Polly Bee Frottin, Ell, Earl Grey, and two plates with two rectangle-shaped cheeseburgers arrived at the same time.
"Over here, Miss Frottin," said Maurice as he lifted his hand."Do you know why I asked to meet you today?"
"I believe it has to do with one of Z-Tech's drones playing laser tag with Malachi."
"My MG roadster. I named him after malachite. It's a dark greeny rock used in jewelry and architecture. It's also used to celebrate one's 13-year-wedding anniversary."
Maurice felt an odd sensation in his belly at this thought. "Thirteen years is a long time you know," he sighed.
"And I'm not being facetious either. And to be even more truthful, I don't even know what facetious means." She said this in the same tone of voice people use when disputing speeding tickets. "It simply feels like the right thing to say. It's an intuitive thing really. It's the right and proper thing to do. Like not eating spam. You know you should never eat spam because it will do nasty things to your liver and kidneys."
"I...I...think they used...spam for hamburger." Polly gazed mournfully at Maurice, gazed even more mournfully at her food. Then drastically cheered up when she spotted 'Scrap Iron' open a mournful eye. And before you could say the sixth sick sheik's sixth sheep's sick, Polly removed the spam and tossed it into the general direction of the dog. "You would not be-lieve how many menu fiascos I've read these past three years," Polly continued.
"Menu fiascos...It's part of my job at the Times. Every Saturday I travel to a new restaurant, deli, cafe, diner...what have you...and write a review for the Sunday edition"
"I see." Maurice stared at his spamburger and thanked God he didn't order the catfish souffle.
"Bless this meat, darn the skin, while I cover my nose, and cram it in."
Maurice lowered his voice, "I have never considered myself an overly-religious man, but sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry."
The statue sneezed.
"Gesundheit!" said Maurice and Polly simultaneously.
"Vielen Dank," replied the statue in a very unstatue-like and vaguely German way.
"O' goodness," whispered Polly. "Pinnochio...is...real."
"I could not help but overhear your conversation," said the apparently real man. "By the way, my name is Jakob Walder."