A Fashionable Fiasco

by Robyn Peterman

  “Saint Bartholomew,” Lady Elaine Fairchilde snapped.

  “Right. Bartholomew,” I amended. “Oh, and I can send Studly down for a sleepover.”

  “I like Studly,” Fred said, placing King Friday and Lady Elaine back in the box. “He’s a lovely monkey. X the Owl is quite fond of him.”

  “So, you’re not mad at me?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m quite irate with you, Gaia. However, I still love you. Being angry doesn’t make love disappear. In fact, I wouldn’t be so angry if I didn’t love you so much, in a platonic way, that is.”

  “Of course,” I said with so much relief in my voice, Fred graced me with a small smile.

  “I would like those heinous women out of Purgatory immediately. And the flaming little people are causing issue as well.”

  “Well, dammit,” I said. “I was sure I doused the little suckers. And their presence here is an accident. I promise. I sent them away, but had no clue where I sent them.”

  “Happens to the best of us, dear,” Fred said as he dug himself out of the hidey-hole. “Let’s just send them somewhere else. Purgatory is a serene place and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  I was tempted to add it was boring and the crappy elevator music was mind-numbing, but I’d already worn out my welcome. Mostly, I was happy that Fred still loved me, in a platonic way. It would be difficult to find another pole dancing partner with his outstanding skills.

  “Will do,” I assured my buddy as I stepped out from behind the bush and gasped. I considered transporting away, but that would be very weenie of me. I wasn’t a weenie. I was Mother freakin’ Nature. Shit needed to get done? I was your girl. Plus, I was responsible for this particular shit.

  “Holy blazing midgets,” I shouted as I sprinted toward a gaggle of flaming little people. “I was sure I put you little bastards out in my dream. I am so sorry.”

  Clapping my hands, the ground trembled violently. Accidentally, I created a freakin’ mountain. I decided to pretend I’d meant to do that. Whatever. Purgatory was so flat and unattractive a mountain was a nice change of scenery. On purpose, I created a monsoon that engulfed the menagerie of ignited wee people. They were now floating in an enormous lake at the base of a beige mountain… and drowning.

  This was clearly not my day.

  “I’ll save you,” I bellowed as I dove into the impromptu lake and fished them out of what could potentially be their watery grave. Tossing the spitting and hissing ungrateful little assholes to the sandy shore, I dove back under and searched for more. After drop kicking a few to dry land who tried to bite me, I was done.

  Thankfully, I counted twenty pissed off peewees stomping around the sand and cursing like my granddaughter Astrid. She would be amused with the tiny shits. I was not.

  And that’s when I got beaned in the head with a stiletto. At least it was a Jimmy Choo. If I was going to be impaled by footwear, it should be expensive footwear.

  “What are you doing?” Fran shrieked from the edge of the lake with her other shoe poised above her head.

  “Throw it and you will eat it. And trust me… it won’t go down smoothly,” I snapped as I stomped out of the lake. “And for your information, Fran, I was saving the little people. Apparently, they can’t swim.”

  “Of course, they can’t swim. They’re Mini Fire Gnomes,” Fran grunted, raised her shoe again then lowered it as my wet curls began to blow wildly around my head and my fingers began to spark ominously.

  The Fearsome Five were simply awful—violent, mean and rotund. Granted, they had style, but they were heinous. However, I still wanted to be in their club. Incinerating one of them was probably a bad plan. But if Fran threw another shoe, her ass would be ash.

  “It would certainly be a shame if you went up in flames, Fran,” I said with a smile on my face that didn’t reach my eyes.

  I snapped my fingers and winked at the gals. The horrid elevator music in Purgatory stopped. The light, stale wind that always blew through the beige landscape ceased. Even the profane fiery mini freaks went mute. You could hear a pin drop.

  I was fabulous and quite scary when I chose to be.

  “Well… you, umm… shouldn’t submerge Mini Fire Gnomes in water,” Fran sputtered, backing away. “You could have… you know… killed them.”

  “My apologies to the flaming midgets,” I said, waving at them as all twenty flipped me off. Whatever. I suppose I’d be pissed too if I were them—and thank my son God I wasn’t.

