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: W.P. Mayhew? The writer? W.P. Mayhew
: Just Bill, please. Barton
] BILL! You're the finest novelist of our time.
: You are dripping, sir.
: I close my eyes I can almost smell the live oak. Audrey Taylor
: That's chicken fat Bill. W.P. Mayhew
: Well my olfactory's turning womanish on me, lying and deceitful.
: Me I just enjoy making things up. Yessah escape. Its when I can't write I can't escape myself, I want to rip my head off and run screaming down the street with my balls in a fruit pickers pail.
] Gone are the days when my heart was young and gay, gone are my friends from the cotton fields away, gone from the earth to a better land I know, I hear the gentle voices calling, old black Joe. I'm coming I'm coming, oh my head is bending low, I hear the gentle... the truth my honey is a tart that does not bear scrutiny. Breach my levee at your own peril!
[in an off-screen drunken rampage
] W.P. Mayhew
: Honey! Where's my honey?
: Mister Fink, they have not invented a genre of picture that Bill Mayhew has not, at one time or other, been invited to essay. Yes, I have taken my stab at the rasslin' form, as I have stabbed at so many others, and with as little success. I gather that you are a freshman here, eager for an upperclassman's counsel. However, just at the moment, I have drinking to do. Why don't you stop by my bungalow, which is number fifteen, later on this afternoon, and we will discuss rasslin' scenarios and other things lit'rary.
: Did I ever tell you the story of Solomon's Mammy?
: If I close my eyes I can almost smell a live oak. Audrey Taylor
: That's chicken fat, hun. W.P. Mayhew
: Well, my olfactory's gone all womanish on me. Lyin' and deceitful.
: Me, well I just like makin' things up.
: I pays my baby love and she pays me back with pity. The basest coin there is...
: I'm buildin' up a levy one brick at a time...