SHORT STORY NUMBER "X SUB ONE"

A woman whose name was Protagonist Number One sidled over, one day, to a man whose name was Protagonist Number Two. They, that man and woman, were having drinks in a bar whose name was nothing more or less than Locale Number One.
"Nice place," the man murmured to the woman.
"Indeed, it is," the woman murmured back. "Say," she continued, "I see that you are wearing one of those oh-so nifty Wristwatch Number One's. What the hell time is it getting to be?"
"What's your hurry, Mama?" the man shot back.
"I'm nobody's Mama," rejoined the woman. My name is nothing more or less than 'Protagonist Number One.' And what's your handle?"
"My handle?" said the man. "Oh, it's nothing but 'Protagonist Number Two.' You can call me Pro Two, if you so desire."
"If you sow desire, I sow desire, and we soon have sown ourselves a meadow of the stuff," the woman answered, sipping her drink.
"What are you drinking, Sweetums?" the man wondered aloud, hoping that such an aloudness might prove somewhat allowable.
"I'm drinking Sorrow," the woman answered. "Say, Pro Two," she went on, "are we trapped in another story?"
"Another story?" replied the man.
"Yes," said the woman; "since we're, both, Protagonists by name, you must be in and out of stories as much as I am. In fact," she continued, "I smell quotation marks and a touch of description and some slight coherence."
"Well, I've never been in anybody's story," the man responded with some alacrity. "My name, 'Protagonist Number Two,' was given me at birth by parents who especially enjoyed a quite good game of bridge and a quite bad case of the giggles."
"You must have some severe amnesia," the woman retorted while beckoning to the bartender for another flaskful.
"But what are you really drinking?" the man said; "Sorrow ain't your drink."
"No, I always drink Sorrow," said the woman -- "sometimes on the rocks, but, mostly, neat. What are you drinking, Pro Two? May I keep calling you 'Pro Two'?"
"Call me anything you like, Dandelion Breath," said he, trying to blow toward her ear.
"Why, you're half-crocked, old boy," said the woman, slowly sipping on what she called Sorrow. "In fact, you're looped to the gills; no wonder you've forgotten that you, no less than I, keep turning up in cheap short stories."
"Cheap, my fastidious left toe!" said the man. "Any story I'm in, and any story you're in, must garner every damned prize in the book. Say," he went on, "Didn't you say that your name is 'Protagonist Number One'?"
I most certainly did, Sweetums," she answered with a nearly imperceptible belly-laugh. "This little story we're in," she went on, "is almost over."
"How do you know, my dearest?" the man answered.
"I can smell almost nothing now but revisions," she answered.
"Revisions?" he asked.
"Yup," she shot back.

Bruce,
I must admit, I was intrigued by the title and am glad I read it, it kept my attention and was very entertaining to boot.
Your friend,
David Fox

Dear **David**: That silly thing has
(I guess) some quaint razzamatazz.
In quest of a story,
I basked in the glory
of tooling toward specialized jazz.