They meet in the writers’ room after lunch to break it.
“I’ll go first,” says Ron, and strips down to his cutoffs and sandals before opening the cage. The story scrambles out on awkward legs; Ron dodges, too nimbly for his size, and gets an arm around its jaws. (Keeping them closed is easy; keeping them open will cost you a hand.)
“Little help?” he gasps as it bucks, tail lashing.
“Maybe,” says Kandyse thoughtfully, “if we gave it another story…”
Everyone stares in pity. “Go ahead,” sighs Ron, releasing it, “eat her.”