In the hot New Mexican sun, Parris McBride reclined backwards on her desert sail barge, raveling her chain around the neck of a young, taut pool boy that she had forced to wear a metal speedo.
Speaking cavernously from her massive body, the long time paramour, now wife of George R. R. Martin intoned, “For constantly and incessently asking when the next book will be done I have decreed that you are to be terminated immediately. We are therefore at the Sea of Dunes and you will be cast to the Great Pit of Santa Fe, the resting place of the almighty GRRM. In his belly you will find a new definition of pain and suffering as you are slowly digested for a thousand years.”
The assembled fans shifted nervously on their skiff, surrounded by Parris’s hired thugs.
Pausing to take a hit and consume a small wriggling creature from her combination hookah/snackquarium, Parris continued, “Victims of the almighty GRRM: I hope that you will die honorably. But, should any of you wish to beg for mercy I will now listen to your pleas.”
One defiant fanboy with the beer gut and excessive beard of his people stepped forward to speak arrogantly.
“You slimy piece of worm ridden filth! I bought a Lannister t-shirt from your website over a decade ago and it was never delivered! You owe me $16.95 plus shipping and handling!”
A Klatoonian skiff guard laughed mockingly and prodded the fans forward. Below, GRRM, a repulsive maw full of mucus and thousands needle sharp teeth, rumbled expectantly.
The fanboys were pushed off of the plank and landed en masse in the sand. GRRM eagerly slithered out, trademark fisherman’s hat in place, and used his goo-dripping tentacles to pull the screaming fans into his eager mouth.
“Who else wants to know when Winds of Winter is coming out?!” GRRM screamed in his nasal New Jersey accent, with cries of anguish echoing faintly from his throat.