Dear Evil Editor,Evil exhaled deeply and a little whistle escaped his pursed lips.
I hope you will consider working outside your usual genre and agree to edit my memoir, “The Game Cricket” my 500,000 word opus . . .
“What’s the matter, fella? Not your cup of tea?”
“Who, Wha –?” Evil rubbed his eyes and stared intently (not, however, with laser-beam intensity) at the small cricket in top hat and tails, clutching a valise, perched upon the edge of his IN tray. “Jiminy Cricket! What are you doing here?
“Well, son, that’s my query you’re sighing over and you did just give a little whistle. I might be just a cricket singing my way from hearth to hearth but I’ve had some exciting adventures. And as an actor, why I’ve had more roles than the Pillsbury Dough Boy! Sure everybody remembers me from Pinocchio, but I also did a lot of work on the small screen. Here, catch!” Jiminy tossed a pair of Mickey Mouse ears at the editor. “Who’s the leader of the band, eh? And besides, I’m your counselor in moments of temptation and guide along the straight and narrow path – your conscience, remember?”
“I thought we agreed to disagree on that point.”
No, siree! Once a conscience, always a conscience, as the Blue Lady says. How ’bout I sweeten the deal?” Jiminy patted the pockets of his morning coat, scratched his head, snapped his fingers and once again rummaged in the depths of his bag. “Here we go. Recite this thrice in times of need and you’ll have no trouble doing the deed! Works better than Viagra and you don’t have to worry about the four-hour- limit thingy,” Jiminy winked broadly and handed over a small square of stiff parchment.
“What can I say? When your heart is in your dreams, no request is too extreme! Now beat it, I’ve got, er, something I need to do.” Evil tapped the intercom. “Mrs. V? I need you! Now!”