"How'n the hell are you? Been all over the world I bet."
"What's she doing here?"
More correspondents plowed through the partiers following the pastor's son-in-law.
"You all went off to do world class journalism and left me here to my own devices," the tall man with a camera strapped to his head looked at a shorter man with a camera strapped to his head. One clicked the other's by a little hanging button. "Same time next week?"
"Who are all these people?"
"Pretty random group. Most are out of their minds high or something. A lot of other party people."
An older correspondent covered the eyes of a young one.
"Put this over your head," the tall man was given a paper grocery bag. "Why?" He whined. "We can't leave here without photographing."
Not all magazines have the same standards.
A literary agent clicked the camera without film a few times. The entire scene was filmed by several people as practice, group technique.
A man stepped forward from a doorway and scrawled in marker on the grocery bag on the tall man's head, (i)Pat's expecting you to be there.(i)
The hallway filled up with the scene busters. "Well, now you know lass. Boys have dingdongs." People blushing. "He's always got a theory. That guy in there, not invited. This quarter's talk will include touching upon apocalypse and them," the man's pointing finger clipped a woman's nose, "Packing the Courts!"
"I think it's (i)stacking(i) not packing. But I don't know everything."
"Who are those kids?"
"They wanna do it too, but not drugs and sex and booze."
"Really?! What's the draw then?"
An insta-camera was passed forward. "All out? Morals in tact?" A photo was snapped, the door was closed. The memo center-stage. Photo slid under the door. "Let's go!"
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