"Are you saying tedium is inherited?" I asked Evil Editor.
He shrugged. "Maybe. It's just a hunch, you understand. I have no proof."
"What if, just what if, you're right, what's the problem with humdrum integrating with exciting?"
He reached up to straighten his vanilla beret. His drab T-shirt was baggy, and I could see his clean-shaven pit. "Dullness is an unsavory ingredient in the human recipe." His voice was tight and, I thought, bitter. "Vaporizing all male Homer descendants was a half-hearted attempt to spice things up, but now I'm serious. Hand me my trunks."
I did as he asked in no mood to dive into the human gene pool. "Whoa. Waist size 32. Optimistic, aren't we?"
He stopped changing his clothes to stare at me. "Let me guess. Twenty-eight days has passed already."
"Yes," I said and left it at that.
Once suitably clad for duty, he took my hands as if it were a seductive act. "Readers are outraged. I must destroy the dreary male sex-determining gene on the Y chromosome."
"You've a good heart," I said and sighed. "Wherever it is."
Pregnant silence. Then: "How was dinner with Hannibal?"
"He sent a doggy bag. 'Skin extra crispy,' he said to tell you."
"Great guy, Lector. Never forgets a friend." He pulled me to the churning cauldron of DNA. "I admit it's a Petri dish, but don't leave me high and dry. I can't do this without you.”
What smitten minion could refuse a plea like that? Not me. "Last one in," I said and dove.
We surfaced together. He smiled. At least I think he was smiling. It was difficult to tell with Evil Editor. He may have been farting.
"Wait while I pee," he said.
I didn't roll my eyes. I was proud of that.