spirit of Carrie Nation still moves among us, the little hatchet up her sleeve. When the steins are sliding again over the shining counter, and the White Horse chorus rises once more from Jake's on 43rd St., the old defenders can leap into action with a new war-cry: "We have Scotched the rake, not killed him." But if America's women hood perversely refuse to take the legalized cocktail with a dash of bitters, what remains for Mrs. Peabody...