Evans approached quickly and tensely, like a man who was often pelted with stolen apples. A brown, leather messenger bag was slung over his shoulder, and a giant top hat sat elegantly atop his head. One of these things was part of the mandatory dress code I'd assigned him. "Evans," I said, stroking my slightly larger top hat, "you're fired." His eyes lit up. "Really? Do you mean that?" "Nah, I'm messing with you, you're never getting out of here." "Please, don't get my hopes up like that." It really is unfair. I've been dangling this firing in front of his face for a very long time. Keep reaching, Evans. I slowly spun around in my leather desk chair, stroking my chin with one hand like a
"I think we both know what time it is, Mr. Bond. Hat time. I'm going to kill you." "Refresh my memory, Evans, what do I have you working on right now?" He took out his small, leather-bound notebook. He uses it to write down my orders and important phone numbers, as well as his own fiction and poetry. Sometimes when he's not looking, I slip in pictures of my wiener between the pages. He reached the page that had my latest batch of instructions and started reading. "Mornings, you have me hanging around Hannah Montana forums, drawing comparisons between whatever project she's currently working on and Nazism. Most afternoons, you have me either washing your car or breaking into Jack's house and replacing all of the pictures in his picture frames with photos of you, and...let's see. Here it is, last night, at about 3am, you called me up and mumbled something about a parachute made out of bacon." "Yes! And what progress have you made on the Porkachute?" "So far, none, sir, but in fairness, you told me about this last night. Also, what you're asking for isn't technically possible." "Right, this all sounds like really great stuff," I said, my mind wandering as I absently dug around in my bellybutton for awhile. "As much as I love what you're probably doing, I want you to drop everything and work on something new. Evans, I've expressed my love for Watchmen before, right? Well, there's a Watchmen press screening at the Ancient Chinese Secret Theater, this Monday. Did you know that?" "It's- that's not what it's called. It's Grauman's Chinese Theater, but yes, I was aware of it." "Whatever. Now, I have it on good authority that Entertainment Weekly's Owen Gleiberman will be attending, so he can review it for their magazine." "Alright," Evans said. His eyes narrowed, and suspicion was growing on his face, like a beard, which was also growing (on his face). "Gleiberman has been with EW since day one, and I've always found his reviews to be very fair and thoughtful. He's never pandering, but he's not elitist either. He's right in the middle, and I really respect his opinion."
"Okay. What does that have to do with... anything?" "Oh, I want you to break his legs and steal his press passes. Here's his address." I handed him a slip of paper with Owen's address on it. Let's just say the Editor of Entertainment Weekly owes me a favor (I kidnapped his son.) "Whoa, you want me to steal Owen Gleiberman's press pass?" "Press passes, Evans, plural. I want to bring a date. Probably your sister, how is she, by the way?" "She's 15." Yeah. Finally. "I expect those passes on my desk by five, Evans. Maybe a picture of Owen Gleiberman crying, if you can manage it." "This- can't you just call the theater and get a pass yourself? Wouldn't you be included in this sort of thing anyway? As a matter of fact, I read on the press release that online bloggers and writers were welcome." Ah,
With two fingers deep in my bellybutton and the juiciest part of this press release dangling from my greasy mouth, I asked Evans the big question: "How do I translate any of what you're saying into getting free
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.