In which our hero negotiates a business plan with his arch enemy, Screaming Lizzie, the kid from next door.

  • Ernest, Dear.
  • Don’t call me dear, Lizzie.You are three years old. It sounds patronizing. I have told you this over and over again. When is it going to sink in?
  • But you are such an adorable, sweet, darling young man, Ernest and, in spite of your shortcomings, such as they are, I am quite fond of you.
  • Umm… I am not sure but I think you just dissed me.
  • That’s what I like about you, Baz. Even when I diss you, you are not sure.
  • Whatever the case is, I don’t think I want to be called dear. Certainly not by, you know, a fetus. Members of your generation are supposed to call me Uncle Ernest. Please fall in line.
  • Look. I am rolling my eyes. Have you ever seen a three-year-old roll her eyes?
  • They look like boiled eggs.
  • Did you just diss me?
  • Heh heh heh. Now you know how it feels. Anyway, why have you invited yourself over to my house? What do you want to discuss?
  • Me and my friends want to hire you as a media consultant. We need someone to plot a publicity campaign for our upcoming enterprise.
  • Hah hah hah! I laugh uproariously and my sides shake like those of fat people. What sort of enterprise is this that you plan to carry out, you who is barely able to carry out a full night without wetting the bed?
  • What I do in my bed is my business, Baz. Stay out of it. Can we keep this professional?
  • You haven’t hired me yet.
  • Now I am not sure I want to.
  • Well, not that I am trying to advertise, but I have a lot of experience and my talents are so vast that were I to quantify them, you would be old enough to call me dear by the time I was through. Add this to the fact that my principles and integrity are exemplary and that the dedication I bring to the table makes me peerless on the continent and you shall have to conclude, little one, that you simply cannot afford me.
  • Do you get paid regularly for the work you do?
  • Of course. I am very particular about that. The last person who tried to renege on payment…
  • Where is your customised Lexus Coupe and your designer wardrobe and your nine-bathroom mansion?
  • What are you talking about now? The youth of today! Wait. You are three years old. Make that the youth of the day after tomorrow.
  • I am saying that if you are paid so well and so regularly, why are you not rich? Why are you, rather, on the contrary, evidently miserably, wretchedly, pitifully broke?  Baz, the other day I heard the cockroaches at my house complaining that the cockroaches from your house are always coming over to beg for sugar.
  • I am just not the type to go around in a flashy car and…
  • Of course you are not. The type is rich. You are poor.
  • You don’t understand, Lizzie, being too young, so young in fact that you only realised last weekend that you should not swallow the fifty-shilling coin; you should use it to buy sumbusa and swallow that instead. Financial matters are still a few decades beyond your grasp. But there is such a thing as the elasticity of expenditure. Ones expenditure always expands to fill and exceed ones income. The more money you have, the more money you need to spend. The more you spend, the broker you are. That is why my brokenness is proof of my wealth. You understand?
  • No, I stopped listening at blah blah blah. You can really drone, Baz. It is cute, but I am not a patient woman.
  • Woman. My eyes’ turn to roll.
  • So, we have a singing group and we want you to feature us in the papers, as young upcoming gospel music stars.
  • This is the point where we say tune in next week to find out what happens next, I think.
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