George Witherall had had a lucky escape when Stanley had been struck down by that vicious geriatric crone on her motorised wheelchair. But today was another day, and Stanley was determined to address the assault on his life’s work in the form of that one star stinking steamer of a review, pulsating mightily online in all of its lying filth, for all the world to see. He’d had a look at George’s Facebook page, and seen that he was very excited to be going to see the premier of Fifty Shades of Grey tonight. Well. So would Stanley. He’d bought a hugely overpriced ticket, and laid out his clothes.
Stanley regretted the fact that he’d forgotten to change his knickers before he’d got run over by that ferocious stick wielding Methuselah. Her abuse had been relentless no matter how loudly he explained that the importance of setting his reviewer straight justified his accidental elbowing of her ear. His first review for the book that had taken years of his blood, sweat, and tears to write. Not to mention that that time spent had given him a carbuncle of some size and character in his nether regions from all the sitting that writing an assured bestseller required. That carbuncle was a stayer. It pulsed, and seemed to have a life of its own, and the only way he could get his mind off it was to contain it. Your run of the mill undies couldn’t cut the mustard. Only extra large, comfy, nylon knickers did the trick. And he figured that since he had to wear knickers, why shouldn’t he wear attractive ones? He didn’t see what all the fuss was about anyway. Pants were pants after all. He wondered if it would be worth his time to discuss workplace professionalism with the nurse who had laughed out loud when she’d removed his trousers, and then again when he had informed her that his name was Stanley Wacker. No time now. Mother had been given a large dose of a little something to help her sleep, and Stanley had to get a move on.
Stanley found a seat right behind his nemesis and the painted floozy he was with. He looked around at the people surging in. He had no truck with films. The written word was all Stanley was interested in. He wondered what this Fifty Shades thing was about to attract such hordes. After hearing someone in the lobby say that it was based on a bestselling novel, his interest had been piqued. Maybe he could pick up some tips. He leaned furtively forward to check that his 38 was still snugly resting in its holster on his leg, and also to hear what George was whispering to his date as the lights went down and the movie started. Stanley’s plan to exterminate his reviewer with a well placed bullet, and then escape in the crowd was immediately forgotten, as the things that he was seeing on screen affronted his senses. What was this?
Distracted only occasionally by the lustful fumblings of the gasping and giggling couple to his right, Stanley’s jaw hung slackly, absorbing the details of the sort of story that earned a hundred million dollars. Finally Stanley saw the light. He knew now where he’d gone wrong. Pain! Readers wanted pain! They wanted to be assailed! The thing was to confound readers with dearth of plot, inanity, criminal assault, irritating sensuous pencil placements, a lot of wowing, and a surly billionaire. Vapid Stanley – think vapid! No wonder George had hated his book! He had entirely missed what readers really wanted! Yes! He could do that! Rushing home to begin again, and to emulate his new writing hero, E L James, Stanley was once again struck down. This time by a large set of handcuffs falling from a sign outside of a hardware store. Just before he passed out, he smiled, relieved that he had indeed remembered to change his knickers.