  Fate had been correct. She hadn’t set the little people on fire. That was their normal—a very strange normal if you asked me. But no one had asked me—or told me. If I’d known, I never would have doused the angry little bastards… three times. With so many species of Immortals running around today, I simply couldn’t keep them all straight.

  Getting back to business, I approached the Fearsome Five and giggled with delight when they flinched as I drew near. “You five ladies—and I use the term loosely—made Mr. Rogers—the nicest man in the Universe—bury himself alive,” I hissed as peach glitter danced with menace around me. “God really likes Mr. Rogers a lot. And Satan? Satan adores him. This bodes poorly for you seeing tomorrow. You feel me? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  Joan stepped forward—kind of. It would be more accurate to say she was shoved forward by her traitorous posse. Her green-tinted skin was on display and her horrible attitude was firmly in place. “While we might—and I’m not saying we do—owe Mr. Rogers an apology, you owe us one, Gaia,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me as an impressively unattractive wart popped out on her nose.

  Joan had such big balls. She really was quite spectacular. And unfortunately, the Witch was correct. I did owe them an apology of sorts. I was just unsure if I could apologize without causing a natural disaster that would make Purgatory a thing of the past.

  “Fine,” I snapped, trying to conjure up the calming voice of my embarrassingly named therapist in my mind. I was going to have to chat with Darby Dick Demon. It wasn’t respectable for Mother Nature to be seeing a headshrinker with a name like that. “You well-dressed shrews will apologize to Fred first. Then and only then will I attempt to express regret. However, I would suggest taking cover when I do so. It could get messy.”

  Exchanging alarmed glances, the five turned to the bush where Fred was still hiding and ate humble pie.

  Velma the Elf cleared her throat and shrunk in size. This was not the best of signs, but I wouldn’t electrocute her unless necessary. I was prepared to smite the helium-voiced hellion if she so much as looked cross-eyed as my dear Mr. Rogers.

  “I’m sorry my friends are such heinous, disgusting, revolting, vile, deplorable wenches,” she squeaked and then giggled. “Goodness, it feels lovely to say that out loud.”

  “Thank you for your unusual expression of regret,” Fred called out from behind the bush.

  “What kind of apology was that?” Cathy the sweaty Fairy demanded as she swatted Velma in the back of the head and sent her flying. “My turn. Even though none of this is my fault, I would like to seriously apologize for the appalling behavior of my bitches.”

  “Umm… okay,” Fred replied, still completely obscured by the beige bush.

  “For the love of everything ridiculous,” Hortense grumbled as she kicked Cathy in the ass so hard, she landed on top of the prone Velma. “That was a dreadful mea culpa. Watch and learn. Mr. Rogers, I would like to extend my deepest condolences to you for having to live in Purgatory. I didn’t mean to gnaw a hole in your sweater, but things happen. If you would send me the bill, I will happily replace the unattractive outerwear.”

  “No worries,” Fred said. “I have thousands.”

  “Very well then,” Hortense said, stepping back into the line and falling over Velma and Cathy.

  Fran the Gnome—not a Mini Fire Gnome, thank the Heavens—stepped forward clutching her pearls nervously. “Normally, I would blame Velma for anything that goes wrong. However, today I’ve decided that Horten
se shall shoulder the blame for everything. You’re welcome and I think Lady Elaine Fairchilde needs a nose job—just a suggestion,” Fran said and then curtsied.

  These women were far worse than I was with apologies. I was perfect for their club.

  Fred was silent after that one. I didn’t blame him.

  “You are all imbeciles,” Joan snapped. She walked over to the bush and yanked Mr. Rogers from his hiding place. “Mr. Rogers, our behavior was awful. All of us are to blame. I will apologize for each and every one of us. If there is any way to make this right we will happily do so.”

  “We will?” Velma squeaked from the bottom of the big-assed Immortal socialite pile.

  “Yes, we will,” Joan hissed as she produced her wand and swung it toward her posse.

  They were all now wearing polyester housecoats. It was debilitating for them. They rolled around on the ground like they were on fire. Joan had some very smooth moves.

  “So, Mr. Rogers,” she continued calmly as if her peeps weren’t having seizures three feet from where she stood. “What can we do to make this up to you?”

