Welcome to Hairy Wart! Home of the SOUTHERN FRIED SASS DETECTIVE AGENCY and the DRAGONETTES - proof that it's not the size of the scales but the SASS in the flames that makes the Guardsma...ahem, I mean, Guardswoman. Where the Tofu is always Southern Fried and the Soul Food is vegetarian, 'cause it just wouldn't be right to eat your neighbors.
LATER GATOR
Chapter One
Ring…ring-ring-ring…riiiinnnggg….
"I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm com…. Son of a bitch!" I knew Miss Bunny, our landlady, the owner of the diner our office was on top of, and the leader of the HW Ladies’ Prayer Circle was working up one helluva sermon just as soon as the words slipped through my lips, but in my world, hot coffee down the front of a brand new cream-colored, linen suit deserved a ‘son of a bitch', a ‘mother humper’, and a ‘shit, shit, shit’, so, I figured she was lucky I stopped where I did.
Juggling the box of office supplies my half-sisters and our angsty assistant had requested, (Read that as demanded.) I bent down, grabbed my empty cup, and climbed the last three steps. Wrapping my hand around the knob, I shoved the door open and screamed, “Will someone puhlease get the damned phone?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Portia sassed as she sauntered into the room, plopped her butt in her chair and finally picked up the phone. “Bubble, bubble, are you in trouble? Not to worry, we’ll be there on the double. No need to fear. No need to fret. We’re Southern Fried Sass. We’ll eliminate the threat. How may I help you today?”
Stopping mid-stride, left foot still in the air, I stared at the pink-haired, Pearlescent Pixie with hundreds of braids all over her head, two nose rings, and round, fuchsia-framed glasses, I mouthed, "What the hell?" To which she shrugged and giggled into the phone, "Sure Henrietta. I'll have Faith give you a call."
Rolling my eyes and groaning under my breath, I made my way into the kitchen/break room, (Another demand from the ‘crew.') let the box from Oscar's Office Emporium drop onto the table and growled, "Look at this crap. Just look at it, will you?" Waving my hands up and down, making sure my half-sisters – Rosie and Daisy – got a good look at my ruined clothing, I bitched as I threw my thumb over my shoulder as if I was trying to hitch a ride on I-10 during rush hour traffic, “And who the hell told Tinkerbell she could answer the phone like that?”
“I am not a Tinkerbell! I am a Pearlescent Pixie from the Peaks of Mt Percival! Get it right.”
Puce-colored bubbles appeared and immediately burst, fizzling like Pop Rocks thrown into a bottle of Coke. Yucky maroon smoke streamed from my fingertips, and barf-green blobs, like misshapen pieces of confetti, rained down all around the room. My boiling point was mere seconds away and all I could do was seethe through gritted teeth, "Please. Shut. Up. Portia."
“Well, I never,” she huffed.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she has,” Rosie chuckled as she kicked the door shut with the pointed, silver toe of her flaming red, four-inch heels. I have no idea how the heck she walks in those babies, but she sure does turn the male heads.
Handing her an absolutely ginormous pack of sticky notes, I grumbled, "I just don't understand why she can't answer the blasted phone. It's not rocket science." I stopped and hit the ‘BREW' button on the super-dee-duper coffeemaker I'd purchased from Amazon for a small fortune before continuing. "Pick up the receiver, say hello. I mean – come on people, a monkey could do her job.”
Taking a deep breath, I thought of all the things I should’ve or could’ve done instead of opening a Paranormal Private Detective Agency with my long-lost family. Quickly closing that door before it got completely out of hand, I added, “It’s our first real day in business. Wouldn't it be nice to have a customer or two?"
“If you say so,” Daisy yawned, lifting her head off the table and pushing her thick auburn curls out of her face. “I would take a day or two off just to sleep if you asked me. Maybe, we should start next week, or next month, or…” Her words faded into another yawn and her head slowly dropped back onto the stack of folders she was using for a pillow.
Thankfully, I wasn’t asking her, but I wasn’t getting upset with her lack of enthusiasm either. There is a reason that she is the way she is, a reason we’re all the way we are. Let me explain.
You see, Rosie, Daisy, and I, along with our oldest sister, Harmony, have the extreme pleasure (Note the sarcasm.) of being the product of Nate the Bastard’s sperm donations to our respective mothers.
Yes, I call my ‘father’, and I use the term extremely loosely, Nate the Bastard. It’s the best name I could come up with. The other ladies have their own iteration of the same theme. You can only imagine the fun we have on Father’s Day, but I digress…
The story we've been able to piece together since the Asshole Extraordinaire popped into Harmony's life and tried to kill her (More on that later.) is that dear old dad sold his soul to the Devil long before he met any of our moms. We don't know why he did it or what he hoped to gain, just that he was, and presumably still is, dumber than a burlap bag of dicks and greedier than an old hog – that's the truth, whether we like it or not. Better to deal with what we’ve been given and move on, ya' know what I mean?
It took a bit, but the four of us have come to terms with the fact that his fucked up DNA runs through our veins. We do thank the Goddess on a daily basis that our mothers were ‘somewhat’ normal and very, very powerful in the white magic, good side of the Goddess and the Grand Priestess way. (Woohoo for dominant genes and good being stronger than evil!)
Anyway, Nate the Bastard decided to have children with absolutely as many unsuspecting Witches as he could find, wait until that child had come into his or her powers, and then substitute the kid’s soul for his with the King of Hell – yep, you guessed it - big, bad Lucifer himself.
