[Carol walks to DePlacher's desk. She sits in the chair, brings out her bag. She begins to roll a joint, shuffling the weed, agitating the paper, shifting the center, licking the edge. She rolls a joint, leans back]
Folks. Let's focus on the opening. Let's take, for example, Charles Portis's True Grit. Crafted back in the day, 1968. That's a fucking while ago, savvy? The opening paragraph says ...
People do not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avenge her father's blood...
Right? Sorry, but that is wonderful, righteous, and it fills the soul of the literati with warm butter. All's we need is something close to that, folks. I mean, you guys, the children I'm hoping click on this, need to craft better. Right? That one line, that first paragraph must make us lick our lips. I could give you multiple examples of bad intros from the last few capitals sent our way, but that'd be rude. I'm simply asking you to pay attention to your opening line. The entire opening paragraph, right? Sorry thing is, no one pays attention to us here in the trenches. They'll just continue to send us their shit piles of prose.
[Carol has the fresh capital spread out on DePlancher's desktop. She sucking in the last dregs of a joint pinched between her index and middle fingernail-tips. Sparks float down to the pages, and she slaps them dead with her palm]
Dude, Boligard. We've a capital entitled Edge of Darkness. Finally, a short prose focusing on the boss, bro! So excited!
[Carol examines the capital, rolling what's left of the roach between her fingertips, making a gooey ball of it]
Oh, wait, fuck. This is not a capital focusing on Bruce, his Bossness, damn it.
[She flicks the gooey ball to the dancehall glass tiles]
[doomey's phone erupts with Aerosmith's Back in the Saddle chorus. he digs in his pants pocket and brings out his phone, thumbs it]
doomey...yeah, but, time flies, Rorschalk, I mean we're working as fast as we can. had to binge Easy on Netflix yesterday, you know? s'not our fault, buster. tell you what, you want us to focus on the job more? maybe you should cut off the internet, uh? you think of that?...hello?...
[doomey thumbs his phone dead, shoves it back into his pants. he thumbs a swan vesta and lights the tip of a pall mall, sucks in some sweet smoke. he looks over at Carol, twists his lip]
Fawns's capital has been pulled. Rorschalk told me we're dragging our heels. says this is what happens when we fuck around, disregard our responsibilities. he sounded upset. but, oh well.
[doomey grabs up the capital spread out on his desktop, he wads it up and tosses it to the glass tiles. he gives the wadded up capital his middle finger]
[he grabs up the capital on top of the towering pile at the corner of the desktop. he spreads this out the cherrywood in place of the recent capital. he blows some cigarette smoke at the pages]
Charlotte Platt's Christmas at Aunt Sally's.
[doomey shuts his eyes, breathes. breathes some more]
[Carol rolls up the current capital, and she twists it tight, twists and twists. She tosses it to the glass tiles. These two must be starting a collection. She pulls the next capital off the pile on DePLancher's desktop. She spreads it out. Squints her eyes]
Tom Miller's Burenfication.
[She begins her examination. After a few beats she can't help but sense Boligard staring at her. She looks up at him]