" So why have you suddenly started writing ?" sneered the Fat Buffoon. The Fat Buffoon could smell blood and Jerry knew it. He sensed his own soft underbelly exposed, and there was a lot more of it nowadays. Swiftly he reached for the bluntest tool in his box.
" For fame and fortune " he replied, with a weak smile.
The Fat Buffoon didn't do sarcasm. He probably didn't do irony or clichés either, so why use a sledgehammer to crack a nut ? thought Mr Cornelius ? Silence confirmed a dead hit. Writing was a lot less complicated than the assassination business for sure. Had he really being trying too hard to impress ? Normally he was a good judge given enough time, but a year had passed and he still couldn't decide. As Jerry walked away he caught a sneered comment about " butterflies floating down a garden path.." A pot shot at his poetry was all he needed justify the death blow...
Yes, I still remember who the " fat buffoon " was in real life ! Ahem....
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