Jango was on his back staring straight at the sun. He was a drunk dumbass.
“Weese could use a model to practice on,” he said. “Also, I think I’m blind.”
“I used to model,” Sassy said, tossing her hair and making me dizzy. “I’m more of an actress now after my starring roles in the Assjacket Community Theatre musical productions of Mommie Dearest, Jaws and Shaun of the Dead, but I could strut the runway again for a good cause. I’m all aboot good causes—Canadians are very nice people. Being nice will make me more fluent.”
“Youse wanna be our model?” I asked, seeing three of her.
“Sure,” she said, hopping to her feet. “Let’s do this. I have an appointment with my Canadian experts in an hour.”
“Are youse good at pickin’ sssssslocks?” Boba slurred. “Weese can’t get into Roger’s office.”
Sassy laughed and shook her head. “Why did you leave your socks in Roger’s office? Sounds kind of kinky to me. No worries. I have a key. I’m supposed to water his plants while he’s gone. We can grab your socks, and I’ll strut around the office and model for you. You can take pictures of me, and I’ll be the gorgeous face of your new business.”
There was something seriously wrong with the plan, but for the wasted life of me, I couldn’t put my paw on it.
“Sounds good to me,” I said, grabbing Jango by the scruff of his neck and dragging him across the street. Boba staggered behind us.
Again, I racked my brain for why this was stupid. I came up with nothing. Therefore, it wasn’t stupid. My logic was outstanding.
Chapter Three
Roger’s office was perfect for our venture, and we didn’t even have to break in. Our life on the right side of the law was going swimmingly so far. Zelda had remodeled the rabbit’s office a year ago, and other than a little dust and having to get rid of the furniture, it would work. There was a nice waiting room for the bereavers, and a big office to spray paint the stiffs. If we threw down some drop cloths, the rabbit wouldn’t even know we’d borrowed his place for the week.
“Okay, I’m feeling very Canadian and in my groove,” Sassy yelled, getting into it. “I’m aboot to do a half twerk and toss my hair aboot, eh? Stand up on the table so you can get a full body shot. It will bring Assjackians into your business for sure.”
“Don’t weese need to spray paint her face?” Boba asked, staggering around and pushing all of Roger’s office furniture into a storage closet.
“Nah,” I said, taking picture after picture with my stolen cell phone. “Weese can paint the photo after.”
Boba nodded then passed out in a drunken stupor.
“Should I show more cleavage?” Sassy inquired in all seriousness. “Sex sells.”
Jango glanced over and shrugged. “Youse think dead people like boobs?” he asked her.
“Everybody likes my boobs,” she said, adjusting her dress to show an obscene amount of both boob and side boob.
Again, I had a bad feeling. Not that I didn’t enjoy ogling Sassy’s rack—I did. It was outstanding. However, my brain was still soaked with Canadian beer, and I couldn’t figure out how this might backfire.
“I’ve got aboot fifteen more minutes until I have to meet my tutors,” Sassy explained. “Let’s set up a shot of all of us in the splits. I think that showing we’re flexible will be an excellent selling point.”
“The splits?” Jango asked, appalled. “Can’t do no splits. My nards are too big, and I don’t wanna squish dem.”
Sassy considered his issue and nodded her head thoughtfully. “I can see how that might not appeal,” she acknowledged. “But, if you want good business, you have to do the splits. I read it on the internet.”
It was hard to argue with that logic. I was also semi-wasted.
Positioning a passed-out Boba Fett into the splits was the easiest part of the setup. Alcohol and lack of consciousness were in our favor.
Jango suffered a serious racking incident as he slid into the splits, and I was fairly sure I might have torn myself a new butthole in the process of being flexible for business. Sassy had no problem.
We set the camera on a timer, and it took rapid-fire shots of the split catastrophe. Sassy smiled. Boba drooled. Jango cried and I cussed. Getting out of the splits was more difficult than sliding into them.
Limping over to the phone, I did my best not to incinerate Sassy for such a fucking horrible idea. “Okay Sassy, youse should probably go now,” I said through gritted teeth as I prayed to the Goddess that the burning in my crotch area would subside. “Weese got all the pictures weese can survive.”
