“What?” The Most Evil Dreaded Author bared fangs while trying to carefully ink the lines of her picture over the make-shift light table.
“I think the cat’s head is crooked… maybe you should start this one over.”
“And maybe I should boil you in oil,” grumbled the Dreaded One.
The Art Minion shut up.
The Editorial Minion sidled up for a closer look. “I think that arm is the wrong angle, and why does that dress have pointing lace on one side and rounded lace on the other?”
“Lest me show you why.” The Dreaded One flashed fangs and bonked the minion on the nose with the pen.
“Ow. No need to get so prickly,” the Editorial Minion muttered and slunk off.
“I demand silence! The next minion who speaks before I do gets toilet scrubbing duty!” The Dreaded One glared, mollified a little by the minions’ cowering. Trying to ignore her increasing frustration at trying to draw, she could fully recall why she didn’t do it often. Seconds later, the ink pen lingered over the paper a fraction of a second too long, leaving a blotch of ink.
“Arg! I hate this,” the Dreaded One roared, throwing her pen across the room.
The Production Minion decided this was the moment for a status update. “It’s looking very good, your evilness,” he said, bowing, and ignoring the tantrum. “But you must finish by tonight if you are to make your Dreaded Deadline.”
“I’m the Dreaded Author!” snarled the Dreaded One. “Author. Not Illustrator! What is this nonsense? Get someone else to do it!”
“Your awfulness,” interjected the Budgeting Minion, “We don’t have the funds at this point to hire an artist.”
“Besides,” added the Art Minion, “All your family and friends agreed you were the perfect artist for this project. Your personal evil style is exactly what it needs.”
With a roar the Dreaded Author snatched up the Production Minion and threw him into the others. “I don’t care! I’m an author! Not an illustrator! Out!”
They scurried through the door, while the Dreaded One sat back with a sigh and a grumble. The half-finished cat drawing eyed her back. It had a decidedly smug look on its face.
“No you don’t,” muttered the Dreaded One. “I don’t care about you. Not at all! No!”
The drawn cat smirked. “I’m just too much a challenge for the likes of you,” it whispered, blotchy whiskers and all.
With a snarl, the Dreaded One grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. “Oh, I’ll wipe the smile right off your face! On this next drawing. With you drowning in the ocean. I’ll lock you up in prison next, and then get you skewered with a sword.”
The cat at least looked properly miserable in the next few versions.
“Not bad,” the Dreaded One growled, looking them over. “But I still think I’ll stick to writing next time.”