Evil Editor stood in his stocking feet while his loafers and duffel bag made their ponderous journey under the security X-ray. Whistling the Trini Lopez version of “Lemon Tree,” he stuffed his hands in his pockets and tried to avoid eye contact with the pear-shaped woman who had just run the wand over him. She’d noticed not only that his socks were different colors, but that one was a sports sock, and the other wool. Her grin was insufferably smug.
Clutching his economy-class boarding pass, Evil tried to think of Margaritas, white sand and thong bikinis, but his reveries were interrupted when he noticed another guard and his supervisor arguing over the contents of his duffel bag. What the hell? All he had in there were a couple manuscripts--self-flagellation in case he started to actually enjoy his vacation.
A moment later, the supervisor disappeared into a back room, and the guard returned and grabbed Evil by the arm. “If you’ll come with me, sir?”
“I don’t understand,” Evil said as the guard dragged him toward the door. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s best if you just come quietly, sir.”
Evil’s stomach flopped when he was thrust through the door and saw what awaited him. The supervisor stood inside, clutching a horribly recognizable package. An eager gleam lit his eye. Behind him, Evil heard the snap of latex as the guard pulled on a rubber glove.
“No . . . ” Evil protested weakly, knowing it was useless.
“I saw those manuscripts in your bag,” the supervisor began. “I was wondering if you’d look at my novel--it’s a 250,000-word thriller. If you do, I’m sure the cavity search can be avoided.”
Evil Editor shook his head and threw up his arms in obsequious resignation. “Okay," he said. "You leave me no choice. But while you're in there, could you check my prostate?”