“Awesome,” she said. “Let me know if I can do anything else for you guys. Helping feels great!”
“Any more help and my nuts will be lodged in my esophagus,” Jango muttered.
“Weese are good,” I told her. “Thank youse.”
Sassy hopped on her broom and hovered in the air. “Welcome. I’m all aboot being a good Canadian, eh?”
Jango dragged his damaged, bulbous body over to the door and opened it wide. “Dat’s f-in’ great. Youse have a good time with dat helpin’ shit… far away from us.”
“Will do,” Sassy shouted as she strafed our heads and blasted through the front door leaving behind bright blue sparkles. “I’ll stop by later to see the pictures.”
“Dat broad is dangerous,” I said as we watched her narrowly miss crashing into the Assjacket Diner as she flew off into the horizon.
“Understatement,” Jango agreed as he clapped his paws and produced ten ice bags. Tossing me one, he placed the other nine on his junk. “Should weese get Boba out of the splits?”
“Sure.” I limped across the room and pushed the down-for-the-count cat over. “Mission accomplished.”
“I’m never drinkin’ Canadian beer again,” Boba grumbled as he came to. “Makes my marbles sore.”
Jango laughed. I laughed. Boba electrocuted us with a wave of his paw.
We were back on track.
“Holy shit. Dem pictures suck,” Jango lamented, shaking his head in dismay.
My brother in crime was correct. All of the pictures of Sassy twerking were blurry. The only ones that had come out were the photos of the group splits—or giggleberry destroyer as we called the move.
“Weese need a photo for the sign. All legal businesses have signs,” Boba said, admiring his flexibility. “Even though weese can’t walk right because weese fractured our man jewels, I think weese should go for it.”
Snapping my toe beans, I enlarged the clearest picture to thirty feet by fifty feet. It was horrendous. The look of sheer terror on Jango’s face as his nards became one with the floor was only eclipsed by the expression of excruciating pain on my mug. Sassy was grinning like a fool and Boba looked dead.
Eyeing the photo with great doubt, I had an idea. “If weese spray paint it, maybe weese can make it work.”
“I don’t know,” Jango said, still icing his package. “It’s not our best look.”
Boba shrugged. “I think the picture tells a story.”
“The story of the demise of our gangoolies?” Jango grunted with a laugh.
“Nah, follow me, boys,” Boba insisted. “Go from left to right. I look dead.” He pointed to himself.
“Can’t argue dat,” I agreed.
“And den Jango is cryin’ like a girl cuz I’m dead,” Boba went on. “Fat Bastard, youse is feelin’ the pain of never seein’ me again, and Sassy has nice hooters. Perfect for a funeral home.”
While my brain was no longer marinated with Canadian beer, knowing how to run a legal business was still a stretch for all of us. Silently, we contemplated Boba’s observations.
“Boba might have a point,” Jango conceded. “Not real happy with how big all of our guts look, but it’s a shinin’ example of bereavement, and Sassy’s melons do look great.”
I nodded. We were making rancid lemonade out of rotten lemons minus the sugar, but the effort was there.
“Sometimes,” I
said. “Even when the result sucks bunghole, if the elbow grease is obvious den it’s a win. I firmly believe dat riskin’ our joysticks and dong pillows to go on the straight and narrow says a lot about our upstandin’ character. Weese should probably omit the part about bein’ wasted durin’ the photo shoot.”
“Roger dat,” Boba agreed. “Weese can spray paint little coffins over our bellies to minimize girth and let the people know weese don’t plan to just throw bodies into holes.”
“Brilliant,” I said, grabbing a can of paint and getting to work.
“Also, let’s paint some fire in the background to show the public dat weese will creamface dem as well,” Jango added, dropping his ice packs and diving in.
“Should weese add prices on the sign?” I asked. “Dat seems real professional to me.”
“Sure,” Boba said. “Five thousand clams for a coffin. Five thousand for a creamface. Five thousand for diggin’ a hole and five thousand for a custom spray paint. Makes it easy if all the prices are the same.”
