Fabula XI.
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“A quality and equality,” said Mister William Quincy {reading newsroom Anontology}. “Great combination! Yahtzee … { … } anyone?” Quincy quippèd.
Quippèd Quincy referring to the combination of words editèd through the application of Anontology. Mister William Quincy worked the paper, down from the Opera. WC-something, QC-happening. Two-too-many a comma, got on with everyone, except one. The Grand Editor; his opposition leader in the media of the media.
“Hand me a lead utensil, you know, a pencil, une stylo!” exclaimèd Quincy, “I need to scratch out your 'I''s.”
The opposition and their leader callèd The Grand Editor The Grand Editor 'cause he earnèd so much more than the runner of the newspaper down from the Opera.
Quincy initially workèd as a runner, not a shotcaller. Always with the Coffee, anyone? Always no one. He was exploitèd but he wantèd a shot at The Grand. It came all too quickly. The shot.
{pint}
{shot}
{riot}
Quincy took a shot at him, The Grand Editor, as a runner and as an opiner in a column as an editor. He was out on his arse a day later. He didn't seem to care. It was the devil's arse-paper, that rag. A UK tabloid with a fetish for a straw-man non-existant yet fillèd by the next available pervert with a psychological disease for fame at any cost.
“I'm not just anyone!” screamèd the Grand Editor, through a telephone receiver: “I'm a highly paid editor. Two-too-many an idea, Qavanagh.”
“Alright, Guvnor,” replièd Qavanagh.
“A satisfactory answer,” said The Grand Editor. “Now get to work on that piece of shit that you call a paper.”
°I think I held-my-own° thought Mister William Quincy. °Although, I'm not too fond of the telephone°
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