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small offices seem as much like a museum as the headquarters of a moderately successful magazine. Mary was the curator of these ghoulish relics, as well as the editor-in-chief. 
    Mary Stien’s image itself adorned the walls in various places; she’d been a ‘Scream Queen’ in the nineties before founding the publication. During her career she had starred in over seventy films. They were mostly all B-movies by horror standards, but would likely be graded as Cs or even Ds when compared with more mainstream Hollywood fare.
    She rushed into the small studio they used for photo shoots and interviews and found her afternoon appointment waiting patiently on a chair along the wall.
    “I’m so sorry,” Mary said, putting on a big warm smile and extending her black nail-polished fingers. 
    The gentleman, Ryan, was a reviewer for Fangoria, the world’s largest horror publication and website. He was an interesting mixture, Mary mused, of part-armadillo part-forty-year-old college kid. He had a complexion that resembled raw chicken, which spoke of a strong intimacy with video games and all night Netflix marathons. Hanging loosely from his rotund body was an extra large Army of Darkness t-shirt which did little to conceal his fast food-induced plumpness.
    He shook her hand and kept his eyes eerily fixed on hers in such a way that it was amusingly clear he was trying to prevent himself from staring at her tits. She was used to it, more often than not, if there was an elephant in the room, it was in her bra. 
                  “No problem at all Mrs. Stien. I’m like a kid in a candy store here. I’ve been reading Rue Morgue religiously since…well since it came out really. I haven’t missed an issue.”
                  “Oh that’s nice. But please, just call me Mary.”
                  She turned to Erin.
                  “Can you be a doll face and grab me a vanilla latte?” Then back to Ryan and asked, “Anything for you?”
                  “I’ll just have a water, thank you.”
                  Erin nodded and left for the Starbucks down the street. 
                  Mary took a seat and crossed her freakishly long legs, which were covered in black fishnet stockings, part of the usual “Mary Stien” look. A black miniskirt clung to the firm roundness of her stair-mastered thighs, her wine coloured blouse was opened one button past modesty. Normally she wouldn’t dress like this for the office but it was something she always did for interviews. Her on screen persona had somewhere along the line blended with her real self and the outfit was part of the character. She arched her eyebrows, pulled back her shoulders to slip into character and said:
                  “Shall we begin, my little pet?”
     
                  By time Erin came back with their drinks the interview was nearly done.
    “It has been nearly seven years since you have done a film. Do you ever miss it?”
                  “Well, let's see,” Mary started, tapping her well manicured finger on her chin in mock recollection. “I have been shot, stabbed, buried alive, burnt at the stake, eaten by cannibals, mauled by werewolves, and in once instance raped then vaporized by a moon goblin. What's not to miss?”
                  Ryan the interviewer laughed a little too hard and Erin broke the awkwardness by bringing them their drinks.
                  “Thank you, doll face,” Mary said, enjoying her first sip of caffeine all morning so much so she had to close her eyes and sigh.
                  “Well, that's a pretty impressive list of deaths,” Ryan continued, breaking her moment of bliss, “But you left out the second half of your career during which you did most of the killing. During that time—and most significantly in the films you wrote yourself—you created a kind monster-hero