"I've brought a photographer for some pictures," Lennox continued briskly. "We're nominating you for Comedian of The Year, and by God you're going to be elected."
Mason brightened.
"Not in those clothes," Irma said. "He's got to get dressed up."
"Never mind the clothes," Mason complained. "What about the background? There's no furniture in the house."
"There's no furniture in the house," Irma told Lennox. A moment later she added: "It's all being custom built."
"To hell with the furniture," Lennox said. "We don't want formal pictures. We want behind the scenes shots. What makes a talent great. Mig in his workshop with the dummy. How he builds Diggy.... How he paints him.... The tricks he invented.... All that sensational stuff you showed me, Mig."
"Great! Sensational!" Mason leaped up, delighted. He was prouder of his mechanical ability than anything else. He led the way into another enormous room, carpeted from wall to wall, containing a long carpenter's bench cluttered with tools. Various portions of Diggy Dixon were scattered on the bench; heads, legs, arms, bodies, eyes. An open closet was hung with the dummy's wardrobe. Mason's three gag writers were seated on camp chairs in a tight circle bitching their competitors.
Lennox greeted them perfunctorily. He had long ago given up all attempts to communicate with them. Gag writers are alien creatures and even a casual "Hello" can lead to complications. Their entire lives boil down to a single-minded search for jokes and it's impossible to conduct a coherent conversation with them. In thirty-nine weeks Lennox had never been introduced to the gagmen by Mason, and although he finally discovered their names, he still identified them as the Sourball, the Post-Nasal Drip and the Monk. Incidentally, it was the Sourball who later turned spy.
"Got a sweetheart of a gag, Mig baby," the Monk beamed.
"It stinks," Sourball snapped.