Post by cooltubesource on Aug 23, 2019 21:31:09 GMT -5
Its good to be home.
Rain pours down on a duo of women as they walk up a long flight of steps. Dressed in a red and black dress trailing to her feet, a translucent black veil pinned into the front of a many-plumed hat and falling to her chin, Sarah Grey-Lacklan was the image of The Blood Princess in every form. Her spiked heels clack loudly on the cement leading towards the grand manor of archaic architecture and a host of women dressed in black and silver rush out from the house to meet her with umbrellas held high. Next to her, Kenzi Grey-Lacklan wore a simple “DGP” t-shirt and jeans, proudly annoying her wife’s inclination for pomposity, particularly when at her family’s home in Maine. Her multitude of braids were soaked from the rain and her face was pulled into a scowl, and she was more than happy to find herself under the offered umbrellas and relief from the rain.
I love my life with Mackenzie. It has been over two and a half years since I left home, and while nearly every moment of my life has been magical...and I wouldn’t even trade in the times of pain and tears...SoCal can SUCK MY THIRD TOE! I HATE the weather! I HATE the sun! It’s ALWAYS too hot! How can my Beloved STAND IT?!
The women give them deep curtsies as they proffer the umbrellas, to which Sarah gives the tiniest nod of her head. Kenzi shoots her an annoyed glare and then proceeds to loudly thank the service staff of the Lacklan Manor, even offering one of them a hug. Sarah rolls her eyes in response, as one would imagine.
Ugh. Wives are the WORST. She has been trying to get me to think of the servants as “employees” since even before we got married and it is SO tiresome. They LOVE serving me! They always have! They get SO MUCH intrinsic reward and value from it! But NOOOOO. I had to increase their PAY, too. Ugh. Kenzi and her ‘you need to treat people better!’ routine. She is SO lucky she has that SWEET bottom!
Into the house the women go, through the large double French doors and into the grand foyer. Kenzi immediately starts shaking off the rain from her body, her alto voice full of grumbles over the weather and the travel. But instead of shaking herself off, Sarah freezes after walking through the doors. The red eyes behind the glasses are wide with wonder and the lips painted her usual harlot’s red spread open a little as her jaw drops.
Oh, Father. Daddy. How I miss you.
Her eyes move across numerous objects in the foyer. Three busts were the centerpiece of the space, created and featured to naturally draw the eye toward them. Made of polished marble, they were all of the same person, though in three distinctly different forms. First, a man with a strong chin and long hair flowing to his waist. Second, a man with a mask on his face and the hair replaced by a burned skull. Third, the man with his entire head covered by a hooded mask with a large visor and breathing apparatus.
I hope I make you proud, Father.
Sarah walks forward slowly, the natural skip in her step currently gone, until she stands before the trio. So lost in thought and memory, she does not hear Kenzi walk up behind her and jumps slightly as the caramel starlet puts her arms around her waist and hugs her from behind. Sarah leans her head back far enough so that their cheeks touch and she lets out a deep sigh.
“I love you, babe.”
Sarah shutters slightly at Kenzi’s whisper.
Ya know, I wasn’t EXACTLY known for being the MOST chaste person in the world when I was younger..shit up, Roxy, I can hear you snickering even in my inner monologue...but I am STILL putty in this woman’s arms. Like nothing I ever experienced before. I was always searching, ya know? Searching for an emotional connection. Searching for an equal. A partner. When I lived here...when I lived under Daddy’s gaze and under his words...I never would have thought that it would end up being a black woman from across the country, but here we are. And it will forever haunt me...SHAME me...that he only met her once or twice. They met briefly when she came to my 19th birthday party...we had only known each other for a few weeks but already knew we were BFFs...and then for but a few moments months later when we began dating. He didn’t get to see us wed. He didn’t get to see how happy we are. But he knows. He looks down upon us from God’s side and knows.
A clearing of the throat turns the heads of both Grey-Lacklans. Sarah smiles widely at the person, though Kenzi freezes, her grip turning to iron around her wife’s waist. Sarah squeezes Kenzi’s hands three times in quick succession, a silent message between them that things were okay. Still, Kenzi’s grip was one of protection and it did not lesson or slip. Never when in the face of Sebastian Hargrave.
“Princess. Duchess.”
He gives deep bows of his head with each name.
“A pleasure, as always.”
I can feel Kenzi holding me tighter. And tighter. And tighter. I squeeze her hands again, let her know that its okay, but still, her anger grows. I can hear her starting to growl deep in her throat. Shit. Is the wolf coming out? Normally that turns my legs to water but now is NOT the time. I do NOT want to have to explain to anyone that my wife has maimed...or murdered...Mister Hargrave! I squeeze again. Nothing. I understand. Can’t blame her. What his son did...it can’t be forgotten. But still.
