Erick walked into Evil Editor's office with a song in his heart. The last time, the woman with purple hair had stopped him at the doorway; today, though, she was lying face down in a litter of empty Southern Comfort bottles, so there was no one to stop him going straight in.
EE was incinerating a manuscript when Erick entered. He looked up, and -
"Whoops. Sorry. Should've turned off the laser vision there. It'll be OK. Anyway, chicks dig horrifying facial scars. Who are you, anyway?"
It took all of Erick's strange angelic willpower to keep him cheerful through the blinding pain. "I was just passing. I thought I'd check on my manuscript - ?"
"Oh, Christ. What was it called?"
"'Memoirs of the Strangely Angelic'. It's autobiographical."
"Right. Here you are." EE slid an ashtray across his desk.
Erick gasped. "My manuscript!"
"Got the usual treatment."
"But - that was ten years of my life in there!" Erick could feel his strange angelic disposition fading. His halo slipped off his head, to shatter on the floor.
"Christ. What a shame." EE shook his head. "All that time, you could have been outside, getting laid, or doing something useful.... Never mind. Shut the door on your way out. Mrs. V. can validate your parking."
Broken, Erick staggered out of the office. He had been strange and angelic before, but now dark twisted thoughts were surfacing in his mind. "I'll have to get a mask, to hide my disfigurement," he muttered to himself. "Or lurk in an underground lair... or both.... I'll spell my name without the C... maybe I'll develop an unhealthy fixation on an opera singer...."
Strangely - but, alas, no longer angelically - he still felt like singing.