Noir de' Snark
Dectective Straus stretched on his tiptoes and peered through the dirty glass. There she stood, pink tam wearing poodle at her side. Stilettos reflected the fire from her hair. She set a gin pail on the podium, flipped open a folder and gazed it for a moment. Her cabal of dragoons shifted in their seats and quieted.
Straus grunted as he strained to open the window. It slid upward with the sound of a crisp chip being crushed under foot. An inch would have to do; he couldn't risk the Snarky One hearing him. After all, he had accepted the retainer from that Babs woman. He gently placed a micro cassette recorder on the window ledge as she started to speak.
"There's a crisis in publishing. Slush piles everywhere are growing at an alarming rate." The Snark stomped her stiletto. "Word is getting out about the questionable enterprise called IILAA and writers are wising up."
The dragoons cheered and clapped. The Snarky One raised a hand and the room quieted again.
"And thus the crisis...I need more gin. Plus, I have decided to award agent representation to whoever brings me George Clooney."
Detective Straus pocketed his recorder and made his way down the alley. He glanced at his watch. Soon as he delivered this tape he would be hot on the trail of that Clooney guy. After all, he had a novel under his bed and reputable agents were hard to catch.
Why anyone thinks this should be categorized as fiction is beyond me.