Let me get this straight—because maybe I’m not as savvy about how slasher movies get made. But your million dollar idea—the one that will allow you to quit your job and sit around in sweatpants all day, cover the rent and car payments—is that each time your killer strikes, he impales two victims and a mannequin onto a large spike, like a kabob? And that’s what the cops find at the crime scene—kabobbed to death, every time? This is what you spend your day thinking about, is it?

You can wipe that grin off your face because I don’t find anything clever about the mannequin. I’m not even pretending to do the [rabbit ears gesture] supportive wife thing. Let me read what other crap you’ve written down there.

Oh, look at this, even got a cute title for this Hollywood blockbuster—Kabobbed! With an exclamation point—you’ve really thought of everything. Wait a minute. The killer’s name is “Shishka”? “Shishka Bob Jones”? What kind of name is Shishka? A Middle Eastern serial killer? So it’s not just a stupid idea, it’s also racist.

Newspapers call him the “Kabobber,” do they? Enough about the name for a minute. Let’s get back to the [rabbit ears gesture] crime scene again.

Wouldn’t the un-kabobbed victim try to escape while Shishka was mid-kabob with the first victim? They wouldn’t just sit and wait their turn. It’s messy just making kabobs for the grill. How do you expect Shishka to skewer three victims – oh, I forgot, two victims and the (rabbit ears gesture) crucial mannequin—what’d I tell you about that smirk?—on a metal rod without leaving his DNA everywhere? And think about it from the cops’ perspective. After working a few crime scene kabobbings, wouldn’t the name—Shishka. Bob. Jones.—stand out as a suspect they maybe want to call in for questioning?

Oh, you didn’t mention that. He’s got a sidekick, does he? Goes by “Phil Awful”? Well, now it makes sense. Shishka Bob and Phil Awful out there in the nighttime skewering unwitting victims three at a time—oh, will you stop giggling about the damn mannequin. Do you even know how a killer’s mind works? The killer would put roadkill on the end of the kabob before he used a mannequin?

What are you doing? You’re writing down that idea about roadkill, aren’t you? What do you mean it’s for the sequel? You’re sitting there in your underwear with three pages of handwritten notes, talking about quitting your job so you can concentrate on your [rabbit ears gesture] craft—and now you’re bandying about the word sequel?

Let me tell you about the movie I’m working on. It’s about a killer’s wife—how she cooks and cleans while holding down a full-time job, enjoys nice but not extravagant things: manicures, shoes, the occasional romantic dinner. She’d like to start a family. Then one day her husband, who she does not know is the infamous Kabobber she’s been reading about in the newspaper, announces he’s quitting his job to concentrate on his [rabbit ears gesture] craft. He doesn’t tell her what this mysterious craft is, but she figures it has something to do with mannequins since his workroom—what he promised to turn into the nursery—is covered with mannequin parts.

Eventually she puts it together. He’s been skewering victims three at a time—wipe that fucking smile off your face now —so she tells the neighbors. And the townsfolk beat him to death with mannequin appendages before carrying the wife around on their shoulders, the hero for solving the case.

Anyway, honey, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You were saying something about a [rabbit ears gesture] sequel?