"I'm not going to wear that."
"Awww, Querida. It's so cute. Just try it on." Raul is giving me the fish eye, but I will prevail. I hold out the hat to him again. It's one of those tall, pointy sorcerer's caps, purple with white stars and swirls. Just like Mickey's in Fantasia. On the front is written in black script, "Ask me about demons stay free!"
"NO. Por nigun motivo. Ya te dije."
"But, guagua, this is our biggest promotion to date." I point to the sign near the door. "Demons under 100 years old accompanied by an elder demon stay free!" There's even a picture of Quetzalcoatl and a tiny serpent demon. "No es adorable?"
"The poster can stay, but there's no way I'm wearing the hat. You wear it."
"I can't wear it. I'm wearing the pin. Just put it on. Just for today." He's smiling, so I know I've broken him. "Good. Now I gotta find the cats."
I walk away swinging my tiny bow ties in my left hand. This is bound to drum up some new guests.
Home at last. "Ah, Dagfari! It’s good to see you again."
//And you, lady. There’s a parcel in the hall.//
I shut the front door behind me (no bang, just a slight squelch, but I don’t think I’ll investigate), and examine the large cardboard box. It is marked with sundry and various signs, the most notable of which include the Scared Chao, a small drawing of a safety pin, and the legend "A Trust from the Minister."
Suspicious, I pull my trusty number 23 throwing knife from its sheath in my petticoats, and slide the point into the cello tape in such a manner that it is cut. Well, that was the plan; as soon as the stainless silver (the elves call it mithriI, pretentious buggers) touches the cardboard, the flaps on top of the box fly open and a small dragon appears.
It’s a fairly average looking beast, for a dragon, except that it has long ears in the style favoured by lop-eared rabbits (all the way down to its wings—it’s a wonder the poor thing can move), and each scale has a tuff of grey fur protruding from it. It can’t be much over a year old—the teeth still have verdigris on them.
"Got a carrot, mister?" it squeaks, a rasping sound akin to that produced by taking a file down a metal coat hanger, and shifts its grip on the side of the box.
I kneel in front of it (noticing, with a quick grimace, that it’s last meal was probably pickled onions). "Look here, dragon…"
"Not a dragon. I’m a mutant plot enemy bunny."
"I thought it had been quiet around here for a while. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re here or what you’re doing, but a) I’m not a mister, I’m a miss, and b) I haven’t got any carrots."
"Alright, miss. Chocolate cookies?"
"That I can see about. What’s your name?"
"Jossica."
"What?!?"
"Jossica. My father was an evil overlordling, and my mother wanted to embrace the metaness of it."
"I see. Mine’s Am-Chau."
"Niece of the moon?" It giggles, another terrible, high-pitched noise with that coat hanger tone.
"I was about to get to the ‘so I shouldn’t laugh’ part, but I think I won’t bother now. Come on, the breakfast room’s this way. I don’t think I can handle asking why you’re here without something to sustain me."
I seem to have killed Sang Sacre.
Maybe I should just give in and start learning the Evil Overlord List by heart already.
Not to worry, Am. We get these stretches once in a while where nothing much happens in town. Peace and quiet. It's sort of like summer hiatus on Buffy.
Yeah.
t /worrying
As if I could ever really close that tag.
Huh.
I took a nap on St. Patrick's Day and now people are taking down the Cinco De Mayo decorations. How. . . odd.
I stretch - an effort that does not quite kill me, and start checking out the house. Dusty, but intact. My head is shaggy and, yes, a full crop of leg hair. Perhaps this is my chance to try waxing.
Oh, dear. There's a pile of mail at the door and my machine is blinking.
After a moment I decide against going back to bed and instead press the message button.
"Hey boss, the shipment you were expecting finally got here."
I put down my spinning fluxometer and check out the box Hans is bringing down. After ripping off the biohazard marked wrapping and various strips of tape marked with silly warnings, I finally get to the steel box in the middle of all the bubble wrap. A quick peek inside confirms that my order has correctly delivered.
"Excellent." I say to nobody in particular. "Hans. Get the genetic lab ready. With a few special touches these babies will assure my victory in the Sang Sacre gardening club contest."
The cat has apparently learned to use the can opener during my, er, coma. Well, good for her. Raven appears remarkably unphased by my lengthy check-out, which confirms what I've always suspected about cats.
It took me two hours to dust the place, and another two to clean and replenish the fridge. I've left messages with Aimee and Am-Chau explaining my rudeness in returning calls - now for mail.
Wow. What a lot of gardening catalogues. I gather a bundle of them, snag a cup of hot tea and head for the porch to dream of better things. It's a bit of a wilderness out there, but it's pretty. Some foresighted former tenant planted about a million bulbs long ago - grape hyacinths, tulips, irises, paperwhites - all blooming at once. Unlikely, but cool. I bet Sang Sacre has some great gardening clubs. I should definitely look into that.
"Bob, I had a deadline. You're not supposed to distract me so much I lose track of deadlines."
"I thought the only deadline you were interested in was the line between my abs."
"Right. For that you get tickled."
