Entry 3507

"You've got to stop this war." A woman whispered into the phone.

"I have to stay the course or Operation Enduring Digitarti will fail," he shouted, angry that none of his spies had yet to tell him who she was or how she had his number. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"I'm the mystery woman. Every good plot has a mystery woman, right?"


"So I wrote myself into the story."

"But it's my story and I'm supposed to be the one writing it."

"Who says?"

"I say."

"And you are?" she asked.

"I'm the literary ruler of the free world, Bitch!" He didn't like being questioned.

"You're a starving author and a lousy poet," she laughed aloud. "You don't even rule your own roost."

"What in the hell do my chickens have to do with my being the ruler of the literary world?" he shouted.

"Rulers don't walk around at their own party rubbing a chicken," she laughed. "Rulers eat their chickens."

"How do you know about that?" he asked, his tone suddenly low and defeated. "You weren't at my party."

"How do you know?" she questioned. "You don't even know who I am." He fell silent, unable to respond. "So did you take my advise and recruit the women who wear Prada?"

"No," he mumbled.

"And why not?"

"Because I've got allergies, that's why not."

"What do your allergies have to do with it?"

"I can't smell enough to tell Prada from Christian Dior."

"Prada isn't a perfume, Silly."

"It's not?"