Publisher's Monkey with Jemmy

The publisher shoehorns a monkey under the door, which gets jemmied from the inside.  Oblique strategy - has to be admired.  Would be if I weren't a hadron and a quark away from the wire.  She - the publisher man - is of an uncertain age and temperament.  Sunbeams and carwax on the outside; eels and bolts on the inside.  The crinoline creases of her neck twist and vibrate like a quaking jug in a Richter 8 tremor as she arcs over my writing shoulder.  'I have a studio on my back,' she says.  'The studio has guitar boy on theirs, and the boy has a contract on his.  We haven't squeezed him dry yet.  What we need from you has to come straight from his heart.  And the moment is now.'

So I whine and fake and shrug and sigh in different vocal ranges, fold the words into a paper aeroplane (or airplane), seal it with ground glass and cattle hooves, scribble NOT TO BE OPENED TILL I GET THE BUCKS and fly it through the open window of her loitering profitmobile.  The monkey revs up and shoots off, leaving her to dilly-dally after it.

Some time has been won.