"So you take my dream away from me, ruin the moral of my book and because of that make handicapped people a laughing walking..well, not walking, joke, and you want ME to help you after all of that?"
"Well, yeah, that's why I came he-"
Joe slams the door on Peter.
"Joe please! We need your handicapped brain to write this book!"
"Go to hell, Peter! I said I didn't want anything to do with the book and I meant it!" Joe locks the door.
"Joe just pl- agh, pain in the ass." Says a defeated Peter.
"Don't worry Peter, we can just get another author to help us, can't we?" suggests Quagmire.
"Oh my god, Quagmire thats a brilliant idea! Wait here, I have just the guy."
Peter is at home, on the phone.
"Yeah hello. Can I have three tickets to London please? Mhmm, mhmm. Okay, great, thank you."
Peter, Quagmire and Cleveland get on a plane and it takes off into the skies.
The plane lands at Heathrow Airport. They all get off with their briefcases.
"Yep, I think this is the place, Stratocaster up on a von?" Struggles Peter.
"No Peter, that says Stratford-upon-Avon." Corrects Cleveland.
" Me and my brain huh?"
Peter knocks on an old British house. A posh british man wearing a top hat comes out.
"Hello there gentlemen." He states. Cleveland and Quagmire still do not know who they are meeting.
"Yeah, hi there, can I speak to William Shakespeare? We need his help." Quagmire and Cleveland's eyes open up wide.
"What the fuck?" Quagmire cries.
"I'm sorry, but William died some years ago." the posh Brit states.
"Oh my god, im so sorry for your loss, I didn't know! When did this happen!" Peter in a concerned and melacholy tone questions.
Back outside Joe's house, Cleveland and Quagmire now have angry expressions.
"Well that was a waste of time. We'll have to find another author. But who else knew that he died?" Peter questions.
(Authors note: That bit with the plane is supposed to be a cutaway)
To be continued
