photo: (marketingfacts)

No matter the time of day somewhere in New York there is an Editor and an Agent “doing” lunch. The Agent crunched his crème brulee with the bottom of his spoon. His brown hair was disheveled, and he dressed in a sloppy gray suit. His fingers swiftly worked the clasp of his suitcase.

The Editor’s hair was greased back into a red pompadour. He was dressed in a crisp black suit and wore orange tinted sunglasses indoors. A blue tooth headset rested firmly in his ear. A grade A asshole. He opted for now desert. He sat coolly across from the Agent with his manicured hands folded neatly in his lap.

The end of their meal was approaching, but not soon enough for the Editor.

“I have a few manuscripts-“

The Editor raised his hand to shush him. He nodded to a conversation going on in his ear. And ended with: “That’s good to hear.” The Editor’s eyes met the Agent’s with a cocked eyebrow. “You were saying?”

A shaking hand bearing a bundle of pages reached across the table. A cloud of papers swarmed and fluttered around their table. The Editor was now on his feet.

“Holland Bobbins is only interested in one of your clients.” The Agent’s plates shattered on the ground when the Editor thrust a contract into his hands. “Just sign the contract so we can move on with our lives.”

“I can’t exactly do that without first consulting my client,” the Agent was furiously scanning the contract. “The offer is generous, but this is practically a slave labor contract. Even if I alone could take this offer – I wouldn’t! Everything even the copyright is retained by Holland Bobbins!”

“That’s a shame,” the Editor replied. He placed his sunglasses in the front pocket of his sports coat. “Mr. Elliot is in our man’s cross hairs this very moment. I can make one call, and our man will leave him alone. Forge his name. Can’t be any worse than a dead client?”

The armpits of the Agent’s sports coat were dark. He stammered and struggled with his speech. “No. My clients and I will no longer submit to your literary terrorism.”

“Terrorism is the weapon of the people. When you own the media its fascism.” The Editor now wore a smug smile. The Agent was astounded that the man lacked any laugh lines around his mouth. “Nonetheless, I was afraid you’d say that.”

The Editor pulled a Beretta Mini-Cougar from his sports coat.

The Agent flinched and covered his head with his arms. He waited for the blast, but heard nothing. He opened his eyes one at a time and found the gun resting where the contract lay.

Take the gun and shoot yourself in the head the Editor ordered the Agent without ever breaking eye contact but don’t shoot to kill. We don’t want you dead – just not able wipe your own ass for the rest of your life.

The Agent took the gun and turned it on the Editor. The Editor was already leaving without paying the bill. The Agent’s hands trembled.

The Editor smiled at the sound of the gun’s report as he exited the restaurant.