  “Umm… leave?” Fred suggested so politely it didn’t even sound rude.

  “As you wish,” Joan said, nodding in respect. With another wave of her wand, her cohorts were impeccably dressed again. “As soon as Gaia has apologized, we will be departing.”

  Shit. It was my turn. It wasn’t as if I had a hard act to follow. They sucked at saying they were sorry—well, not Joan, but the rest of them certainly did.

  “Okay,” I muttered with an eye roll hoping we all survived the next few minutes.

  Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, I braced myself to let it rip. I was going to improvise—or rather pull it out of my ass. There was a fifty-fifty chance everyone would live.

  “A deal is a deal. I’ve had time to think about what I’ve done and I realize that whatever you need me to realize to justify what you require for your power trip is acceptable. In the future, I will do my best to hide how much you irritate me, especially since I still want to be a member of your club.”

  I took the blank stares as a compliment or possibly jealousy. My apology far exceeded theirs and I was just getting started. “Basically, I would like to apologize for making the mistake you believe I made. Mistakes happen. I’m sure you are aware of this every time you look in the mirror. I say we just forget anything ever happened until the day I need to hold something over your heads in the name of blackmail.”

  “Is that it?” Velma asked with her eyes squinted in confusion.

  “There’s more,” I said.

  “Seriously?” Cathy asked, looking more bewildered than Velma.

  “Quite,” I replied. “I’d like to go on record wishing you gals a speedy recovery from your embarrassing overreaction to a teeny tiny case of food poisoning. And in conclusion, I’d like to say it’s very difficult for me to pretend to be wrong, but I’m willing to do so because I need a favor. Amen and thank you for your time.”

  There was a full five minutes of silence in appreciation for the best and most sincere apology ever spoken. I was quite proud of myself even though I couldn’t follow much of what I’d just said. It didn’t matter. Clearly, they had understood and were in awe of me. Plus, no one died and I called that a win.

  “Was that even an apology?” Hortense muttered, perplexed.

  Joan laughed and shook her head. “Of a sort,” she said. “Gaia, after that word vomit, I would like to extend a junior membership to you from the Eternal Crème de la Crème Society. It has become quite clear that you are as unhinged as the rest of us.”

  Jumping up and down, I squealed with delight and caused a small earthquake. “Can we be the Psycho Six?”

  “Heaven and Hell help us all,” Fred muttered as he went back and hid behind the bush.

  “Not quite yet,” Joan said. “You have to serve your apprenticeship.”

  “I will pass with flying colors,” I promised, still giddy.

  “You require a favor, Gaia?” Joan pressed.

  My giddiness disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Ugly reality reared its head. Pacing the bland landscape, I wondered how much to reveal. Well heck, we could all be dust by the end of the week. I may as well lay it out on the table.

  “This might sound unbelievable,” I began.

  “We’re Immortal. We’re hanging out in Purgatory. There are miniature Gnomes on fire about twenty feet from us spouting profanities that I’ve never even heard,” Joan pointed out. “We will believe you.”

  I really liked Joan a lot.

  “Mmmkay. Here it goes—the end times may be near and I need to learn to cook to stop them,” I explained. “The only reasonable solution to the dilemma is to kidnap Bootsie Cockrocker and have her teach me. I tried to find her at the grocery store, but she wasn’t there. I’m certain I wrote the wrong address down from the internet. However, it was fortuitous that the spawn of the Antichrist was shopping for cake mixes and I ran into him. The ancient shit-ass might have begun the Apocalypse—not sure about that yet—which would suck tremendously. That, coupled with the warning dream that implied I have to solve the shit show before we all die in a few days, has really screwed up my week. Also, if any of you own masculine looking aprons, I need to borrow them. It’s going to be tricky to force my boys to wear one of mine since they’re all frilly.”

  “I have a few blue denim aprons,” Hortense volunteered. “They’re trimmed in pom-poms, but I wouldn’t call them frilly. The pom-poms are yellow—a unisex color so your boys should be fine. You’re welcome to borrow them, Gaia.”

