"So you're saying I should just string Anon along, then, make him wait for it, wait for it, wait for it, make him think for a while he really is a writer, you know, possibly commenting on his comments as though they were intelligible and meaningful, get him to send in an opening, maybe even a query letter if he's actually written a novel and isn't only a poseur - then ZAP, BLAM, KAPOWIE - Writer dreaming, sunk on a big thick stick, sunk deep into the sludge that is the slush piles we both know and don't love. Right? Am I right?"
Good Editor thought about it, thought about referring to this mess in front of him as EE, as the guy liked the minions on his blog to refer to him. Hell, as he referred to himself. In third person. Like emperors and kings did, back in the day. But no. He couldn't bring himself to hop on board and ride his alter ego's glory train.
"No. No. That is not, as you put it, right, X-Ray-Eyes-Boy. This is not what editing is supposed to be about." He paused, pulled a paper to him from across Evil's side of the desk. "Take this opening now. It's multi-layered, it looks as though..."
"Are you kidding me? Don't be such a goody-assed fool. Look at this thing. Not one weredingo in sight. Not one science fiction reference. No steampunk here. Just rumination and an extratextual reference to some fucking 'classic' no one ever reads any more."
"Are you telling me without unreal creatures and times, you'll, as you say, pass?"
"Hell, yes. Unless there's sex in it. Sex and weredingoes, even better."
"How about sex WITH weredingos?"