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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