Select Page
REPORTER: We’re here on the set of The Ghouls’ Farmstand. Things are heating up with the book’s release coming soon. It’s just final touches now. An apostrophe here, a change of tense there. Oh, look! Here’s one of the authors, Ms. Sultana Dietrich. How are you feeling, now that all the hard work is over? Excited? Let down?

SULTANA DIETRICH, AUTHOR AND BON VIVANT: Who in the fifth circle of hell are you, cretin? And why haven’t you brought me my Cerveza and coke?

REPORTER: I’m the reporter covering the release of The Ghouls’ Farmstand, not a waiter. I know you and your brother must be thrill–

SULTANA: My brother is a wastrel and a nincompoop. Forever telling me, “No, Sultana, you can’t keep stealing things from the set,” and “Sultana, you can’t just kick the characters when they screw up their lines.” I mean, what absolute rubbish. They are *my* characters. I can kick them, mangle, spindle, or fold them!

REPORTER: Please stop hitting me with–what is that?

SULTANA’S LONGSUFFERING ASSISTANT: Ma’am, please set down the Whacking Stone. It’s a prop, and we can’t afford to lose it agai–

SULTANA: ::whacks the assistant:: Where (whack) Is (whack) My (whack) Drink (whack)?

ASSISTANT: ::runs away, weeping and holding his head::

REPORTER: (turns to camera) As you can see, tempers are flaring, but as with all good novels, it’ll all work out in the end. Back to Clarice at the station for news and weather.

SULTANA: (screaming in the distance) FITZWILLIAM, FIRE THIS IDIOT AND GET ME MY DRINK