Matti grinned at her. “What, you don’t like old banana peels? …Unh?”
“AAAGH! Get it off me get it off me!”
Elle grabbed the nearest weapon she could find, a red stiletto, and whacked away at the pallid claw that was dragging Matti into the trash can. Matti’s hand disappeared, then his arm. He screamed a long, terrified scream, like a centipede caught in a bear trap.
And then there was silence.
And then there was a burp, and a yip, and a tiny fiber of pink tam floated through the air until it settled onto the desk.
Elle watched it fall, then looked at the trashcan, then looked at the red stiletto in her hand. She pressed the button on her earpiece. “I’m going to need backup; Goldilocks is down.”
Less than an hour later, they had already lowered the first pail of gin into the trash can, and Elle waited, so nervous her stomach felt like it was full of jammed garbage disposals. When she heard slurping coming from the trash can, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, blogospheric one, you of the keen ears and sharp eyes, your humble reader has a request.”
There was a pregnant silence. Then a voice crackled, “More gin.”
Elle refilled the pail.
“Slurp. Sluuuuuuuuuuuuurp. Not taking queries any more. Or hooks. It’s over.”
Elle refilled the pail. “I assure you, Pride of New York, I will not trouble you with those. I simply know that your eyes are better than mine, and within your abode are sundry papers of this and that. Perhaps some of them have mistakes?”
There was a cackle. “More gin.”
Only a few refills later, a sheaf of slightly gin-dampened papers came up with the pail. The verdict? Tax evasion.