The Waterman walked into the office with an abnormally large water bottle over his shoulder. The five gallons of polypropylene-blue water sloshed noisily as he grinned stupidly to the room.
On the other side of this fine example of twentieth-century corporate architecture, the blonde Solenodon, squeaked and polished its whiskers hungrily.
"This is crazy, you know that, right?" he told me. I looked at him over the edge of the manuscript in my hands and shrugged.
"I don't care, really. Takes one to know one, you know," was my trite response.
"Look, we can't sell this. No one wants to read about bad..."
'A fucking trip!' yelled the Waterman at the rodent, who was by now, licking its paws clean.
I slammed the sheaf of papers hard on the desk as I stood up.
The printed letters on the manuscript moved about suddenly, invisibly, and reformed into a 253-page long transcript of an image from Lieberman's mind.
"You're the damn publisher, Lieberman. Deal with it." And with that, I walked out of his office, stomping harder than I normally would.
Mostly for added drama.
I was waiting for you in the lift. Stark white, reflected thrice in the three mirrors, then as a fourth version, ghosted, when the stainless-steel door closed.
ReplyDeleteI waited until you looked, and flashed you my third nipple.