"Hanna–BAR–buhr–uh?!" Simon clown–screeched and pranced on the lunch–table bench. I sank my arms onto the puddle of milk I had spilled and didn't notice it rolling `til my crotch turned cold. "It's not Hanna–BAR–buhr–uh, it's Hanna–bar–BEAR–uh! Like Yogi The Bear!" Then he marched back and forth in that robotic low–budget Hanna–Barbera style, moving just one arm at a time going "Hardy har har!" like the cartoon hyena, with a lunch bag as Hardy's porkpie hat. Everyone laughed with genuine mirth and also in fear that he would cut them next, for he was sharp and mean as his studio exec dad.
"Say Hanna–BAR–buhr–uh," I growl through the ski mask, and Simon on his back looks helplessly out the window for studio security—but I'm security chief, and the two a.m. patrol has just passed. "Say it," I say, and he says it, and his pupils shrink to nothing, and he doesn't dare move as I pour a quart of cold milk on the crotch of his Armani slacks. "Tell 'em Heisenberg did this," I say, and set the porkpie on his soaking disgrace.
14 November 2013