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Dramatist On Crack

The dramatist, on crack, asks "Excuse me, is the Poet in? Is the Gothic Hippie peacenik home?"
"I am sorry, but he is not here, right now. May I take a message?"
"I have left messages for that crazy bastard, for a week of Sundays. Do you know when you will be expecting him, by any chance?"
"He is due to arrive in the office, any moment, sir," the sweet-tasting receptionist purrs. "I will be happy to take your name and number, so he can return your call."
"I just told you that the son-of-a-bitch wasn't returning my calls," he screams into the telephone.
"There is no reason for you to use that kind of language, sir."
"You have a great voice, what do you look like?"
"Sir, if you would like to leave your name and number, I will make sure that my employer gets the message."
"What if I wanted to give you my name and number, instead of him? Would you ever call me?"
"I have decided to not be a food, today," she retorts.
"She sniffed my leg, licked it and backed off. I told her to go to Hell and bring me back some color. My skeleton is a sketchbook for all of the suffering that I have seen, piled like clothes, my skin hangs over it, wrinkled and stained. She doesn't scare me anymore. Are you sure that you do not want to go out with me? I just love a pout in a short skirt. Angels are hot, I always want to have sex with them."
Eliza GoodWord Feelright disconnects the call, and looks out of the window at the rushhour traffic splashing and dashing by.