Snake Plissken?

“The page has been blank for hours even though I have so much to say,” he said.

I asked him how that made him feel. He told me, once again, that he hates that question at which time I reminded him how even amoebae react to outside stimuli.

Silently, the imaginary studio audience began to file out through the exits in the darkness at the rear of the theatre.

Here, we cut to the next day; the scene is a worn-out rubber room in a dilapidated insane asylum. Pan the room 360 degrees; there’s no one there—or is there…..

“Why are my feet shackled to the center of the floor with a one-foot log chain?” he asked politely. While waiting in vain for a reply, he scanned and sniffed for bugs and mini-cams. He could barely touch the walls in their center; the room’s corners were inaccessible.

“Yes. Yes, the question was rhetorical and I commend your cognitive abilities,” he said. “Of course, it was my imitation of Jack Nicholson’s impersonation of Peter Lorre that garnered me this accommodation.”

One dozen speakers were concealed within all surfaces at equidistant intervals and their master volume was set at low. Someone, imitating Sydney Greenstreet impersonating Vincent Price, said, ”Fool!”

Today the door opened and closed, someone walked in and stood above me; I overheard this:

Snake Plissken : [bored tone of voice] Who’re you?
President : I’m your President.
Snake Plissken : [unimpressed] Understand you got some domestic problems…..