About
"Loosen your cravats, gentlemen, we're all friends here!" cried Patrick Fair, principle actor among the increasingly belligerent troupe.
The row had erupted at the behest of Drew Berg- writer, rouser of rabble. "My honor is not a cloakroom scuff mat to be trodden upon by the likes of this rogue!"
"Declare me rogue once more, fiend, and observe the consequence," said producer Benjamin Kippley, the writer's verbal joust narrowly glancing off the fiber of his character.
Fearing the imminent escalation from ruffian's discourse to a proper donnybrook through and through, director Marcelline Berg quelled the blossoming melee with two swift jabs to the men's gin-blossomed countenances. "Is the matter now concluded or shall I rap upon your heads once more?"
"I'm satisfied," declared the writer.
"Aye," seconded the producer.
"And I thank the divine for that," added young Russell Webster, part-time actor and full-time vagabond, "but pray tell, what was the meaning of all this?"
"Quite simple, really," said the writer.
"Quite simple, indeed," the producer concurred.
"Then tell me!" demanded the director, "Tell me this instant!"
The writer stroked his chin. "I would love to, dear, but..."
"Speak, you damned fool!"
"But I'm afraid you have beaten me to the punch!"
Much glee was exhibited at this witty rejoinder and all was forgiven until young Russell Webster collapsed in the corner of the room.
"That's strange, gentlemen. It appears our script boy has fallen dead."
"Must have been the gas leak I discovered earlier this very afternoon."
The rest of the troupe stood aghast in a frozen terror as they turned their attention to the writer.
"The WHAT leak?"
