A Farewell to Arms,
Hemingway shoved James Dickie away from Evil Editor's table at the Non-Extant Writers' Conference in Paris. "Come on Evil, we'll discuss my book over a bottle of sherry in Pamplona."
"The bulls are running. And I know where the cockfights are. Join me, Evil. Don't be a girl."
"I have to pour over your new novel, and beat it into shape," said Evil.
"Rewrite it all you want pal, as long as it ends up unchanged. You're going to get it published like I wrote it. That is given. So why not join me? If not Spain then we'll take my boat in the Keys and head for Cuba. Rum and cigars. Hot Cuban flamenco dancers. You and me."
"I'm not really dressed for cock-fighting, whoring around...stuff like that. Evil tugged on his lapel.
Hemingway pulled a sword from his scabbard and sliced off one of Evil's arms.
"Where the hell'd you get the sword?" screamed Evil.
"Literary license, pal. Now, are you coming with me, or losing another arm?"
"I'm coming," said Evil, mopping up his blood off Hemingway's manuscript.
"Great," said Hemingway. "You'll be pretty useless to me with one arm. Let's start this over and see if you've learned a lesson."
Hemingway went back to the netherworld and returned five minutes earlier. Evil had his arm back.
"Are you coming to Spain with me, Evil?"
Evil sighed. It had hurt losing an arm. A lot. But he had literary integrity. "Yes." Sometimes.