“Jenkins! Come in here!”
“Sir, for the seventh time now, I am not discussing whether or not you have–”
“Big Dick Energy.”
“–big dick energy. I will not submit to the conversation.”
“Big Dick Energy, Jenkins. Capitalize it. It’s important.”
“That’s not how English works, sir.”
“Damn your descriptivism! Damn it with shameful zest, Jenkins!”
“I shall, sir. As long as I’m here, we need to discuss the poster for Shoreline.”
“Poster! Never! Not again! What we’ll do instead is sell golden eagle chicks, and the Deadheads will raise the birds to know war and to love the hunt, and then when we come back to Shoreline next year, everyone will bring their eagles back and all the eagles will fight each other to the death during Black Muddy River. Isn’t that better than posters?”
“No, sir. That’s far worse.”
“Fine. Jenkins, let’s bear-bait.”
“That’s terrible, sir.”
“Moose-bait.”
“Terrible and racist against Canadians.”
“Rat-catching.”
“Where the terrier gets chucked in the ring with a sackful of rats, and everyone bets on how many it gets in a given time?”
“Yes.”
“No. Good God, no, sir. No animal involvement of any sort, especially direct abuse thereof.”
“A cute dog. We get a cute dog and it just sits there.”
“Sir, your idea is to substitute posters with ‘a cute dog and it just sits there?'”
“Am I in your office, or are you in my office?”
“The second one, sir.”
“Procure a dog.”
“Sir, which set of medications are you on? The good set the doctor gave you, or the other set you find yourself?”
“I’ve combined them.”
“Of course. Sir, we need to make a poster.”
“Poster! Jenkins, why don’t we use our powers for good? Instead of art, we’ll use the space to print up an infographic lesson about the Battle of Sevastopol. Or the History of the Neck. It was discovered by the Greeks, you know.”
“The neck?”
“Oh, yes. A guy figured it out with a stick and a shadow. Amazing minds, the Greeks. Boff each other like crazy. Amazing boffers, the Greeks.”
“The fans have grown accustomed to artwork, sir.”
“The fans have grown accustomed to it not being the Night Of The Hammer, too.”
“Please stop talking about that, sir.”
“Hammer to the face! Hammer to the face! Hey, there, brother: have a good show. And have a hammer to the face!”
“That is not a scenario to joke about, sir.”
“I would wear hammers in twin bandoliers, like John Popper’s harmonicas. In case a hammer got stuck in someone’s face, you see. You must assume you’re going to lose several hammers in people’s skulls. You could get the claw stuck in an eye-socket. Whatever. You need more than one hammer to pull off a Night Of The Hammers is my point.”
“The task we’re performing should not be this arduous, sir. We’re making all of our own work. There can be no deviation from the concept of ‘selling posters.’ We may not redefine either term.”
“I still say we accept trade. We’d have a Bartertown-type situation within hours. And we’d have all the posters, Jenkins. We’d be gods. Come sit on my shoulders and run Bartertown with me.”
“Let’s circle back to that after we discuss the content of the poster.”
“Poster!”
“Yes, sir.”
“A dragon. No. An eyeball. Wait.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“A bunch of Dead bullshit.”
“Look, I already wrote that down.”
NOTEBOOK SHOWING NOISE
“We’re such a team, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Join me in worship at the Fatal Altar. Speed along the world until the Night Of The Hammers come!”
“You gotta stop with that. Man to man on this one. Knock it off.”
“Only if you take me to the place with the disco fries. And you have to pay, and when I get disco fries on my face, you have to wipe them off.”
“Deal.”
“And your brother’s social security number.”
“No deal.”
“Just the fries.”
“Let’s go, sir.”
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