“Damn cell phones! There’s never a phone booth when you need one,” muttered Evil Editor as he searched for a discreet location suitable for a quick wardrobe change. Exasperated, he ducked into the next best thing: a Porta-John®. Moments later, after a brief struggle with the spandex leotard and a thorough slathering of hand-sanitizer, he emerged, no longer a mild-mannered editor: by the magical alchemy of suspended disbelief combined with two parts alka-seltzer and a jigger of diesel fuel, he was now the wondrous, the wanton, Evelyn Waughnaby Editor, resplendent in a tuxedo T-shirt, black satin cape, patent leather slippers and the afore-mentioned tights. Thus attired, he strode purposefully into Dew-Hickeys, where a flash-fiction throw-down was already in progress.
“What’s with the get-up, Bub? You one a-them nut jobs that keeps escaping from Bellvue?” queried the barkeep.
“Most certainly not!” Eve replied, with more than a modicum of dignity and a flap of his cape. “I am Evelyn Waughnaby Editor, protector of copy-rights, defender of fictitious antecedents and the scourge of literary hacks everywhere! Now shush, please. I’m trying to hear the author.”
On stage, a raven-haired beauty took her place at the mic, accompanied by an entourage of remarkably talented moles that proceeded to unroll a small oriental carpet, adjust the microphone height and light incense. Eve sipped his Drambuie® and tried to ignore the insistent barkeep tugging on his cape. Annoyed, Eve felt his eyeballs heating up.
“For the love of Thomas de Quincy, what do you want?” he snarled at the barkeep, unable to contain a short burst of red laser beam that spurted from his left eye. The laser beam ignited the Tequilla Sunrise the barkeep was mixing and soon the entire bar was engulfed in flames. Eve slid out the back door, grateful for the asbestos lining of his cape.