–Megan Fox, interviewed in Esquire, January 2013
“Megan, put down the phone — I told you no photographs,” sighed the most famous sasquatch in the world. Megan Fox obeyed and put her Swarovski-crystal-studded iPhone into her purse, but not before snapping a few candid pics.
“Sorry, Mr. Foot, I’m just so excited to finally meet you.”
“Please, call me Big.”
Megan blushed, and a red cloud flickered across the northern winter moon that was her face-skin. She leaned across her living room coffee table, which was made of reclaimed steel from the Roswell debris field, and cooed, “I’m sure you get this a lot, Big, but I’m your biggest admirer.”
Bigfoot nodded. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that a frost giant was the president of his fan club.
Ignoring the silence, she continued. “Have I told you that I’m having my Marilyn Monroe tattoo removed so I can replace it with a tattoo of you?”
The evening was starting to get weird, and it didn’t help that Megan’s leprechaun personal assistant was fake-laughing at everything she said. Bigfoot had only accepted Megan Fox’s invitation for a private tete-a-tete because he thought she would understand his desire for privacy. Why did he identify so strongly with starlets, anyway? Was it because they, too, were judged primarily by their appearance? Was it because they were also objectified victims of the media’s gaze? Or was he just hoping that he could eat one of them again without anyone noticing, like he did five years ago with Tara Reid?
Megan was also feeling awkward. Nerves, she realized — something she hadn’t felt since her very first rehearsal for Transformers in Michael Bay’s sex dungeon. She would have giggled, if she didn’t get even more nervous at the thought of Bigfoot judging her giggles!
She had run out of things to say to her biggest idol, the mythical forest-dwelling creature of the Pacific Northwest known to the native Lummi tribe of the Pacific Northwest as Ts’emekwes, to the American media as Bigfoot, and to the people who knew him best, Melvin Growlznitzky — his name before he got famous.
Bigfoot cleared his throat and glanced around the room, hoping to spot a clock. Megan noticed the nearly empty wine glass in the cryptid’s hand.
“Can I freshen up your Zinfandel, Big?” She had to stop herself from calling him “Mel.”
“Thanks, but the other day TMZ got some footage of me stumbling around the forest after a night out, and I’m trying to cut back.” He knocked back the last few sips in one gulp. “I wouldn’t want Page Six to start calling me Big Lush.”
The leprechaun sat there, stone-faced. Megan forced a grin, but just like her performance in Transformers 2, Bigfoot knew she was faking it.
The silence was almost audible. Unless that was just the lephrechaun’s breathing. He had a severe gold allergy, which was why he had to stop leprechauning in the first place.
But then that’s the career trajectory for many mythical creatures. Bigfoot’s thoughts wandered back to when he was just an eager-eyed young cryptid fresh from the woods. It wasn’t long until he was partying at the Chateau Marmont with Jayne Mansfield, disguised as her fur coat. But those days were long behind him, and now he just wanted to be left alone. He realized Megan would never truly understand.
“Sometimes I wish the fame would just disappear,” Bigfoot sighed. “I didn’t ask for any of this — the paparazzi, the cruel blog comments about how matted my fur’s been looking. I hardly go outside anymore.”
Megan laid a perfectly symmetrical hand on Bigfoot’s shoulder. “I totally empathize with you, which is a word I learned when I was researching how to feel the feelings that other people feel.”
She could tell she was losing him. Why wasn’t he as transfixed by her beauty as others were — as mesmerized as that Esquire reporter had been? Then she finally understood why she enjoyed the company of otherworldly creatures: because she, too, was of another world. No wonder she felt so comfortable around her husband, Brian Austin Green.
“By the way, have you met Brian?” Megan asked Bigfoot. “He’s an ageless vampire who has me in his thrall.”
So that’s how he managed to lock her down, Bigfoot thought.
“Here, let me summon him.” Megan whipped out a pocketknife, but before she could pierce her finger, Bigfoot stood.
“Thanks, but I really don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’ve got dinner with an old friend in half an hour.” He glanced at the time on his phone — and that was when he saw the text messages.
Bigfoot bristled, and Megan realized what had happened. “Now, Bigfoot — Mr. Foot — before you get too upset, I can explain–”
“You took a picture of me — and you posted it on Twitter?” he said calmly. A little too calmly. He growled, to make sure she got the point.
“I’m sorry, I just — you’re just — I promise I’ll never do it again!”
“Too late!” he roared. “I thought you wanted to hang out with me for me, not for my fame. But you’re just like all the other yokels with their point-and-shoots and symmetrical faces and skin the color the moon possesses in the thin air of northern winters!”
Ignoring her tears, Bigfoot put on his oversized Chanel sunglasses and Hermes scarf and shambled out the door and into the LA desert.
“That girl is crazy,” muttered Bigfoot, as the hum of traffic drowned out Megan Fox’s pleas. He quickened his pace; he had to meet Jodie Foster in a redwood forest in Santa Barbara in an hour.
At least she respected his privacy.