First, he goes, fuck that lady. I don't want to do any more work for her. She is trying to get something for nothing and all she does is name drop and price drop and she talks for two plus hours at every meeting and nothing ever gets done and I can't hear one more story about Andre Agassi or Lee Majors or former Governor Whothefuckever without stabbing her in the throat with my water glass.

Tumbler, she replies.


Tumbler. It's not a water glass. The word you are thinking of is tumbler.

He stares at her; he exhales. Isn't a tumbler a smaller glass? Like the kind they use for Collins' sometimes?

She goes, I've never had a Collins'.

Well, he says, when you order only one, it's called a Collins.

No kidding, she replies.

Yeah, he says.

The weather is unseasonably warm. And raining. Always Monday. Monday motherfucking raining.

Time passes. He stares at her freckles. I bet you were the prettiest girl in your hs.

Not really. Everyone said I looked like a boy. Listen, she says. Pay attention. I talked to her. We are dbling the fee.

What about the meeting?



Yes. You still have to go.

But I can't stand that woman.

I know. Can you stand Xhundred bucks a page, tho?

I can.

Then you have to go to the meeting.

After that, he activates his eye lasers. After that, he kills that bossy bitch. Totally roasts her. Her skin crackles and cackles like Chinese Duck sans plum sauce.

After that, he watches Springer. Fat black chicks are fighting over a superskinny white trash dude. It's totally rad.

The insides of their pussies are bright pink, you know. Just like everybody else.

There is no one around to hear him say this. He blurts a lot of shit out. Sometimes, he calls it an occupational hazard for a writer. Other times, he turns red and looks away while everyone laughs.

If they only knew about his supersperm
then they wouldn't say shit.