'So,' said Whirl, gripping his hollow stomach, 'what are we going to do today?'
'Dunno,' replied EE.
'Christ on a fucking bike!' screamed Ramsay.
With the folds of his white kitchen uniform flapping around his emaciated body like a flag of No Surrender, the cursing chef leapt up from the heap of stripped skeletons littering the mountain lodge and wrenched a meat cleaver from a tartan scabbard hidden in his sock.
'Okay, Whirl, you fuckin' weirdo — up against the wall with the fat bastard, NOW! I'm fuckin' starving. And I don't care if you taste like shit, you fuckin' bastards. Look at the fuckin' state of me. My fuckin'trademark rugged chin looks like some fat bitches' crash diet cellulite arse, my fuckin' hair's falling out and if I lose any more meat from my legs, my days as a star centre forward for the Scottish celebrity football squad are fuckin' numbered.'
EE hauled himself to his feet and unsheathed the nib of his fountain pen. 'En garde!'
Whirl crawled between EE's legs, raising the acclaimed editor aloft like a cavalier.
In the ensuing melee, EE cut a dashing figure (and occasionally, Whirl's head), parrying Ramsay's frenzied cleaver attacks with the deftness of someone half his age and nowhere near as sexy. The harder Ramsay swang his mighty weapon, the faster EE jabbed his nib until finally, the foul-mouthed culinary maestro collapsed, his body peppered with more perforations than an OCD acupuncturist's dream episode.
'Blimey,' gasped Whirl, wiping the sweat from his brow, 'that was close.'
EE prised the cleaver from Ramsay's fingers. 'Yeah,' he grinned, 'for a minute there, I thought we'd run out of salt...'