I smiled and sighed with pride. “I just want youse assholes to know, I never could have done this without youse. While I’m sorry I took the dare, this is some meaningful fuckin’ time spent together. Aside from our swollen meat clackers, I’m real proud of us.”
“Sturgill is proud too,” Boba said, tearing up.
“How do youse know dat? He’s a rock.” I said, confused.
“I don’t,” he admitted. “Just wanted to add somethin’.”
“Let’s do this,” I said, grinning. “The faster weese get the business up and runnin’, the faster the week is over and weese can go back to a life of petty crime.”
We were a team—a team of douchebags. But that didn’t matter. We’d bonded as kittens in a gutter left to die many moons ago and had been together from that day forward. We had each other’s backs through thick and thin, legal and illegal, and stupid and really stupid.
Going on the straight and narrow for a week would be hard, but with my assholes by my side, it was doable.
Chapter Four
“No, just no,” Zelda said, staring up at the enormous sign with an expression of shock on her face.
“What do youse mean, no?” I demanded, insulted.
The sign had turned out great in my humble kitty opinion. It took us thirty minutes to enhance it with spray paint and an hour to hang it since it was fucking huge. We could have used magic to put the massive signage up, but we figured as straight and narrow businessmen we should do some physical labor. We also decided never to do that again. It was magic or forget it for anything else associated with our legal venture.
The little array of coffins over our guts made us look slim and trim, and we’d highlighted Sassy’s rack with lime green glitter and purple neon lights. The added touch made her hooters the star of our business. An hour ago, I figured Sassy would love it, but Zelda’s appalled reaction made me question my judgement—not that I actually had any judgement, but still.
In the end, since we had to write all the prices on the sign, we’d opted for one name—Don’t Stop Bereavin’. We played Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine the name, but when I lost, I called foul and changed it to a burping contest. Suffice it to say the leftover Canadian beer in my system made me the winner after I recited the entire first scene of Anchor Man during one outstanding and gag-worthy burp.
“Does Roger know you defaced his building with Sassy’s boobs?” Zelda asked.
“Not yet,” I replied, again doubting my wisdom. “He’s on vacation.”
She shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. “Mmkay, Assjacket doesn’t need a freakin’ funeral home,” Zelda informed me. “It’s an insult to my abilities as the Shifter Wanker. You feel me? That’s smack talking my skills of keeping clumsy-ass Shifters alive. You’re my familiars. You’re supposed to have my back.”
“Didn’t think about dat,” I admitted, feeling kind of bad. “But I’d like to point out since youse is the best fuckin’ Wanker in the Universe, weese won’t actually have to spray paint or creamface any stiffs. It’s a win-win for stayin’ on the right side of the law without actually havin’ to do nothin’.”
“Help me Goddess,” Zelda muttered, still staring at the sign. “I’m going out on a limb here and hoping like hell you meant cremate and not creamface.”
“Son of a bitch,” I screamed, glancing up in horror as I gaped at the truly disgusting faux pas we’d made. “Weese are gonna have to change all of our social media.”
“You put this shit up on social media?” Zelda choked out.
“Dat’s what legal business owners do,” I huffed with an eye roll. “Youse are the one who said weese should stay on the right side of the law.”
“My mistake,” Zelda replied with a pained laugh as she wiggled her fingers and fixed the wording on the sign. “Take down the social media. It’s a very bad idea.”
“Done,” I promised, pulling out my pilfered cell phone and deleting all fifty accounts I’d created.
Zelda sighed dramatically, walked over to Sturgill and sat down on the cement bench in front of him. My witch let her head fall to her hands and she groaned. “Did Sassy actually agree to be the face and boobs of a funeral home called Don’t Stop Bereavin?”
“Not exactly,” I told her, hoping she didn’t notice the word Seagull painted over Sturgill’s junk. “Weese was imbibin’ a bit, and I think Boba told her weese was openin’ a numeral dome for sssled steeeeeple.”
“Translate,” Zelda said.
