A diet of small children hadn’t really done him any favours in terms of public relations. To say that he had an impulse control issue was a vast understatement. To be sat there picking your teeth with a child’s pinky finger that had been adapted for the purpose when the journalist you are trying to win over arrives is more than a faux pas.
She sat down and looked at him. His abode was a mess. He had not cleaned up any of the bones. He tried to convince himself that they were all part of the mise en scene, but that didn’t really fit together with a PR Campaign to make him more friendly to his human neighbours.
She had a long list of questions. A lot of them seemed like really dumb questions. His answers were not erudite, and he reached a point where he realised that nothing he said was going to convince her or anyone.
She started to look very appetizing. She had to have some use to him, being here, at a moment when his life decisions were changing direction.
His teeth were very well packed away in his mouth. He looked very close to human. He had been moving slowly, matching her rhythms, like a heron waving above a stream to fool a fish.
She was a sharp intake of breath. Just enough time to be surprised.
It was time to move on. A larger female skeleton atop a pile of small skeletons. Who would discover this story? How long after he was gone?