The Would-Be Suitors of Lilac Delaney

In a rare moment of solace while writing for The Calamari's latest edition, Lilac decided it was high time she took a little break. The fact that she hadn't actually begun writing it was irrelevant; the rum, however, was very relevant indeed. Following the cursory Mafia custom of lighting a cigarette and adopting a terribly serious and pensive demeanour, she strode across her office with her nose in the air, sniffing out the goods. She knew they'd been hiding it - she just didn't know where yet, the scoundrels. Honestly, just because she'd overdone it a little in The Borgata Pub and decided to attempt (attempt being the key word) a bit of Burlesque on the bar top did not warrant the manhandling of her rum.

After a considerable search and a large number of expletives, she discovered the whereabouts of her precious elixir. They had, rather cunningly, placed it directly on top of her tallest bookshelf, presumably in the knowledge that unless she fashioned something out of at least two chairs and miraculous physics, she would never reach it. Well, that's what they thought. Little did Godfather Squid know that when he called her a leprechaun, he had unwittingly touched on an element of truth. She was indeed a short-arsed Irish imp, and by the balls of Zeus she would get her hands on that rum come hell or high water. She finished her cigarette deftly, skipped across the room and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Then, hoisting her skirt above her knees, climbed on top of her desk and allowed a piercing squeal to escape from her mouth. Sure enough, her bodyguard Moses burst into the room with his usual indecipherable bellows, all primed for action. She pointed to the bookcase, motioning for him to pull it away from the wall and offering him her finest mouse impression. This consisted of wiggling her nose, nibbling on thin air and whispering, ''Squeeeeeeee, squeeeeeeee!''

Some time later, and having paid Moses in lollypop sticks, Lilac was plonked in the centre of her office floor slugging ferociously at a bottle of rum and reading old correspondence that had also been stashed in its hiding place. These were letters that she had retained for her own amusement; offers of foot massages, marriage proposals and of course the cream of the crop:

If beauty were time, you would be eternity.

She held this one up to the light, squinting with one eye and belching loudly. She often forgot herself when she was alone; back home, girls didn't need manners so long as they could carry a bag of turf and a sturdy first born son.

As she came to the end of the pile, she discovered a long since forgotten envelope; it was rather bulky, with no addressee. Then again, she had never intended on posting any of the contents. Slicing open the envelope with her nail, she pulled out one of the letters and unfolded it neatly on her lap. As she scanned through the words, her brow furrowed. (Time for another melodramatic cigarette).

Everything in the room blurred into one, except for a single question: to send them to next of kin, or not?

That might sound like a compliment, but eternity goes on and on and on and on.  Kinda like reading your paper.  A better compliment would be, "You look as beautiful as a negative sign on a pregnancy test."  Or, maybe that's just how I view things.

Well, Pickles, to go on and on and on requires a little thing known as stamina. But of course, you wouldn't be familiar, seeing as by all accounts you've rarely reached the milestone of opening a sheath wrapper, never mind that of a pregnancy test.

There is nothing as beautiful as the negative sign on a pregnncy test. No one is anywhere near that beautiful.

My dear Pickles, I believe youve met your match. Miss Delaney has a sharp tongue that has cut you too pieces this time good sir.

I think the less time Mr Pickles spends contemplating Ms Delaney's tongue the better for all concerned... especially Ms Delaney.