“'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe,” Warren began quietly. Orson’s writers' dreamy faces were rapt in firelight and backed by the twinkling stars of a chilly, dry Arizona night. Their spines tingled. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!...”
Orson leaned back. Hmm, Jabberwocky. How very Halloween. We should do this more often. Orson has tame, peaceful writers, he thought as he looked from face to face round the fire. That’s the only kind Orson likes. Trouble is “tame” and “good writer” are almost never used in the same sentence. That’s okay though. I must have control. These peace loving New Age authors are the best. They don’t sell much anymore, but God they're easy to manage. Looking beyond, Orson made out the silhouette of a lone Joshua tree in the moonlight. Perfect setting for a nightmarish tale, he mused. I’m glad I thought of this…
“I cain’t understand a word he’s sayin’. Can ya’ll?” Jorge, a western writer (every agent must have one), pierced the mood with his unwelcome nasal bray, the type heard up around Crawford, Texas way. He looked around.
What was I thinking? Orson wondered why he’d signed this unruly writer. Then he remembered: He actually has something to say and will sell books, Dammit. Well, at least he’d left his security detail back at the ranch. Those sunglasses make me nervous, Orson thought.
“Shhh.” Phoebe hissed.
“The jaws that bite…”
“I thought he said campfire stories,” Jorge hooted, pointed at Orson.
“Lower your voice,” someone said. Sasha leaned and gave the noisemaker a stiff elbow.
“…the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!" Warren intoned.
“Awe, this is stupid,” Jorge hollered, “needs more cowboys and less jubjubs.”
“Would you please SHUT UP!” Mara was outdone. The mood was fading fast.
“…And as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame.”
“Ahh come on!” Jorge leapt up, “I cain’t take another second. Let’s talk cowboys. Remember the Alamo?! Mission accomplished!”
Orson was knocked off his log and barely escaped the violent attack on the interloper. Dust clouded the hideous grunts and sounds of struggle. Orson cringed. He listened, helpless, as blood-curdling yells pierced the chilly Arizona night. Finally, the din began to subside.
Pierce stepped forward, covered with dust and blood: “Master, I put his head in your trunk. Shall we leave the other pieces out for the coyotes?”
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