I hum. A soft tune. Just low enough for her to hear. Not our wedding. Older. Even older than the one about following each other into the dark. I hum a song about how I would feel if I ever left this world alive.
Her grip loosens. She calms. Good. I should whisper to her, reassure her.
“...keep that energy for later, my wolf…”
Sarah hisses softly as Kenzi’s nails dig into the top of her hands. Kenzi turns her head slightly to press her lips to Sarah’s ear and to turn her eyes away from Hargrave.
“...I plan to…”
Sarah’s pale cheeks turn a bright scarlet as she tries to ignore Kenzi and focus on Hargrave. Tall and thin with wild graying hair, he had been right-hand man of the Lord Lacklan during his lifetime, and the accountant was as important to the Lacklan family and trust as any other. He had seemed genuinely shocked and horrified at what his son Jacob had done two year ago, though the Grey-Lacklans were split on his sincerity.
“Mister Hargrave. I trust our rooms are prepared.”
The man gives her another nod.
“And the meeting commences in two hours, enough time for you two to rest.”
Sarah gives him a nod of her own. While they had personal matters, the two of them were there for a meeting of the stakeholders of the Lacklan trust. Sarah normally participated in the meetings via teleconference as they traveled the world for their wrestling careers, but she had opted to be in person this time.
“And Godfather?”
Hargrave gives her a flat stare.
“The Writer is spending time with the First Citizen.”
Sarah gives him another nod after rolling her eyes. She hesitates for a moment and then asks another question.
“And Step-Mumsie?”
Sarah cocks her head to the side in that inquisitory way of the Lacklans, one even Kenzi had begun to pick up, like that of a bird looking at a particularly tasty worm, and Hargrave answers.
“No one has seen her in weeks. After your...company...left the grounds in July, she shut herself up in her quarters. No one has seen or heard from her since. Except for Redmaine, of course. He takes her all meals. It is...disconcerting.”
WrestleStock. Step-Mumsie had surged. Defeated everyone in her path. Won the Massive Melee. And then faltered against Angelica. My Beloved MAY have given a SMALL, TINY, SUPER TEENY assist with that, but she fall, she still did. And she hasn’t returned a single #DigitalPigeon of mine since.
Yes, I axly say the word “hashtag” in my inner monologue.
I have spent a LOT of time hating Ava Quinn. She COULD have been the bestest older sister ever. Shit, she WAS! But then she decided to try to be my MUMSIE. Bitch, please. NO ONE will EVER replace my Mumsie. NO ONE. But what I did...as my Beloved has rightly pointed out...because she is a MUCH better person than I am...was cruel. And mean.
Just like how Ava has to come to grips with the fact that Daddy DID approve of my relationship with Kenzi, I have to come to grips with the fact that Daddy and Ava DID love each other. There were a LOT of stupid whores who wanted Daddy’s money...holy SHIT there was a lot, and I even knew that when I was a kid...but only ONE was worthy of putting a ring on her finger.
I broke my family.
Its my job to fix it.
Sarah gives Hargrave a slow nod.
“Understood. We will take our respite, now.”
Before long, the two Grey-Lacklans were rested, showered, and changed. The meeting, attended by faces Sarah had known her entire life, was as droll and boring as usual. She was not the BEST at math, but she had always had a good head for accounting, and she understood investment strategies. Kenzi was usually absent from these meetings, though the Grey-Lacklans talked in depth about their futures and ideas outside of them, but she was present for this one, and more than one face wore a surprised expression at how well she came off.
That’s right, you racist fucktards. I get it...I GET IT! This place was all ABOUT hate for a VERY long time, but if Daddy can see the error of his ways, why can’t you? I GET that so many of you were against my marriage initially, but holy FUCK! Its been almost two years! And Kenzi is badass! Take it, old white foggie racists! Take it all!
The meeting adjourned, dinner was had in the great hall and a whole new game was played. Much of Sarah’s upbringing had been in these settings, where words were weapons and what was said was not necessarily what was meant. The world of politics and subterfuge had been what was her destiny, and though she chose to follow her father’s career instead, she still had the training and natural aptitude for the task. And though she’d never admit it, so did Kenzi: The actress knew how to perform.
Alone in their rooms that night, Kenzi’s eyes were full of devious fire.
“I don’t care if that bitch is here or not...I’m going to make sure she HEARS us no matter WHERE she is!”
Sarah’s entire body turned scarlet in full understanding that Kenzi’s words were no mere threat. And as per usual when the Grey-Lacklans were home, many staff members throughout the house found themselves closing doors and covering the ears of children.
My life rocks.
