"Yes," I said, "you must be Evi." I extended my hand, which she eyed suspiciously, like a suspicious cartoon mouse. "I promise not to bite, or encase you in some kind of giant, elaborate cartoon mousetrap, if that's what you're worried about."
"I wish I could believe you," she said, "but we've just had such bad luck with journalists and the media in the past. Please keep in mind that this will be our only interview, an exclusive. I reached out to you because yours is one of the few sites left that can actually give us objective, unfiltered representation." I must have missed the part where Cracked's general cluelessness regarding real-world issues started masquerading as journalistic objectivity, but sure, I'll take it. "I want to trust you, but we've been burned before. Will you help us tell our story?"
"Oh, right," she said, as she signaled for a large figure to join her in my office. "There's two of us, and we're both in terrible danger." The figure reluctantly shuffled up behind her with weighted feet, looming in my doorway and breathing heavily. It was covered in fur and smelled like a wet garbage truck dipped in an ass fire.