Two figures sit at a deserted outdoor patio of a wanna-be-swank New York bistro. One wears a disheveled trench coat, and clutches the handle of a briefcase next to his chair. The other figure is more “sheveled” but has three empty martini glasses in front of him—empty except for the olives.
“A Time to Kill?” the latter—the man with the lamb chop sideburns—asks. “I didn’t bother reading it. Figured it was a hunting guide. What else ya got?”
The other mumbles something indistinguishable—in legalize.
“What?” Evil Editor slams down his half-full martini glass (the fourth...but who’s counting?). “The Firm? Sounds like a Jane Fonda workout video. Next!”
More legalize from Disheveled Trenchcoat—although it sounds more like blubbering.
“The Pelican Brief? You’ve got to be kidding? With George Herbert Walker Bush in office, this country doesn’t care about the environment, nor do we want any more scandals. Next!”
This time the disheveled man leans forward and two words ekes from his trembling lips. “The Client.”
The jolly figure guffaws, drains the rest of his martini, and motions the waiter for another. “Pal, it’s obvious you don’t *have* any clients. That’s why you’re here. Last chance...”
Disheveled Trenchcoat lets go of his briefcase long enough to hiss two words at his martini-filled compadre. “The Chamber.”
Evil Editor grabs a martini from the waiter. “Ahhhh. The Chamber. Finally we have a working title. What’s it about?”
Trenchcoat trembles, but manages a few select words. “Suicide. Death Row. Ku Klux Klan.”
“Finally something I can work with!” Evil Editor swigs down his last martini of the afternoon (not counting that night). “Now that I know you’re marketable, let’s go back to this hunting thing...A Time to Kill? It’s not too graphic is it?”