It is a beautiful summer day in St Pete's Beach, 5 blocks from the Gulf of Mexico. The temp is 96, heat index 110, humidity: too high to accurately calculate. Hertzan Chimera, his black hair shining in the sun, his thin glasses reflecting rainbows, his tape recorder by his side, his trusty notepad in hand, is looking for a door number. Left Route 666 five miles ago - no, this must be the right place?

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (the door opens) Edward Lee - it was a "bee-atch" finding this place.

EDWARD LEE: (closes the door after them, slowly turns his head towards the Hertzan Chimera) Alone at last. Take a seat.

The living room is painted cadaver-skin white. Grey carpet rotten from repeated floods. Bauhaus poster in one corner, Joy Division "Love Will Tear Us Apart" poster in other corner. Kitchen shelves stocked with Dollar General brand Clam Chowder. Partial crab-shell collection crowds the apartment's spacious 400 square feet. Plastic shower curtain, blood-clot red, for curtains. In the centre of the room is one wooden chair, looks like it would crumble to splinters if you sat in it. Hertzan Chimera takes his seat.

EDWARD LEE: (ties Hertzan Chimera to the rickety chair) Now, what has Feo told you about me?

HERTZAN CHIMERA: I told you I don't know anything about you. I've only been on the team for a couple of interviews, nobody tells me anything! I don't know anything! You can tell me whatever you want.

EDWARD LEE: (SLAPS Hertzan Chimera's face) Don't mind if I do. I'll tell you why I'm pissed off. Last night the Yankees lost and Boston won. That's the catalyst. It's all downhill from there. I've 16 books published and I'm still not rich. I'm a fulltime writer, and due to this peculiar fact, people tell me I have the life of Riley. Oh, really? Riley lived at poverty level? Riley rode stinking Metro buses 'cos he couldn't afford a fuckin' car? I live in a dump-no, dump is too generous a designation. It's a mold-encrusted cinderblock shit-hole. The only thing missing is a dead guy with a needle in his arm. I've got so many fuckin' lizards running around in here, they should pay rent, and last night a cockroach tried to walk off with my tv (a $59 tv, that is). I eat the same shit every day: a cup of rice mixed with one can of Dollar General Clam Chowder (and I'll be goddamned if there's a single piece of clam meat in this gruel). One night one of the fuckin' lizards fell in the pot and because my vision's so piss-poor I didn't see it. I stirred it right in. When it wound up in my inadvertent mouth, I was not happy. There were lizard guts and excrement in my rice. Try it sometime. Lot of people are pissed at me 'cos I won't read their stuff and give em blurbs. They email me these huge attachments and are put off when I politely decline. I'm fuckin' busy, goddamn it. I'm up to my eyes in deadlines and bills but I'm an inconsiderate dick because I don't have time to kick back and read your unsolicited 400-page attachment and write a glowing endorsement? You want a blurb? Buy me a can of Dollar General Clam Chowder and a cup of rice first. I've got a headache, and my air-conditioner just broke, and guess who's on vacation? My landlord. I'm 45 years old, and all I have to my name is a couple hundred bucks and a laptop that's gonna crash before the night's out. (I keep getting these viruses from people emailing me unsolicited 400-page attachments). I've spent the last 25 years falling in love with the wrong woman. Last winter I lost 35 pounds and got a suntan, thought it'd make me more attractive to all these Florida hotties. Wrong. I got laid more when I was fat. Oh, and did I mention that last night the Yankees lost and Boston won? I asked you a question. Are you clear about that?

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (only now remembers to press the RECORD button) Yes.

EDWARD LEE: Now I'm not gonna bullshit you. I don't really care about what you know or don't know. I'm gonna torture you for awhile regardless. Not to get information, but because torturing Hertzan Chimera amuses me. There's nothing you can say, there's nothing you can do. Except pray for death.

He takes off Hertzan Chimera glasses and puts a piece of gaffer tape over his blue eyes, walks away.

EDWARD LEE: Let's see what's on KY-BILLY'S "super sounds of the eighties" on my $29 K-Mart portable CD player.

He plugs in the battered contraption. Joy Division's hit "Atrocity Exhibition" PLAYS over the rattling speaker. He opens a large box folder then slowly walks toward the Hertzan Chimera with another rickety chair. Edward Lee sits facing Hertzan Chimera, holding his latest manuscript, singing along with the song. Then, like a cobra, he LASHES out.

EDWARD LEE: Typical interview questions? What am I working on now? Borderline malnutrition and clinical alcoholism, that's what. Oh, you mean books. A sequel to City Infernal and some short stories. I just finished a non-horror novel called Confidential Informant, which is based on a true story. It's a fuckin' masterpiece, the most important book I've ever written, a genuine human drama. But can I get an agent to even look at the goddamn thing? Hell, no. They won't touch me with a ten-foot pole. I'm pigeon-holed as a "horror writer," so how can anything I write be worthy? I feel like fuckin' Bob Denver trying to get a serious job after Gilligan. I might as well give up and go wash dishes at some dumbass Florida tourist restaurant. And guess what? Dishwashers make more money, and they usually get a free shift meal that's NOT a cup of rice and a can of Dollar General Clam Chowder. I'm also involved in a collaborative novella with this whack-job named Geoff Cooper. The project is tentatively entitled TRIXIE, and it's about halfway done. It's the most reprehensible, irredeemable, and utterly disgraceful piece of fiction I could ever imagine. It's so abhorrent it makes me physically ill to even think about. Cooper's got it now. I pray God he never finishes it 'cos if this thing ever gets published, demons will pop out of the ground and drag me and Cooper down to the seventh circle of Hell. How about this interview question: Where do I get my ideas? If anybody ever asks me that again, I will KILL them. I'll peel their fuckin' cap. Oh, and here's my favourite: how do you rate the current state of the horror market? Answer: I don't give a shit.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (laughs out loud) Do you know, in French "je m'en fous" SZMONHFU means "I don't give a shit".

EDWARD LEE: (singing along with the eighties hit) Excuse me a minute, while I check AOL for ball scores. Holy smokes, the Yankees won and Boston lost! We're back to 5 games up! You know, all of a sudden I'm in a much better mood, and as for the previous 600 words of cynical ill will? Ignore it, it's all bullshit. The horror market's great, I just got another 2-book deal, my last novel went into a second printing 3 weeks after its initial release, and I couldn't be more thrilled about my future as a writer. The world is a beautiful place, my life is great, I love everybody! I revel in my exuberance, and ascend into blinding light. Every step I take on this pretty planet is a celebration of the gift of life. God be praised. And you know what? That Dollar General Clam Chowder is actually pretty damn good. And you want to know what else? Roger Clemens is pitching tomorrow!

HERTZAN CHIMERA: I know fuck all about baseball.

Edward Lee reaches out tears off the gaffer tape from Chimera's eyes. Edward Lee holds up the gaffer tape showing Hertzan Chimera his black eyebrows that are adhered to the tape.

EDWARD LEE: (rises, kicking the chair he was sitting on out of the way) Now, off you go, back to Feo, little Chimera. Give him a big kiss on the ass just for me.

A light drizzle had started to fall as Hertzan Chimera is kicked out of Lee's apartment. The moral of this story? Your eyebrows might never grow back.