Evil swigged hard on a tankard of Jack Daniels, massaging the giant halo of pharmaceuticals along his gullet with neck muscles honed to perfection from decades of bawling at wannabe authors.
He set the tankard on the nearest pile of slush and leaned against the vibrating shredder scaffold, counting aloud the seconds as he watched them tick past on his wrist.
Maybe the stereotypical gypsy woman had lied. Maybe the thousand dollar pill was only a placebo.
He signalled to the hungriest looking weredingo, go find her, go mutilate her flesh but before it could scurry from the cowering pack that sat typing rejection letters, his eyeballs popped out and switched sides with a Tom And Jerry waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuugh!
His knees buckled beneath him and he fell, face first and delerious, onto the prickly nylon twill of his Simon Cowell rug.
‘My precioussssss!’ he screamed, writhing. ‘Say I’m like My Preciousssssssss, dear Lord.’
But the bile of no such demonic inner soul gushed through his every capillary. Instead, a soppy posset smile oozed across his face like strawberry jelly melting on a puff of hamster bedding, swelling his muttonchops into rosy babybutt orbs.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaw,’ he said. ‘Lookit da litter puppee dawgs...’
The weredingos typed their final Ns and Os and quietly removed their thimbles. Sensing their moment of freedom had arrived (and with it, the promise of lucrative autobiographies) they extended their talons and tore Evil limb from limb, washed his mangled bones down with every last drop of blood and flossed with his whiskers till their teeth hummed like angels.
Truth, it seems, is stranger than fiction.