Fred Thompson Is the True Anti Muse with Portable Klieg Lights from Hades
Dennis Mahagin
His four-inch stogie had gone cold again, all chewed-up, with dried slobber on the butt end, but he held that dead cigar like some insufferable vicar with solid gold Parker pen, stabbing it in my general inferior direction: Oh, I know you, the huge-headed lawyer said, No, you aint no brand of Scrivener
only some sorry-ass Flim Flam Man! Well, Id heard he might be well-read, that he took a Bachelors in Lit from Baylor? But maybe that stuff was all made up by the Phyllis Diller publicist in my head
oh, poor me, with a deadline and mouth to feed, so I end up channeling that freak Arthur Branch instead! Have you thought about the Soaps Market? he said, or maybe a well-placed joke at a local Friars Roast?
Even Calvin Trillin had to work his way up, son
Leopard spots danced in front of my eyes, I got frantic, and whipped out my pint-sized full metal Bic; I felt drawn to the tip of Arts ice-cold stogie, the way it hung slack now, bent-back between his lips; and yours truly Im telling you could fairly taste failure, it was in fact an acrid tang of self addressed stamped vanilla envelope paste. Arthur Branch said: Howz about mebbe going for broke with a racy How To
Porn with Guns?
But a POEM? Well, now frankly, I believe its beyond you, son. I was still flicking that Bic, I wished to spark a trick like running for Laureate, or even Senator, with precious little experience aside from the District Attorney being played in my cerebrum. Dont you worry none, Branch concluded. Theres plenty of time to resign
to go looking for a true calling in this world
The huge head D.A. ducked under a Stage Left balustrade, built about six feet high for middling talent, which gave way upon some utterly empty outer sanctum.
Thats when I heard that familiar Theme Song again, with the snappy tom bass lick setting up some kind of ethereal piccolo. Art was long gone, strolling with Ed Green, Jack McCoy, S. Epatha Merkerson and Farina the Guido. At last I savored the purest existential joy of the corporeal bard: Solitude, which incidentally I wouldnt wish upon my worst apolitical enemy, or even some extra sadistic Rikers Island prison guard.
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