The Writer holds in his breath as he hears the sound of clopping hooves. He closes his tired eyes and lets the breath out slowly, his body feeling every bit of its weary age.
“We ‘ave comp’ny, brudder.”
He opens his eyes and takes in the form of the owner of the voice. With a massive beard of gray curls and a hairy body full of wirey muscles, Skeeter sat on the log next to him with his one good eye looking over his shoulder. The fire pit between them brought a much-needed warmth in the dreary morning, as well as a way to heat the water for their coffee, and it lit up the false eye that stared lifelessly and unmoving at him. A bear in these very woods had taken the eye of the wildman, as well as nearly maimed one of his arms, but that bear’s pelt made a comfortable bed for him to sleep on when he visited his old friend.
“I know. Its why I’m here, I suppose.”
The Writer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small compact, black with dazzling rhinestones which catch the light of the fire. When he opens it, those tired blue eyes look down to where the makeup once was and now was placed a picture of a raven-haired beauty with a red stripe running down the front of her head who had her lips pressed to the cheek of a man who looked much like the Writer himself once upon a time. When his eyes travel upward to the mirror, he sighs at his reflection. It had only been a little under three years since that picture was taken, but he had aged much in that time.
He snaps the compact shut with a loud clack and pushes himself to his feet. His body groans in defiance, his joints screaming their protest, but he still stands. Skeeter joins him, the man standing tall enough for the Writer’s eyes to meet his shoulder. He whistles and two hound dogs run from the small log cabin behind them, tongues wagging from their mouths in hopes of treats.
“C’mon out. Pay yer ‘spects.”
The Writer sighs once more before turning around to face the sound of the hooves. A tall black horse with an elegant shaggy mane, Fireheart had been the Sweet 16 present that every girl in the world wanted but only spoiled ones received. The Friesian mare has strong and swift and had a temperament to match her owner. And that owner had arrived with every bit of ostentatious nonsense he had anticipated: Wearing a black and red dress with skirts specifically divided for riding, Fangs sat atop the saddle with the practiced ease of one trained to ride since childhood, and she slowed to a halt a few steps before them. She was wearing one of her ridiculous hats, as he also had expected, along with the translucent black veil which was a part of her “Blood Princess” station.
“First Citizen. Godfather.”
She gives them both a nod of her head as she speaks to them and the Writer has to bite the inside of his cheek in order to not sigh. Skeeter, of course, gave her his own nod of his head.
“Lil’ sistur.”
Another bite of the cheek to hold off a sigh. The Writer knew the truth of Sarah’s Londoner accent...a mimic's desperate plea to stay connected to a mother she never knew...but there was nothing fake or put on about Skeeter’s thick Alabama accent. Many people could not even understand half of what he said!
“Fangs.”
She gives him a flat stare and he sees that her eyes are blue today. Her dad’s shade. He finally relents and gives her a small nod in return, and then she dismounts the horse after in one smooth movement, dropping down near six feet to the grass below. His eyes open in surprise when she lands gently, without a hitch in her legs to be seen; it seems she indeed had fully recovered from her time in that wheelchair. Reaching into a small bag attached to the horse’s saddle, she pulls out a carrot and feeds it to Fireheart while chittering at her. Along with accents, she is remarkably talented at mimicking animal sounds. After giving Fireheart a thankful pat, she turns to face them again, putting her focus on Skeeter.
“First Citizen. It is good to see that you are well.”
She kneels down, spreading her skirts a bit as she does so, and gives out a high whistle. The two hound dogs rise from their haunches and rush over to her, accepting ear scratches from gloved hands.
“And you, too! Are you good boys? Are you being good boys from Uncle Skeeter? Are you helping keep Lacklan Forest safe?”
Wags of tails and slobbering tongues answer in the affirmative.
“Lookin’ to add a pup to yer menag’rie?”
The girl shakes her head at Skeeter’s question.
“No...though I could have SWORN the Duchess wanted one the other day. Kept going on and on about puppies, but when I pressed her for it, she snapped at me and yelled ‘No!’ like I had done something wrong. Wives are SO confusing.”
She rises to her feet after a final pat for each dog, and the Writer is once again impressed by the girl’s ability to go back and forth between voices in such a fluid way.
“I do not wish to be rude, but I was hoping for a quiet moment with Godfather.”
The Writer and Skeeter share a look with one another before the wildman nods his head.
“Its’ a’right. Brunhide be needin’ this med’cine.”
The girl gives him a curious look and the Writer shakes his head. She had always been overly interested in the spiders in the forest, and he hoped she didn’t learn what the wildman’s medicines were for in this particular case.
“C’mon, Fangs.”
