He bent down until his face was nearly pressed against the table, and slowly shook a measure of the powder out through the bottle's perforated top. He watched it sift playfully down to nestle along the contours of the meticulously hand-picked leaves. This had to be perfect.
He regarded the small bowl and its contents for a moment. "Now, for a light," he said softly.
He virtually leaped back from the table. "A light!" He shouted. "Someone get a light over here."
A technician hurried to comply. "No, no, no, NO!" Morris shrieked. "Here, let me." He wheeled the small spot around, and clicked the iris down to focus a aching white pool of light on the central plate of the tableau. "Now, where's Drinker?" He snapped.
One of the crew pointed to where the staff alcoholic lolled in a cloth-backed chair in the shadows.
Morris approached the man quietly. He reached out and shook a shoulder gently. "Drinker," he intoned. "Drinker, wake up."
"Huh? What the hell d'ya want now?" The man's eyes seemed more to unclench themselves than simply to open. He coughed raggedly.
"Take a look Drinker," said Morris. "What do you think?"
Drinker craned his neck unsteadily about, and Morris gently guided his head to face the table. Drinker's eyes seemed to focus for a moment on the scene under the lights: A single place-setting of fine, achingly white china, purest, sparkling crystal, and exquisite, shining silver. For an instant comprehension seemed to live on Drinker's face. "S'it time to eat?" He asked.
"No drinker," Morris sighed, "Look closer, tell me how it looks."
Once again the inebriate critic gazed stuporifically at the scene. This time, he seemed to notice something. "Shit!" Drinker cried. "It looks like bloody dogfood!" Then he slumped once more on the chair arm.
"You heard the man!" Morris shouted. "Get that dog in here! Get the camera up to speed."