“What about lights?” Daphne wasn’t staying overnight in a creepy castle with no lights.
“Don’t worry,” said Sam, “we have a generator to get us through until tomorrow.”
“Must be nice to have the money to prepare for an Apocalypse.”
“Yup. Dad always thought about things like that.”
Before she had time to reply the two brothers chunked her onto the bed in total darkness and bolted out the door.
“Hey, WAIT! I’m not tired yet. Don’t leave me alone in here!”
A heavy door slamming was the only response.
It seemed she was the only one with sex on the brain.
Maybe she was going to Hell like her step-mom always said.
It took her fifteen minutes to turn on the lamp. She was looking for a switch when all she had to do was rub the bottom like a genie lamp.
“Oh for crying out loud!”
The lights finally came on to reveal the deformed offspring of Buckingham Palace, Pier One imports, and the clearance sale at Big Lots. For being so rich, Sam’s mom knew nothing of Feng Shui.
An antique velvet blue Victorian chair did not belong under a gigantic Moroccan mirror made of bamboo.
“Ugh!”
She felt like Alice in Wonderland.
There’s got to be a tiny little door I can crawl through somewhere?
She finally found the door conveniently obscured by a six-foot Victorian vase full of Pier One peacock feathers. There were big bowls full of gigantic bamboo balls sitting up on miniature tables everywhere for no reason.
WHY?
What the Hell did rich people do with those gigantic bambo balls? Throw them at each other when angry?
She would never know because she didn’t have the nuggets to say, “Wow, I love your gigantic balls. By the way, what do you use them for?”
You could tell a lot about a woman by the way she decorated her house, and there was no doubt in her mind that Sam’s mom was bat-shit crazy.
If there IS a Hell for gay men, this atrociously decorated house is it, she thought as she entered hallway after hallway leading to more useless rooms full of bamboo balls, ceramic figurines, peacock feathers, overly ornamented lamps with more tassels than a magic carpet, and gigantic creepy paintings of family members that were even bigger than their actual bodies. Why did rich people have gigantic paintings of themselves everywhere? She would never understand.
Yeah, so Mr. Painter, I want my portrait painting, but I want to be a giant, like Jack in the Beanstalk.
The super high 12-foot cathedral ceilings felt cold and creepy.
Who would want to live in a Catholic church? Someone who had never seen the Exorcist?
It took Daphne more than thirty minutes to find Sam and Haiku in the maze of oversized useless things that clashed worse than wearing three different shades of black with a navy blue blazer.
Ever heard of fashion faux pas, lady?
Daphne was certain that Sam’s mom had been the female version of the Mad Hatter.
There was no doubt a 300lb cherry wood curio display cabinet full of porcelain white rabbit figurines was somewhere nearby. She just knew it.
Turning every corner to run into a nine-foot peacock was scarier than any haunted house she’d ever been in.
Where the Hell are they? If they left me here, I’ll peg them to death with all these ceramic figurines.
Finally she heard voices from afar echoing off the church ceilings, but the echoes scattered the voices in all directions. Now her head really was spinning like the Exorcist.
It was only Sam’s loud and hearty Irish laugh that guided her like a Northern Star to safety in the sunroom out back.
Although it only contained a hot tub, the glass room was as big as a gymnasium and completely empty. Sam and Haiku were MMA fighting amidst all the pointless empty space.
She must have run out of peacock feather and bamboo balls.
“We need to put up a cage fighting arena in here, bro.”
Haiku had been known to build fighting cages before buying beds or refrigerators.
While Haiku had been measuring perimeters for a cage, Sam had been rummaging through the wine to make sure none was lost.
They are as bad as the rich people.
Nevertheless, Daphne had never been quite so grateful to make contact with other life forms on Planet Peacock.
Now she stood in an empty corner watching the world’s most boring fight.
Poor Sam thought he was really kicking ass. He had no clue he was being treated like a girl.
Other than gay male cheerleaders, Haiku was the only guy she’d ever known who could do an aerial.
