A fifty buck cab ride to nowhere

Michael Clayton, revisited

Of course it’s you. Who else could they send? Who else could be trusted? Smoke on the horizon -- hole in the bucket -- voices crying from Milwaukee to Manhattan, ‘Where’s our hero?’, ‘Where’s our Cleanser of the Hidden Sins?’… The cash -- the smile -- the quiet word in the corner -- of course it’s you, Michael, who else could it ever be? But Michael, pl…