He took the same booth every day, ordered the same latte everyday, and I was onto him. I was positive that the mutton-chopped curmudgeon with the swivel-topped notebook was none other than “Evil Editor”, world-renown author and editor nonpareil. But I wanted to know who he really was. After weeks of malice aforethought, I summoned the courage to pour a scant spoonful of truth serum into his brew.
“EE, lately you’ve been killing your minions and loyal fans with diabolically funny graphics and charts,” I said, casually stopping by to see if the serum was taking effect yet. “But is your razor-sharp humor just a mask for deeper sadness? And are you willing to reveal which of the 500 plus Face-Lifts are yours? By number?”
“You’re right, there has been such sharpness to my wit of late, it borders on lethal. But it’s all a sham, a diversionary tactic. Avoidance! I don’t know why you insist on dragging this out of me now, but if you must know —”
Suddenly, an over-sized mole appeared at our table, hitched to a small wagon in which there was covered dish. The stout editor bent sidewise to retrieve the mystery entrée while the strange creature and conveyance disappeared into thin air. I began to wonder if I too were under the effects of a mind-altering drug.
I watched, mouth agape, as Evil revealed a plate of steaming brains. I’d never seen such a thing in any Starbucks, anywhere! I almost gagged as he scooped up a spoonful and slipped the quivering mass into the forest of whiskers surrounding his mouth. And in that blink of an eye, he shape-shifted: what was once a plump and whiskered evil editor became a muscular, tanned metro-sexual of as yet unknown profession. “Ah! Baked minion brain, just as I ordered!” he said with a wink. “Did you know it is the perfect antidote to truth serum?”
Before I fell away into a dead faint, I realized that the brains consumed with such relish by the evil master were my very own!