Half a sketch

Al: So, what is it exactly that you do?

Bill [with a shrug]: I write a bit.

Al [incredulously]: You write a bit?!

Bill: I write a bit.

Al: You don't strike me as the kind...now, now, don't take that as a slur, or something. It's just... really, you don't strike me as the type

Bill: I strike you, how?

Al: Good with the hands, y'know? The kind that barrels through life making things. Not to say you can't think or nothing. Working with hands is respectable, y'know.

Bill: Writing requires hands; I work with my hands....

Al: Now, now, that's not...

Bill: ...there's no better barrel than the barrel than that that contains words. Writing's good for that.

Al: Look, you know what I mean...

Bill: I don't strike you as the writing kind.

Al: Yeah.

[an uncomfortable silence follows. Al begins to pick his nose, looking ill at ease. Bill stares at the ceiling]

Al: So, how did you get in here, anyhow?

Bill: I stabbed a policeman in the eye.

Al [with a gasp]: Christ! That's real bad. You know they're gonna get you bad for it. Why did you stab him, then?

Bill [shrugging] He had it coming.

Al: How?

Bill: He called me a hack.

Al: That all? I've been called...

Bill: Said it would be easier for a camel to go through the eye of pen than for me to write a decent obituary... He had it coming.