Kirsty was sitting back in her chair at her.  To her side was a pile of letters, from Big Ape, written to her from jail.  She had learned so much from him, and had absorbed so much that she was frequently mistake for a man and had chosen to embrace the masculine identity.  She therefore wasn't surprised when a smallish man, with a little hat, and a bad voice walked into her office.  Something was strange about him.  He was excitable, and every so often he would do a jump and a 90 degree angle jump.  But Kirsty had experience, strength and hope that she wanted to share...

Pardon me, Sir.  I heard you are very wise, very good with words and are quite a big deal around here.  can you help me?

Sure, I reply.  What's your name, Son?

Well, Sir, my name is William.  Willam Rust.

Well, William, son, how can I help you?

The thing is, Sir, I just can't catch a break.  My father was shot dead recently.  He had nothing to do with anything, really.  He was a struggling author.  That's all, just a writer, and a reader.  He avidly read his own work, and would then comment on it, but he never really got a readership.  I hear that you are very good with words and writing.  That you're something of a leader on the Streets.

Can you help me be better?

Son, many is the man who comes here, wanting to be a writer.  Too many words, not enough eyes.  So what do we do?  We need to make sure our work is eye catching.  Son, I can probably help you, but you look like shit.  You like like a bad accident.  So we need to smarten you up.  Get you new shoes.  A new hat.  New trousers.  A new suit.

And then, son, you can sit with me, and we can talk about making you better.

Can you do that, son?  Are you up for the challenge?