“Still snowing like a mother.” I remarked.
“Put another log on the fire,” grumbled Evil Editor.
I was inclined to tell the miserable bastard to do it himself, but after two weeks of being stranded with him in this godforsaken lodge, I thought, why bother?
“This sucks,” I moaned, tossing a log into the fireplace.
“Your own fault,” Evil replied. “You should have left with the others instead of staying here just so you could park your freakin laptop in my face.”
“Well, you didn’t have to throw it in the fire.”
Evil shot me a condescending look. “Believe me, as a writer, that’s the least of your worries.”
A moment later, Oprah strode into the room.
“Evil, I’m starving. What’s left to eat,” she asked, looking straight at me.
“I’m not Evil,” I griped. “Evil’s got mutton-chops, and doesn’t look anything like me.”
She waived her hand dismissively. “Whatever. You white guys all look the same. Just hop to,” she said, snapping her fingers.
“There’s nothing left.”
“What do you mean nothing? There must be something! This is America!”
“This is unbelievable!” She snapped. “I’ve built a legacy feeding hungry African children, and now I’m the one who’s going to starve!” She turned and fled to her room.
“Damn hungry,” I remarked, trying to ignore the ache in my stomach.
Evil studied the flames “Been feeling the bite myself. Only gonna get worse. Gotta eat something.”
The way Evil said ‘something’ sent a chill through me. His eyes slid uncomfortably away from mine. He was right though. Gotta eat something.
“Oprah’s a big girl,” I ventured cautiously.
Evil nodded. “And her legacy is feeding the starving. I think we pretty much qualify. Plus, she’d want us to do the right thing. All three of us shouldn’t starve.”
I thought hard, but hunger clouded my mind. “Okay, two more days. Then, if it’s still snowing . . . we do it.”
Our eyes met in unspoken agreement.
“I could write a book about it . . . memorialize her,” I suggested weakly.
Evil pondered. “I think I could sell it."
We shook hands.