Edgar Allan Poe was not happy -- of course, he was never happy.
That's what made him Poe. If Poe ever felt like whistling the
tune to "Walkin' on Sunshine," he'd have to make sure no one was
around. He had an image to maintain.  But this time, Poe was
angry, just dripping with contempt.  "Cusack?" he said. "They
picked John Cusack to play me? What effrontery. If that fellow
has ever gotten within a half-mile of a vial of opium, then I'm
Catherine the Great."   Poe looked up and saw Catherine the
Great herself sitting across the table gnawing on a mutton chop.
"Sorry," he said. "Figure of speech. But you know what I mean.
Cusack? Just look at him. He's not anything like me. He's way
too ... potato-fed. Why couldn't that have gotten Johnny Depp?"
"Depp's way too overexposed already," said Rasputin, sipping
absinthe. "C'mon, the guy can't play everybody. Besides, you're
an alcoholic creep who married his 13-year-old cousin. Not
exactly a superhero."  "I know what you mean, Mr. Poe," chimed
in Sylvia Plath. "I w