"Fresh doyo-no-ushinohi for lunch, delicious," EE mumbled. Dirk, resplendent in madras shorts, Ed Hardy shirt and clogs, jumped up and down in the elevator like a game show contestant.
"It's YOU," he shrieked. "My novel is a love story. Not that anyone dies of a fatal disease and inspires Al Gore but a best-times and worst-times sort of... without songs like Les Miserables. A real father and son story in a post-nuclear wasteland without blood, violence and shark's jaws like the Chicken Little Movie but with live actors." Dirk grabbed his undergarments as if bitten by the Zanti misfits. EE froze and eyeballed the emergency phone.
"Damn! Scorpions on a Train with Sam Jackson. NOT!, Chicken Little doesn't run aground in the shallow gene pool like the end of the ocean. He discovers a conspiracy but dat don't do no good like Bebe Rebozo howling Tricky Dickey. Beeety Davis eyes! Quint never cries wolf. Into the woods with a Bad Wolf who done ate me Trinny and Susanna; Childhood miscreants in Judge Judy's courtroom, suddenly subject to her gavel. There are gold coins cut in half to be redeemed without question and a raven-haired Lolita steaming it up with a baseball bat like Durham's Bull got hit." Dirk put his knuckles in his mouth. His nametag read Dathon El-Adrel.
"I understand," EE brightened. He punched the next floor's button and blocked the emergency stop.
"Do you? Sorry. Sorry I'm hysterical. Tourette's, yanno. I'm hallucinating spotted dicks and trains from South Carolina. Thoughts are uncovered eyes. Gotta catch me brain cells like Ensign RO-mer Treece. RE-do! RE-boot!"
"I don't imbibe before lunch," EE dashed from the elevator.
"May I tweet you in Paumanok?" Dirk yelled after him.
"Only if you're a crow singing about pachyderms," EE instructed.
"I can try," Dirk replied.