“Moron,” I said to him, looking at the Glop of shit on his page. “You really think that EE is going to wade Through that crap?” The man had no voice. Sort of like a mute, but who talked. Incessantly.
“My story would be as good as yours, except it doesn’t have any Photography,” he said in a Faint voice. “You don’t think you could loan me one of your Hundred pictures?”
“Your story is boring. Who wants to read about the Liquidity of the housing market? Or how your Escrow account needs to be followed hourly? For a work of fiction, you have no plot.”
He started Pressing me again about the pictures. “Just one? Maybe the one with the girl with the Hourglass figure?”
“Why do you think I Am interested in helping you out? I’m leaving; I’m placing my Boot on this Stair right here, because I don’t want to see EE’s face when he realizes that he has to read that drivel.” I was afraid to Entrench any more in his office; the free doughnut hour at the bakery was over. The pages scattered all over the floor, like the people at Jesus’ feet who begged for money.
But I was too late. I heard the Motorcycle revving up outside like a Warship waiting for battle. EE stormed in, his stomach heaving, with his eyes rolling like a Copycat who just realized they sat next to someone who only wrote Japanese. “There is paper all over my office! How will you Expiate yourselves for this mess?”
“Here’s a picture of Sandra Bullock, sir,” I said hastily. EE’s eyes brightened like a Rupee in the sun. “Come on, Grisham.”