“$(@)%*U%PW#@P%*,” Crank yelled, in an unintelligible thread of Brit swears, as he elbowed Gram aside. He looked beyond me. “All of you,” he said to my colleagues, “come look at Greta’s egg tartar.” My gloating competition clucked with joy. Crank held up the plate of raw eggs in front of my face. “Look!” I leaned over the plate. “Closer.” I leaned closer. “Smell them.” My nose was an inch from the glop when he pushed the plate into my face. I had egg smeared and dripping down my nose. My lips were sticky with fetus.
A Dadaistic sound pierced my eardrums. But the sound wasn’t from my competition’s joy. It came in the form of a car horn then a loud crash then guttural screams then sirens.
The SHAX studio executives burst in stating that there was an accident involving Helen and that she was dead. She’d been hit by a tour bus. Everyone looked around, confused. Oh, that’s right. Helen was on the set, now she is gone.
As we hurried out the doors, I overheard Slick confide in Crank that this was a welcomed distraction. He wasn’t in the mood to taste eggs this afternoon, for he had a Spanish omelet with home fries, sausages and toast for breakfast and his wife burned the whole thing, wrecking havoc on his grand slam, and that he needed this entertainment to temper his dissatisfaction. Crank replied that he had a black currant smoothie with Greek yoghurt and honey and it was fantastic.
I had other issues involving my telepathic powers. Did I will Helen to die?
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