Great father figure, right? Yeah, our collective gene pool is a muddy puddle of shits, giggles, sludge, and plain old pond scum. I, for one, have decided never, ever to reproduce. Doesn't mean I won't practice if I ever find a man that makes my wand tingle and my toes curl. But…umm, yeah…maybe we'll talk about the lack of male companionship in my life later…much later.
For now, let’s stick to the subject at hand…
As luck would have it, Aunt Dot, Harmony's mom's sister and one batshit crazy witch with a heart of gold and a hair-trigger temper, happened to be hanging out with some of her friends in one of the many backwater dive bars near Buttface or Asshat or Whateversville, West Virginia where Harmony now lives in the house she inherited from Auntie Dot.
Yes, it’s true, Dot is one of the ‘living impaired.' (Her definition, not mine.) She does, however, not subscribe to the old adage of resting in peace. She is the Ghostess with the mostest, still raising hell and wreaking havoc whenever she can.
Moving on, back in the day, she overheard Nate the Bastard telling his merry band of dipshits about his crazy plan to populate the earth with his spawn. (Sure, the term is offensive but most of his offspring turned out to be, well…umm…let’s just say, not quite right.) After running home and telling Harmony’s mom, Mary, who was pregnant with my awesome half-sister at the time, the two of them came up with the plan to banish dear old dad to CopacaNetherworld. (That’s the deep dark hole stuck between Purgatory and the Pits of Hell where Witches and Wizards who messed up in epic and truly horrible ways while alive get to live out their afterlives. Think 1960’s Vegas, complete with the Rat Pack, scantily clad cigarette girls, and mobsters, where the same day repeats itself over and over, you can never get drunk no matter how many Gin and Tonics you drink, and the food tastes like actual shit on an actual shingle. Colorful, but still Hell no matter how you slice it.)
Giving credit where credit is due, I have to say Dot and Mary had some real chutzpah. Nate the Bastard was strong, hopped up on Hades’ Hellfire and stronger than three oxen and a Sumo wrestler. What they did is freaking amazing, to say the very least.
They were ready and waiting. Nate walked in the front door, the ladies cut off his head, threw a major-kick-him-in-the-ass-make-him-see-stars whammy on his skanky hide and Bob's your uncle – they were rid of the asshole. (I've never really understood that saying, but Bertie, a friend of mine from some little village in England, always says it and it seemed to fit this situation so, I gave it a try.) My sperm donor was magically thrown into the biggest club in Purgatory making the world safe from his lying, impregnating ass for what they presumed would be forever.
Of course, his assholishness didn't stop there. Unbeknownst to the ladies, during the years after he'd made his pact with Hades and before he met my mom, Nate the Bastard had been shoving a nasty little spell of his own making into every grimoire he could find. The hex or curse, whichever you prefer, was to talk Harmony into releasing him from Witchy Purgatory.
Talk about hedging your bets. The bastard really tried to think of everything. Why is it that truly awful people always come up with the most foolproof plans? Yeah, I have no clue either. Something to think about though, later, after my tale maybe.
For now, back to your regularly scheduled story...
Thanks for sticking with me. I know that explanation was long, but it was necessary, and you're about to see why. Remember back up there before I got off track on Nate the Bastard when I said it wasn't Daisy's fault that she was so tired all the time? Well, now I can tell you, and you will understand, that her mom, Cassandra, is none other than the. She's the one humans call the Sandman. (I know. I was shocked too.)
But, if you think about it, she’s got the best cover ever. Everyone thinks she’s a tiny, little, gnome-like dude who puts people to sleep and gives them peacefully sweet dreams. When in all actuality, she could be a supermodel. (Really, the woman is gor-ge-ous. The only fault I can find is that she was conned by Nate just like all the others. Then again, he was a silver-tongued demon – literally.)
Now, you see why I can’t get mad at Daisy for always being tired. Her internal clock doesn’t kick into overdrive until about nine p.m. Good thing Rosie and I don’t need a lot of sleep, because when Daisy is awake, she is A-WAKE.
“Are you listening to me, Faith?” Rosie demanded. “Or have you gone off to La-La-Land again.”
“I’m listening.” (I wasn’t and she knew it.) “Just thinking about how to drum up some business.”
As if on cue, the door behind me swung open and in pranced Portia. Her bubblegum pink tutu flounced to and fro while her flashing, bedazzled, magenta, talon-like nails made my head spin. (At that point, I was really considering an office dress code.) Sticking out her hand and dangling a piece of paper just shy of the end of my nose, the Pink Pearlescent Fairy huffed, "Henrietta says her chicken coop was vandalized and three of her best egg-layers were hen-napped. She’s freakin’ out and wants you to come right away.”
Closing my eyes and counting to three, I prayed that it was all a bad dream, that when I reopened my lids the day would've reset. I would get a redo. Imagine that. Yeah, well, imagine no more, that crap didn't happen.
Snatching the message from my snippy secretary’s fingers, I slapped on a sickeningly sweet, all be it fake, smile and smirked, “Thanks so much, Portia.”
Before I could read the message, the phone was ringing once again. Fortunately, the pink pain in my butt answered the damn thing on the second ring. Unfortunately, she screeched, "It's Henrietta again, and she's so pissed she's literally clucking between every word"
With a truly exasperated breath, I let my head fall forward as my shoulders followed suit by slumping in what I could only assume was a most unflattering way and sighed, "Just what this day needed, a six-foot-three Cajun Chicken Shifter whose about to sprout feathers and peck the ground."
Grabbing my purse and throwing back my shoulders, I added, “Come on, girls. Time to get to work.”