Pie in ear

Last week, I met a crime author in a corridor. He had that smug sort of head that crime fiction writers have, having plumped for a profitable form, having pounced on a means of exercising their torrid murderous fantasies for substantial remuneration, that swells whenever a compliment is whispered into their large glowing ears. I seized my moment. I had a small piece of pie under my sleeve. I sidled up to the beaming man and whispered vague proclamations of adoration for whatever cardboard antihero was swearing and shagging his weary way through book #32, and inserted the pie into his ear. I smiled as the freshly pie-eared crime writer exited the corridor. In two hours, the crime writer would hear nothing but rhubard and custard. Forever. Rhubard and custard in his ears, until death. I call that, sotto voce, “victory”.