Evil glanced at his watch. Christ. It was almost eight. V expected dinner at some fancy-schmancy joint where the miat r de was more evil than he was, if that was ever a possible thing.
Twenty minutes blew by. Evil hoped V was still fretting over what dress to wear. He prayed for her curling iron to explode, some disaster to delay the impending confession. Yes, he’d rather take V to the emergency room than have to come up with a dandy of an excuse as to why he was such an asshole and couldn’t land dinner reservations on THE night of all nights.
Yes, a bizarre accident, the perfect plan. They could whittle the night away in the waiting room reading outdated magazines, poking fun at the crazies; besides, after she was patched up, they could stop by the hospital cafeteria and catch a bite to eat.
Evil tip-toed over to the breaker box. He channeled a MacGyver rerun he happened to catch on TV at three a.m. the night before (he was burdened with a bout of terrible insomnia over the whole dinner reservation fiasco).
A little nudge here. Connect the black to the red. Flip this over to the left.
Just then Evil heard Mrs. V scream bloody murder. He was an effing genius! He stroked his right mutton chop with pride and practically danced down the hall to ‘rescue’ V.
“What’s the matter, schnookums?” Evil poked his head around the corner of the bathroom.
A cell phone fell to the ground after leaving an indentation in Evil’s forehead. A string of nasty voice mails from dozens of restaurants telling Evil to stick body parts where they didn’t naturally belong spewed out of the speaker.
Damn. Evil vowed the next time he purchased a new cell he’d read the god-damned user’s guide.