“Mr. Goldspratt?” says the uniformed woman at his door.

Melvin blinks. “Is this about the hotel room? It was trashed when we–”

“No, I’m from the DPJ,” she says. “I have here a copy of the liner notes from your most recent album. Could you read the highlighted section and confirm that you, as the credited lyricist, did in fact rhyme ‘sky’ with ‘high?'”

“That’s a misprint!” says Melvin desperately. “See, the character’s last name is Hy–”

The agent sighs. “Poetic license and proof of parrhesia, please.”

“What?” says Melvin. “Nobody buys rhetorical insurance anymore!”

Later, in jail, he gets stabbed.