Evil Editor came out of his office into the lobby. “Ahoy!” he greeted me.
“Uh, hi,” I said. I clutched at my manuscript, a 700-page alternate history on the development of fonts, and followed him back to his office.
“Argh, ye maiden, rest ye weary soul,” EE said, gesturing to the threadbare sofa that adorned one wall.
“Er – “
“That plank be there for ‘pitching’ and ‘submission.’” One of his eyes squinted, but I couldn’t tell whether that was an effect of obvious alcoholism or whether he was merely winking at me.
“Well, I brought my submission, sir . . . “ my voice trailed off. I couldn’t help but be nervous.
“No, I be usin’ the word ‘submission’ as a verb, luv,” he said.
At that moment, Mrs. V. poked her head in. “Mr. E, your next appointment is here to see you.”
“Eh, I ain’t finished with this one!”
“E, you’re never going to get her to sleep with you just talking like a pirate. She doesn’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Like a pirate?” I said. “Like Johnny Depp?”
“Exactly,” EE said.
“Well . . . I haven’t had a chance to . . . er, submit,” I said.
Mrs. V. rolled her eyes. “Another one bites the dust. I’ll tell your next appointment to come tomorrow.”