He’d attended a private ninja academy the previous year while in Japan. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he could walk upside down on the cathedral ceiling, perform moves from the Matrix, and then throw a ninja star that killed his enemy and returned to him like a boomerang.
Daphne had always had a secret suspicion that Haiku was an alien.
He wasn’t just fighting Sam like a girl; Haiku was fighting him like a five-year-old girl. He didn’t guard his own face to make sure Sam got in plenty of hits.
Haiku either didn’t feel pain, or didn’t mind feeling pain.
Either way, his busted nose was a small price to pay to make sure his long lost brother didn’t lose sleep over feeling like a sissy.
He was throwing punches as if he were in the Special Olympics. His kicks were as limp and pathetic as a flaccid penis.
Sure, she was glad he was careful not to accidentally kill poor Sam, but that did nothing to change the fact that a women’s golf tournament would have been more exciting.
They were definitely the only ones who are having any fun. That was for sure.
She knew there was no way Haiku could possibly enjoy throwing sissy punches, but she quickly caught on to the fact that it wasn’t a real fight; it was a trash-talking battle.
Now she saw the brother’s had three things in common. They had asses on their chins; they were the same height, and both were impossible to offend.
Sam didn’t know it, but the entire fight was really only a game to see who could deliver the most offensive and obscene trash talking.
Great. A Yo Momma rap battle.
Now she was wondering if the liquor was still in the cabinets, but too scared to venture off into Planet Peacock again.
“I’ve always had a thing for Chinese chicks,” Sam chided, “I SO would have paid your mom for a little sucky sucky.”
“We’re Japanese, Sam, not Chinese, but dumb blondes like you wouldn’t don’t know the difference.”
Sam switched to a phony oriental accent that made him sound mentally retarded. “Oh Sam! Oh Sam! For only one quarter, me love you long time.”
“Is THAT what hookers say, bro? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had to pay for sex. That must REALLY suck.”
“That’s because your eyes are so slanted you don’t know you’re fucking ugly bitches.”
Ooooo …. Score Sam, thought Daphne.
“Yeah, well if your mom was here, we’d make our own little Jap baby to pay your father back for fucking whores just like you do. And, I would have no problem fucking the shit out of your mom, since you’re right; I love fucking ugly bitches!”
Damn…. Talking about fucking each other’s dead mothers?
Daphne was beginning to feel nauseous.
Oh but now Sam was REALLY pissed off.
“Just always make sure to tap the ladies on the shoulders when you’re done, Haiku. I’ve always heard chinks have the tiniest dinks.”
“At least I had a shoulder to tap. You stole your mom’s Good Housekeeping magazines and nutted all over Martha Stewart’s recipe column.”
Now, Daphne was obligated to chime in.
“Uh … Haiku. I hate to tell you, but Sam’s mom has never owned a Goodhousekeeping magazine a day in her life. Her house is only one step up from the shining, and all poor Sam ever had to
nut in was a vase full of peacock feathers.”
But Sam ignored Daphne and focused his energies on Haiku with even bolder trash talk. “Your girlfriend Daphne is so stupid; she tried to put a quarter in your slant because she thought your head was a gumball machine.”
Now. Sam had officially declared war on Daphne, too, and she was ready to put her two cents worth in.
“Well, Son of Sam, white guys fuck like serial killers. Four or five random stabs and its over.”
“Burn! She killed you on that one, bro.”
“Yeah well, she wasn’t complaining about the sex last night. She said at least she felt something stabbing her.”
They all laughed at that one.
“Enough you guys. I’m finally ready to go back to Planet Peacock and get some sleep.”
“Sounds like somebody wants a good stabbing,” Sam joked.
But Daphne found it hard to laugh because she actually did need a stabbing, a tapping, or ANYTHING!
From the day Haiku met Sam, he’d treated Daphne like a sister. Sure, they made sex jokes about her to enhance their trash talking battles, but outside of that, they tossed her on the bed alone and slammed the door in her face.
