Whore

So there I was. Sitting in an office at a film studio I will not mention. The office smelled like old cigars and aged bourbon. I wore my best shirt. A nice button up black bowling shirt I got at a thrift store about two years ago. To accent my good dress I wore some nice blue jeans and some great leather sandals that I bought in Mexico.

Let me step back for a second. About three weeks ago I was sitting at the Beacon, a small bar I like to go to from time to time. I’m sitting, enjoying my drink when out from the hot Los Angeles afternoon walks in this guy about thirty.
He comes over and sits down next to me. Lucky funckin me.
He looks completely out of place. Not your typical patron at two in the afternoon.
Naw. He was too clean. Too fresh.
So I ignore him and light up a cigar and drink my beer.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that this fucker keeps looking over at me.
Suddenly he taps my shoulder.
“Excuse me.” His voice shakes.
I turn around sending a billow of cigar smoke into his face.
I look him up and down. “Yeah.”
“Do we know each other?” He asks.
I give a little smirk and answer.
“Nope.”
I turn back around and ignore him.
So he taps my shoulder again.
I’m gonna thrash this guy.
I think to myself.
I turn to him like a burley bear.
“What?” I growl.
“I think I know you.”
“Yeah so.”
“You’re that writer guy.”
“Writer guy?” I turn away from him.
“Look I work for…I mean…I like your work.”
“Fuck off.” I watch the TV mounted on the wall across the bar.
“ I work for a studio and we want to talk to you about your writing.”
He leaves his card on the bar.
“Call me.”
He walks out.
I hate studio people.

But then again.
The only good whore is one that works in Hollywood.
Right?