By now, I’m sure many of you are familiar with the smash hit bestselling romance novel Fifty Shades of Grey, which, as I understand it, is about fifty horses, all of them various shades of grey, who become paralyzed at the legs in a freak funk-aerobics accident and have to be taught to dance and love again by a loutish yet charming hip-hop dancer from the Bronx nicknamed Garlic Alfredo (to be played in the movie version, rumor has it, by Channing Tatum).
According to the story surrounding the book’s publication, the novel actually started as Twilight fan fiction until the author changed the names of the main characters, as well as some of the more vampire-centric details. (Example: “He sank his fangs into her neck” became “They had some really corking sex, following which they sat in beanbag chairs and talked about vintage cartoons from the 1930’s.”) Anyway, all this hoopla has inspired me to adapt some fan fiction of my own into a bonafide bodice-ripper! Herewith is an except from my upcoming romance novel About a Half Dozen Or So Pinkish Tones, which is adapted from a piece of 60 Minutes fan fiction I wrote three years ago. Enjoy this snippet!
Longtime 61 Minutes producer Donald Prewitt walked into his office in the WBS News headquarters in New York City. He had produced the show for many years and had helped to set a nearly insurmountable standard for television journalism. He had won many Enny Awards throughout his career, as well as several Teabuddies. He was about to meet with veteran anchor Muck Wallis about a new story he’d been working on that was proving to be a real hot potato. The story suggested that former president Greg Dubloon Bash had definitely lied about the presence of WMD’s (Warpaints of Major Delight) in the country of Alack. Prewitt and Wallis wanted to be sure that Wallis’s sources could be trusted and that every fact asserted in the piece was checked and double-checked.
“Don,” Muck announced, “this story is a real powderkeg. And if we’re not careful, it’s gonna blow powder all over our wigs, rendering them ‘powdered wigs’, as it were.”
Prewitt frowned. “I don’t wear a wig, Muck.”
Wallis shrugged. “Well, your codpiece then. You’ll have a powdered codpiece. Any man who doesn’t wear a wig wears a codpiece. I read that in the Farmer’s Almanac.”
“You almost certainly did not, Muck. Anyway, your source on the yellowcake uranium thing, ‘Mr. Whisper’, he’s reliable? He’s been vetted?”
Wallis nodded enthusiastically. “Yep, he’s the real deal. I had him over for turkey dinner with the wife. He’s got a strong handshake, he’s a Jets fan, and he did this hilarious routine where he pretended his turkey leg was a banjo and he was a drifter in the 1930’s who sang songs about ladies’ neckbones. He’s a swell bro!”
Prewitt chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, Muck. Whatever shall we do with you?”
“Tee hee,” Wallis giggled. “I sure hope no one ever finds out that I’m secretly a bit of a randy nincompoop.” He paused and sighed with great contentment. “Hey Don,” he whispered, “you thinking what I’m thinking?”
The two men made love. It was brisk, efficient and economical, although veteran correspondent Randy Mooney didn’t think it was as good as it used to be, and talked about it at length during his segment on the week’s broadcast.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
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