“Eat her? God! Yes! I’ve wanted to do that since she was a girl, interrupted. I’ll eat her raw. But do you think he’d be all right with it?” asked Evil Editor, sotto voce, his blood-shot left eye rolling toward the lobby.
“I’ve heard they have an open marriage. Besides, I’ll be happy to keep him busy while you’re, um, busy with her,” whispered Phoenix conspiratorially.
“I’ll watch the kids. I love kids!” chimed in Chris, humming a Neil Diamond song as she drew smiley faces in the moisture-rings from their drinks. “Shiloh’s my favorite.”
“Good idea, Chris. Why don’t you round up the little rugrats and read a few chapters of Miss Pettypants to ’em? Here’s a Xanax; you’ll need it,” said Evil as he popped a little blue pill into his mouth.
The trip to Telluride had started off great; Evil Editor had enjoyed the film festival and the minor sensation his “Shorts” had caused among the cinematic elite; enjoyed the exclusive mountain retreat and the adoration of the few, but faithful, minions who’d arrived to show their support. But that was weeks ago. Only Phoenix and Chris remained with him in the snowed-in lodge, along with the famous family that had at first seemed like a bowl of cherries but was now, as far as Evil was concerned, the pits. There was still plenty of booze available, but the last bit of food (Ham n Cheez Hot Pockets) had been gobbled up by that raucous brood this morning, with naught a crumb left for anyone. And Evil was hungry. Mighty hungry. And drunk. So he was more than willing to go along with the Firebird’s suggestion, heinous though it was, to eat Angelina Jolie. In a drunken stupor, he watched as Chris and Phoenix executed their roles to a tee; the room was cleared of all distractions and Angie lay upon the divan, alone at last. But fate had other plans and Evil Editor would never know if Angie was as tasty as she looked: on the way to the lobby he stepped on a Lego and cracked his skull on the Connemara marble floor.