“Funeral home for dead people,” I supplied with a grin. “He slurred a little and Sassy thought he was speakin’ Canadian.”
Zelda couldn’t bite back her answering grin even though she tried damn hard. “Goddess, this is a hot mess. However, it’s my fault. I never should have dared you.”
My brows rose in shock. “Youse takin’ it back?”
Dares were very serious business in the magical world. There was a price to pay for not taking a dare and a steeper price to pay to take a dare back.
“No way,” she said. “If I call it off, I have to accept a dare from you. Not happening. You asshats are insane.”
“Pot, kettle, black,” I shot back with a chuckle.
Our witch defined insanity and I loved her with all my kitty being. She was the perfect witch for us, and we were the perfect familiars for her. She regularly threatened the pound or setting us on fire, but that came with the territory. We were a lot to handle—literally. All three of us were on the chubby side, but I liked to think that there was simply more of us to love.
And Zelda loved us. Showing us by electrocution every now and then was just her way. Of course, we usually deserved it…
“Do you want to tell me why the bear is sporting the word Seagull where his privates used to be?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” I answered.
Turns out I didn’t have to.
“Weese named him Sturgill and named his stolen nards Big Sturgill on account of his hairy beans bein’ huge,” Jango Fett announced as he waddled out of our place of business and joined the conversation.
Boba was right on is heels.
“And Sassy, wantin’ to be Canadian, helped us out,” Boba explained.
Zelda eyed us like we’d rolled in dead bugs—which we enjoyed from time to time. “Okay. Still doesn’t explain why Seagull is painted over his junk.”
“Sassy can’t spell,” Boba said.
“Got it.” Zelda laughed. “It is sad that Sturgill’s bits got pilfered.”
“Weese are gonna get dem back,” I promised. “Dem sticky-fingered groundhogs did it. Youse don’t rip off a man’s dong pillow when he’s only got half a head to start with. It’s wrong.”
“You idiots are going to stay away from the groundhogs,” Zelda warned. “Mac is the sheriff, and he’ll take care of it. Am I clear? Apparently, they show up every couple decades or so and Mac has to run them off.”
Mac was a werewolf, Zelda’s mate and the bad
ass King of the Shifters, but groundhogs were tricky little bastards. To get into the mind of a criminal, you needed to be a criminal. We were criminals. And we were destined to return Sturgill’s junk. I felt it all the way to my toe beans.
“I hear what youse is sayin’.” I nodded and hoped she didn’t catch the omission.
Zelda stood up and glanced once more at the enormous billboard that we’d attached to the front of Roger’s building. “At least it’s only a week,” she muttered. “Has Sassy seen this travesty yet?”
“Ummm, nope,” I said, wondering if we were in for a waxing from the flying wanna-be Canadian menace.
Zelda laughed. I glanced over at my boys who shuddered and were clearly thinking along the same hairless lines as me. Maybe we should remove the sign. Getting waxed sucked.
“Good luck with that, asshats.” Zelda snapped her fingers and disappeared in a blast of sparkling green crystals.
“Are youse guys thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Jango asked, looking up at the sign with an unsure expression on his hairy face.
“Kinda,” Boba added. “But weese worked hard on dat sign and weese look hot.”
“While I agree dat weese are sexy, I’m a little worried Sassy might not like what weese did to her rack,” I said.
“Well den, let’s get rid of…” Jango said only to be cut off by the live version of the boobs under debate.
“Incoming!” Sassy squealed.
In a landing that defied aerodynamics, the witch crashed through the front window of our place of business in a blur. The most horrifying part was that Sassy had three passengers on her broom— the Canadians, who may or may not be dead at the moment.
“Youse think anyone lived through dat?” Jango asked with a wince.
“Sassy’ll be fine,” Boba assured us. “Saw her crash into a tree the other day and come out without a scratch. Don’t know about dem Canadians, though.”
“Well, if they kicked the bucket, they came to the right place,” I pointed out on a brighter note. “Weese might have our first stiffs.”
The Bad Boys of Assjacket: Magic and Mayhem Universe: Magic and Mayhem Book 9 Page 3
