Man and Art have moved house. They sit down to a scotch and brandy and cigars by their new fireplace (in Versusshire, a place that doesn’t really have heatwaves)
Man: Boy, that move was sure was tough.
Artist: Tell me about it, I had to leave my girl back in Versusville.
Man: Did you tell her about the new job? About the guy who thinks your art isn’t original, isn’t as “anarchistic” as you portray it to be? The whole ‘changing your style, being transferred to freelance division again?
Artist: Yeah, she was nearly as heartbroken as me. She understood how there are armchair philosophers and, certainly, armchair artists. I just had to reassure her my craft would not change, only develop, and envelop every criticism…
Man: How did you assure her to such a soulful degree, Art?
Artist: I said…
*artist stares a thousand miles away, takes a vaccuming drag of his cigar, his hand twitches ever so slightly, as to just make the clinking of ice cubes in his brandy, and speaks with a bellowing of smoke from his nostrils and between his teeth…*
Art: … They’ll never take me, Olive.