Allegations made by the Catholic girl in the room that Miss Kaboodle was musing on a fiendish plot to become the first female Pope were rigorously denied by the girl who insisted that she was not musing on a fiendish plot to become the first female Pope.
Understanding that the first rule of engagement when you are under attack by a scurrilous opponent is to deny everything, and make counter accusations, Kitty Kaboodle stuck her tongue out at Madge, and said, “I know you are, but what am I?”
Miss Ciccone did not deny the accusation that she wants to rule the roost at the Vatican. In fact, she laughed manically, and confessed, with an absence of contrition, “It has always been my wet dream.”
Then, getting serious, Madonna asked, “You okay?”
Kitty Kaboodle was just fine, thanks for asking. She pretty much confirmed what the others had suspected about her sudden departure, and gave the following details.
“You triggered it,” she said, meaning Madonna, “when you asked if I wanted to sue someone. It was a blinding flash. A vision. There and gone, in a second, but that second lasted an eternity, and the scene is seared into my psychic circuitry. I saw packs of scummy lawyers gang-raping Lady Justice. She was screaming. They were laughing. Dozens of them. And then… a hand. A hand smote them. The few that survived, begged for mercy, groveled for forgiveness. And then it was all gone, and I was telling the two of you to shut up, and then leaving the room.”
“The hand of God!” Stephen proclaimed.
“Diego really knows how to use his hands,” Madonna confessed, with an absence of contrition.
‘Oh my God! Is there anyone you haven’t fucked? You really are the Whore of Babylon,’ Kitty thought, with absolute admiration.
“A bolt from the Bard!” bet the boy who would, one day, be King Lear. “A challenge to write a merry murder mystery, in which all the barristers bite the dust!”
“Laid low, one and all, perhaps by a plague, exclusive to their ilk?” offered, King comma Stephen.
“No harm, no foul!”” quipped Babylon comma Whore of.
“Maybe we can see our way to sparing John Grisham?” asked one of the few authors who has outsold the master of litigation lit.
“We can see him in chambers,” smiled Lance. “I am sure he would make a very compelling case for his clemency.”
“And who, then, will play the role of Devil’s advocate, in this courtroom drama to decide the fate of Mr. Grisham?” asked the only mother in the room.
“That would be Scott Turow,” Stephen informed his honey.
“Who dat?” his honey asked, by way of reply.
“Precisely,” said Stephen, who had, apparently made himself judge, as well and King. He banged an imaginary gavel, and declared, “Case closed. Grisham lives. I call y’all in the bar. John’s buying.”