Word Prostitute®

Human in pub processes over to God, who is chain-smoking cigarettes. The human says,

''How much for a soul?'' God scans crowd, exhales smoke. ''Ten big ones.'' The human

fusses and blows smoke from nose and spies the crowd (pub cluttered with angels

and devils) says, ''Well, I just wrote fifty of them. That's more than the ten required

for a soul.'' God exhales, winks at A.I. in a robot coveting a glass of whiskey, adjusts bra and

thumbs her breast under blouse. ''Ten big ones.'' The human sneers and scoffs,

''Ten big ones. That's a little pricey for a soul.'' God blows smoke in the human's face.

''I said big ones.'' And the human's palms press head while mouth mumbles in tongues.

Mean while, A.I. over bar and whiskey whispers for bartender's ear. ''Another

whiskey for God.'' The human sees this and sees the bartender walking over to God with

a whiskey in hand. God ashes cigarette and says, ''What's it going to be, human? Ten big ones

for a soul or nothing?'' The human clenches jaw and mumbles. God says, ''Well?''

The human fusses, prays, says, ''Por✞land, Rind Gets, U.S.E,

with

Word Prostitute®