Miller dropped.
Then Sartre. Chaplin mimed for a while before the last drops pulsed from his neck.

"We have to get that list!" said Hem.

"I have a photographic memory - I've memorised it," said Joyce.

But at that moment, the insect that was Fitzgerald took Joyce's head into his scything mandibles and bit it off. The wound was fatal.

"This is all my fault, I'm afraid," said Kafka. "You're all in my dream."

"Great," said Hem. "Now we're trapped in a world of absurdity and ambiguity from which there is no escape but death, and where reality has no boundaries with the imagined."

"Fancy yourself as a critic now, do you?" sneered Stein.

"Better a critic than a desiccated, no-talent old bean-fiddler," remarked Hem before turning into a giant hedgehog and burrowing under the table.

Stein made to reply, but the Fitz-insect inserted a proboscis into her brain and sucked it out with a gurgle.

"That's pretty gross," remarked the barman. Or rather bar woman, for it was none other than Virginia Woolf.
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 16:46, Reply)