  “Wonderful,” I replied. “Full disclosure—Satan is apt to incinerate his. Is that acceptable?”

  Hortense nodded. “I’m not in my pom-pom phase anymore. I’m more into fringe and faux fur at the moment. No worries.”

  “Wait. Who is the Bootsie Cockrocker?” Velma demanded, snapping her fingers and producing a laptop computer. “I am excellent on the interwebs. I can hack into any web-hole as long as there’s enough internet juice.”

  Interesting. I’d never heard of this internet juice. Maybe that was why I had the wrong address for Becky Custer. I’d have to find out where to procure this internet juice and which hole on the computer to pour it into.

  “My bad. I meant Boopsy Canker,” I corrected myself.

  “Can’t find a Boopsy Canker,” Velma muttered as she typed away on her keyboard so fast I couldn’t even see her fingers.

  “Try Bossy Cocksucker,” Fred yelled from behind the bush.

  “On it,” Velma said, typing even faster. “Nothing.”

  Joan looked over Velma’s shoulder and wrinkled her warty nose in thought. “Are you sure you have the name right, Gaia?”

  “Umm… no,” I admitted. “I’m not.”

  I hated being wrong, but desperate times called for unheard of confessions.

  “Tell us a little about this person,” Hortense suggested, pulling a piece of string from her pocket and flossing her fangs. “Maybe we can figure it out together. Working as a team can result in true excellence or loss of limb.”

  “Wonderful idea,” I replied with enthusiasm. If this was what having friends was like, I was all in. Hortense’s manners were a little iffy, but her Chanel pantsuit was stunning. “She’s a famous chef. Wears a dated red blazer and pearls. She must be loaded since there had to be hundreds of her cake mixes at the grocery store.”

  “Ohhhhh, I know who you’re talking about,” Cathy said, pressing her temples as her wings popped out and began to flutter in excitement. “Umm… I think her name is Bobbie Cooter.”

  “Nope,” Velma said, staring at the screen of her laptop. “Not finding a chef named Bobbie Cooter.”

  “Try Bulky Custard,” Fran suggested.

  “Nope. No chef named Bulky Custard either,” Velma said.

  “Hulky Buttard?” Fran tried again.

  “Are you serious?” Velma snapped. “Hulky Buttard isn’t even a name. I mean, it’s a fine
description of what you look like right now, but it’s definitely not a name.”

  “Watch your mouth, Elf,” Fran warned. “That computer would look fantastic shoved in it.”

  Gracious, these gals were fun. I hoped my apprenticeship wasn’t too long since we might not be alive next week.

  “Give Bitchy Clapper a try,” Joan said, still peering over Velma’s shoulder.

  “Nada,” Velma said, defeated.

  “For the love of all that is culinary,” Fred griped as he popped up from behind the bush. “Not only are you women violent, but you are also sadly undereducated in cooking excellence. Try Betsy Cocker,” he instructed and then quickly went back into hiding.

  “That’s it,” I shouted as the earth trembled beneath our feet. “That’s her name.”

  “Got it!” Velma yelled. “Tons of pictures of her. She looks like she’s fond of plastic surgery as her look changes often. But it’s clearly the same woman. The outfit is the constant.”

  “Is there an address?” I asked, joining Joan and studying the screen.

  “Yep,” Velma squealed as a grin spread across her lips. Her squeaky voice almost popped my eardrum. “Says right here that she’s starring in a television commercial—two o’clock in Chicago. You need an appointment and a headshot to get in and you’re supposed to be in the union. Sides will be provided.”

  “Like potato salad?” Cathy asked. “I love potato salad.”

  “It says sides,” Velma said checking her screen. “I take that to mean more than one. However, Hortense is probably shit out of luck since humans don’t usually serve blood bags as side dishes.”

  “I always get the shaft at human gatherings,” Hortense lamented.

  “Ladies, this is no time to be talking about food. We have a kidnapping to plan to halt the end times. Do any of you have headshots?” I questioned.

  “No, but I always carry a Polaroid camera in my Gucci bag,” Hortense announced, scooping it out and displaying it with pride.

  “Why on earth do you carry a camera?” Joan asked. “You’re a Vampyre. You don’t even show up in pictures.”