I swept the broken glass behind the Ernest Hemingway loo brush holder, but it was no use: the alarm had already gone off. Before I knew it, hordes of security guards were bashing at the door like orcs at the walls of Helms Deep.
'It's OK,' I called, straightening the crumpled certificate, 'I'm not a terrorist.'
'You sure you ain't busted nuthin'?'
The voice sounded gruff and fierce, as if a gorilla's larynx had found its way into the poor guy's throat by evil surgical procedures unknown. Struggling for a plausible alibi, I ran my eyes over the gilded script in desperation. In his youth, it appeared that Evil Editor was something of a culinary wizard and had hoisted himself to the top of the kindergarten group by the haloes of his jammy doughnuts.
'I'm from CBS,' I called, affecting the tone of a charming quiz show host, 'we're...filming a documentary about the Editor's glittering achievements...and I was just testing the superlative security you have here.'
'Gee, thanks.’ The jack-booted hubbub fell silent. ‘So where's the camera?'
'Directly above the door, exactly where it should be.’
'Gee, thanks. Youse just give us a call if you need any...help. My mom says I can sing real good.'
I waited for the footsteps to recede before making my way to the work room. The other aspiring writers, with whom I had spoken the night before over canapes and vodka, were gathered outside the huge bronze doors having fretted away most of their body hair on the short journey from their rooms. I alone was unruffled - I had something on the Editor they didn’t - and as the doors creaked open with an eerie entrez-vous, I was doubly grateful I’d chanced upon his secret latrine before my own panic set in.