I made a beeline for him like a bee makes a line for whatever. He sat in his chair, which was as tiny as Miss Snark’s heart and made him on the chair look like a fat guy’s paunch when he’s wearing tight pants and a short shirt. Speaking of which, he was—double whammy. But after today we’d only call and email, so best get a move on and bag me an editor—tag and release, like they do with polar bears.
“Four minutes, 34 seconds.”
I smiled big and sat. “Well, my manuscript is like a fish in the Arctic, or a mountain in the desert. I guess you could just call it an undiscovered junkpile of valuable trinkets that someone threw away years ago and will be sold for mere pence at a garage sale until people see the daVinciness of them and they sell for millions. Millions, I say!”
“Well, I’ve got this one girl, she’s like a homicide found in a lake—her personality, you know, because she’s not really purple and bloated—and her life’s a scream in a cage with steel bars. And another, she’s a cockroach on a windmill, going around and around, and a guy, he’s a loaf of French bread cut in half, without any sandwich in the middle.”
“Where’s it set?”
“In a land where forks are forks and spoons are spoons but sporks are always spoons.”
“When pigs fly.”
He flopped around in his seat like Hermann Melville getting into Moby Dick’s character until he found a business card. “Send a query to email@example.com. Now git.”