98 Wright’s silver cream in a secret drawer

The Mayor slid open the secret drawer in the trophy credenza and put away her Wright’s silver cream and soft foam sponge. The Trophy of Virtue was shining.
“No one knows all the things I do for this city,” she soliloquized bureaucratically. It was that warm melange of martyrdom and righteousness which made her The People’s Mayor. She had the common complaint.
The phone rang, and her assistant had left. The Mayor sighed, “I suppose I have to answer it myself.”
But when she glanced at the Trophy of Virtue, she glowed.
The phone alarmed her.
“What kind of idiot hangs on for twenty rings?” she griped. Two more clanged by the end of her shrill say, and someone still hadn’t hung up. The Mayor’s reddened fingers encircled the receiver.
“Hold onto your horses,” she said, before answering further with name or title. “Let me take this at my own desk.”
While she toddled chubbily, it gave John Guss a moment to take a heavy toke.

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