Sorry I’m late, ladies and gentlemen; schoolwork and all that. Where’s my notebook? My notes are—aha, here.
Evil Editor—genius, progenitor of the written word, scourge of authors and agents alike. We are gathered here to honor his passing with what he loved most: 300 words.
EE was born in New York nearly 80 years ago, and his childhood was unhappy but meaningful. His teachers had better English for the rest of their lives. In high school, EE—hold on a sec, the pages are sticking together—in high school, he led a jihad eastward into what is now most of present-day Mali. His sons inherited his kingdom and were the leaders of the Muslim resistance to French colonialism.
Uh… OK, wrong page. Let’s see. He had an unhappy childhood—his mother died when he was ten—his father was distant—boy, that is pretty unhappy, isn’t it. He joined the Party during the Depression, then the army at the rank of Scharfuhrer, where he became head of the Jewish Museum.
Moving on, he edited his first novel at the age or 13, when an overzealous classmate pressed him to read his three-volume epic literary novel. The novel, once edited, was published to great acclaim in “Flash Fictions R Us,” which has since gone out of business. And we all know the wonders and glories of what’s happened since.
What most of you don’t know, however, is why it’s a closed-casket funeral. There’s a story to that, of course. A few days ago, EE was—rats, another sticky page—ahem, he was in his palace when a group of young Peruvian supporters of Diego Almagro II broke in, killed his defenders, and stabbed him in the throat.
Wait a minute….
--_*rachel*_, with special thanks to the RSC for inspiration