She had a sinking feeling she’d sunken much farther than the friend zone.
She was beginning to think she was in the abyss of all zones – the point of no return. She was in the sister zone.
TRAILER-TRASH TO HIGH-CLASS
Atticus was looking out the cracked window of his empty bedroom and pretending to count dogs as usual.
He was really looking for pigs but knew it wasn’t likely a police officer would dare venture into Wormwood.
It was a typical muggy Wednesday in meth ghetto Hell – pregnant dogs, pregnant meth whores, roaming mullet men donning dirty wife beaters, and cars on blocks for miles.
Atticus wasn’t aware that he was bored as he’d never had a fun day to compare it with.
He had nothing to complain about and nothing to be excited about as he stifled an apathetic yawn.
A gray pit bull spotted in mange hunched over and strained with no shame to squirt a gigantic shit surprise onto the concrete driveway.
On any other day, Destiny would have stepped in it barefooted and spewed her usual crass profanities, but that day the strangest thing happened.
A complete stranger in a shiny royal blue Chevy Malibu pulled into the driveway and rolled over the steaming pile like a bulldozer. Destiny drove a gray Chevy Malibu and parked on the curb without reason.
Poor lady.
There was no such thing as visitors in Wormwood, only strangers who’d lost their way to the Interstate.
Atticus instantly ducked and then slowly peered back out of the grimy window with only one eye. He was hoping she would go to another house for directions as he was rarely in the mood to be a Good Samaritan.
But instead the strange lady emerged from the car and stepped over the dog shit without even noticing.
As the sun illuminated her appearance, Atticus was speechless.
A rare beauty, she was a cross between Scarlett Johansson and Jessica Alba. She was both classically beautiful and sizzling hot.
Her long elegant Heidi Klum neck suggested she’d gotten lost on her way to a photo shoot. Golden brown locks tumbled over bronzed shoulders and then cascaded down her back in free flowing waves.
She pushed oversized sunglasses onto the crown of her head revealing the soul-piercing aqua blue eyes of a mermaid siren – a mermaid siren who’d sold her fins for feet so she could step right out of 1961.
Her yellow polka-dotted Jackie O dress was faded enough to suggest it was truly vintage. Its halter neckline dipped just enough to reveal a lady-like amount of cleavage.
The bottom half of the dress shot out in a perfect A-line, cinched her tiny waist, and showed off an hour-glass figure. A white cotton cardigan draped loosely around her hips and made her appear innocent and approachable.
Dammit, lady! Please ask someone else for directions.
Humiliated by his dilapidated crack shack, Atticus decided not to open the door.
The lady came in anyway.
“Atticus?”
Uh oh. Someone knew he was alive.
He darted into the shadows of the closet.
No way am I going back to school.
His heart skipped a beat as his door swung open and the lady stood mid-room with hands on hips.
“Soooooooo? What do you think?”
“Do I know you?”
“Silly! I’m Mom.”
“Whose Mom are you, lady?”
“Stop joking, Atticus.”
He narrowed his eyes with suspicion as there was absolutely no resemblance to Destiny Gail Fletcher.
Destiny’s eyes were dishwater hazel, not aqua. Destiny’s teeth were as brown as a pirate’s, not unicorn white. Destiny’s hair formed matted dreadlocks that framed her raccoon eyes. Her permanent mascara circles suggested she’d either just stepped out of a Tim Burton Cartoon or was about to marry Beetlejuice. When she wasn’t naked, she wore cut-off blue-jeans shorts that gave new meaning to camel-toe and a triangle bikini top that desperately cried out for underwire.
Destiny either didn’t have shoes or enjoyed the black bottoms of her grocery store feet. This woman wore white Grecian leather sandals with bright golden buckles that accented the bright peach polish on her perfectly manicured toes.
Destiny’s skin was Jaundice yellow from liver failure. This lady was as golden brown and glowing as one of Charlie’s Angels.
