“Mewsy, I worry.” Finchie tapped with a sensible heel. “You’re a talented girl with a solid gold vulva and people will want to exploit you.”
“Breaking news: the world is round,” yawned Mewsy, fishing in her clutch. “Is this why you broke up a perfectly adequate afternoon ‘lingus?”
“I want you to know that I see you as more than just one of my proz’,” Finch said. “Despite recent betrayals, I see you as one of my friends.”
“Ergo, you’ll pardon my candour. Lazy Baker’s a rusting cutlass disguised as a woman and her Electric Cig’ is a morally gangrenous open sore.”
“They’ll spoil you with flattery til you’re soft as milk, then they’ll sell off your soul to the crowds. That’s the truth of show business.”
“That’s mighty talk, Finch, for someone who pawned off the rights to my bod to an ethically dubious trillionaire to preempt a capital loss.”
“That’s different,” said Finch, “Because I care. Lazy and that washed-up harridan Maria Toilette wouldn’t give you a secondhand dental dam.”
“You’ve made your point,” said Mewsy. “Can I get back to it?” “I’d also like to recall to you your ancillary prosti-duties here at Sundry.”
“Futkas Agopolos may hold claim to your nethers, but there’s hostessing to be done, and dancing, and someone has to fluff the shyer gents.”
“Shucks, Finchie, I know. I’ve just been retooling the start of my act for the Cig since Lazy rejected Green Grows the Grass in my Panties.”
“For shame! That’s your strongest bit. It sure wowed the judges at the Whores! Whores! Whores! Talent Pageant. What’ll you replace it with?”
“Oh, a little fanfreluchey number from one of the girls at the Cig. It’s Very high society. You wanna hear a bit?” Finch hiked up her specs.
Bosoms swelling with artistic feeling, Mewsy commenced a lyrical warble. “Verdoyante est l’herbe dans mes culottes depuis que t’es parti…”
“Sans ton intense labeur mon champ n’est que mauvaises herbes. /
Tes lèvres, ton charme, tes muscles me manquent, oui…” (A tasteful fermata)
“Mais c’est surtout ta queue que je m’réserve!” Now, the foxtrot reprise. Mewsy squared her shoulders, grinned, and swung her earnest hips.
“Ve – er – doy – yyaaaan – te…!” she belted toothily, wiggling her fingers. Finch waited til the end to ask, “Schatzi, how’s your French?”
“Well I never got corrected once by our majordo’ at Triolay, so I’d say pretty good,” said Mewsy breathlessly. “Why, you want some lessons?”
“I think someone is having you on,” said Finch. “Where did you say you picked up this tune?” “From one of the Ciggy gals – Titzi LeBustier.”
“Classy as a hairless anus, don’t ya think? Those monocle boys will squirt themselves damp when I roll out this li’l pearl necklace number.”
“Now look, morning glory, you do what feels right, but if I have a nose for bad biz – and I have – in your place I’d steer clear of Titzi.”
“You think she’s trying to do me in?” “Someone is. Keep your buttocks tucked in at the Cig, sugarcane, cuz somebody’s itching to spank you.”
“Well Finchie, you’ve always had whiskers for mischief. I’ll keep my ears twitchin’. Now I’m off to shellac on my pasties for Honker Fest.”
“Say, Finch,” Mewsy mumbled, “I’m not much for penitence since ditching the nuns, but it bears a repeat that I feel like a heel about Joe.”
“Chérie, we’ve done this; let’s please let it lie. There’s more to what’s happened between me and Joseph than who put his jackhammer where.”
“No matter, we were due for a split; I oughta focus on work. Marigold may be whore-owned no more, but I won’t let our rights and regs slip.”
“Whatever you say, Finchie babe,” Mewsy said. But in closing the door, she swore she heard Finch start to hum the old tune from Heriodonc’.
YOU’RE CAUGHT UP! Mewsy has taken a breather from online shenanigans to pour herself into her Stage Debut! Follow @MewsyAdulteress on Twitter for updates on her public unveiling and how to insert yourself into the proceedings.