“Look, lady. I don’t how you know my name or who the Hell sent you, but if you think I’m stupid enough to believe you’re Destiny …”
“Oh, Atticus! My blue eyes are colored contacts. My tan is a professional spray job. A fancy salon did my hair. A dentist whitened my teeth, and Misty’s mom dressed me all up to look like a lady. So? Do I look like a lady?”
Atticus stared in stunned silence as she explained the magic behind her transformation of epic proportions.
“I’m no longer Destiny. Now, I’m Mystery.”
No shit it’s a mystery.
“Check out my new plaid suitcase.”
She tossed it like a beach ball into the closet.
He quickly dodged it as it grazed the right side of his head.
Now he knew only Destiny would be stupid enough to confuse a large metal suitcase with a beach ball.
With the toss of a suitcase she’d confirmed her identity beyond question for only Destiny Gail Fletcher had the motor skills of a stroke survivor, a complete lack of depth perception, and a one digit I.Q.
“I’m going on a TRIP!”
Uh oh.
He hoped she meant acid trip.
“And, you’re going with me.”
Atticus was scared to take a trip to the mailbox with any one as dumb as Destiny.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Sure you are, Wizard. You have to. I’m going to the Valley of Silicon to get my boobs.”
Silicon Valley?
“My sisters bought us the tickets and told me to make sure to bring the Flaming Firewall Wizard. They said you’d been given command to walk through walls of fire and steal treasures from dragons guarding fiery fortresses.”
As ridiculous as she sounded, Atticus actually understood her for the first time.
“Flaming Firewall Wizard?”
“Who else could they be talking about? Besides, you know I don’t know where the government keeps airplanes.”
Atticus wondered why there were dogs for blind people, but not for the mentally retarded.
She babbled on.
“They said only the Wizard with the crown of flaming fire can locate the keys to the kingdom and help me rule the world.”
Rule the world? Although at first he’d been skeptical. Destiny’s magical transformation had given him a newfound respect for the wisdom of white-trash witches.
“That’s ludicrous, Destiny.”
“No it’s not. Ludicrous knows whores because he’s a rapper, but only you know the whore guarding the treasure behind the fiery fortress.”
Atticus rolled his sage green eyes.
The whore guarding the treasure was Google – the Trojan Horse of the world every human climbed into when they agreed to give all privacy rights and permissions in exchange for an app with Halloween ring tones. Anyone with a Facebook page, a Gmail account, phone apps, or a Youtube account, had already climbed into the Trojan Horse long ago.
Atticus knew it was illegal for the government to spy, but not for any social or commercial organization that people willingly gave their privacy over to.
Government employees were notoriously lazy, which was why it was impossible to call a government agency and speak with a human – only automated robots. Government employees were too busy paying prostitutes with tax payer dollars to answer phones, design firewalls, or waste their time on espionage.
They were professional delegators who hid their laziness behind words the American public were too dumb to understand – like outsourcing. The word sounded fancy enough, but the real definition of outsourcing was: paying others to do your job.
Instead of working, the government paid tax-dollars to Google for its treasure chest of data that included social security numbers, GPS locations, and detailed personal profiles on every person worldwide.
Anyone too lazy to answer a phone was too lazy to write firewall code, and so again the government outsourced (paid another company) to design secure firewalls to protect their treasure.
Where would an expert firewall company be located? The Mecca of hacker nerds – Silicon Valley. These white-trash whores were clearly onto something.
Atticus only needed to locate the world’s top firewall company, and target the Achilles Heel of every hacker nerd on earth.
Hacker nerds don’t get pussy.
Bitches didn’t want the smartest men alive; they wanted guitar players and drummers who would beat them everyday and then sleep on the couch instead of getting a job.
“Mom, I need access to a computer. Can you take me to the computer lab at the library?”
Her new aqua eyes filled with tears.
“Atticus, you’ve never called me Mom before.”
The Woman on the Beast: A Season for Horror (The End Times Series Book 2) Page 6