She glares at him as he turns and begins to walk. He walks alone for a moment but then he hears crunching of leaves behind him. Before long, she catches up to him and the two walk in silence side by side along a path through the trees. The forest is typical for Maine, outside of the spiders, anyway...and what might possibly be the ability for small animals to turn into humanoid versions of themselves...populated by fir, beech, and birch. Strong trees which made infamously good stationary, one of the many industries under the banner of the girl’s family. What was left of it, anyway.
“So...what’s up?”
He has not heard from her in months. Things have been tense between them since his wife died. She had loved her Godmother, and she blamed the pain caused by their separation, no matter how temporary, as a contributing factor to her quickly declined health. While medical science might disagree, he did not hold it against her. Lord knows how many bottles he had emptied with the same thought in his own mind. And then last week, a summons via text. It takes the girl several more strides to respond, but that response surprises him.
“I need your help.”
She never asked for help. In anything. He stays silent, allowing her to work through this at her own pace.
“My friends...you know my friends…we have a problem. We are torn asunder lately and its my job to fix it all. I have always been the heart of my circle. I’m the reason why we came together! The star with the gravitational pull to bring the planets in close. And I have always believed that my little galaxy could live up to a particular expectation, something that defies the logic of professional wrestling, or any sport, for that matter. That we could train together, prepare together, WIN together. And also LOSE together. To push ourselves to be the best. To PROVE that we ARE the best by BESTING each other. And then coming together in hugs and cheers, in celebration of victory and the love of sport.”
She grows silent for a time. Birds chirp in the trees above, black and bluebirds, and perhaps even a puffin or two not yet flown for the coming winter. She liked birds. She liked a LOT of animals. He had even bought her a cat when she was little. And of course, Z gave her the bunny a couple of years ago as a gift from Fairy Godmother to her Little Babygirl.
“Things went well for the first year or so. But this last year? Its been tough. The four of us are at the top of our game, especially now that I’m back full time. There is a lot of competition between us. And...unfortunately...not much in the way of comradeship. Roxy seemed to avoid fighting Angie at all costs, much like how my Beloved refused to fight me at first, but that has gone away. And perhaps been replaced by...smugness? Yes, smugness. Angie has been in a dour mood since losing her championships. And Kenzi is at Roxy’s throat, ready to rip it out, if it proves that she is correct that Roxy specifically injured her for the sake of her championship. It has NOT been pretty, lately.”
More silence as they walk through the trail, now beginning to circle back towards Skeeter’s cabin. Skeeter was important, and had earned the title of First Citizen, through a remarkable dedication to Fang's dad. When Western medicine had failed the man, it was Skeeter’s mountain man holistic remedies that had taken away the pain of Stage Four cancer so that he could pass peacefully. He had promised Lacklan that he would watch after the girl, though she didn’t seem to need it, and had been beside himself when he had learned of the various injuries that had befallen her outside of the ring.
“Its up to me to pull us back together, Godfather. I’m the reason we are together, so I need to be the reason we STAY together. Thus, I hatched a plan. We like to play games, you see? Video games, board games, being dumb with each other on Twitter. So I thought that a break like THIS needed a much BIGGER game. Instead of us just playing ourselves in the video games, we could play someone REAL. Have someone follow our instructions like in the game. But not just ANYONE. Someone special. Someone flashy. Someone FUN. Because we need FUN.”
She stops suddenly and holds onto his arm. The Writer stops with her and looks down at her, down nearly half a foot. He is not a tall man in any way, but the world towers over her. That was why it is so important that she controls every room she walks into with her personality. Which she does.
“I need YOU.”
The Writer shakes his head for a moment.
“Dexter Severin is retired, Fangs.”
A smirk comes to her full red lips.
“And STILL Chickenwing Eating Champion…”
His eyes go wide.
“I...um...I mean...what?”
She giggles at him, the light and high-pitched laugh from the girl always surprising to people when coming from someone known to be vicious in her actions and words.
“I’ve known you were the Generic Heel from the moment you popped up. No one else does, though. Except perhaps Johnny. He’s a hard read with those dumb sunglasses on all the time.”
The Writer shakes his head.
“Listen, I-”
“I don’t care why you are hiding behind a mask. Play the fool all you want. That’s not who I want, anyway. I don’t want the Generic Heel to wrestle for me.”
He shakes his head at her again.
“I told you, Dexter Sev-”
“I don’t want HIM, either.”
He gives her an odd look and she waves him off dismissively.
“You were too successful as yourself, Godfather. Godmother unlocked something inside of you that none of us knew existed. You won multiple championships as yourself...even pinned Nikita when she was World Champion! No, I need someone FAR less successful yet FAR more entertaining. I need someone who can go into that ring, embarrass the hell out of himself, make everyone laugh, and help bring my friends back together. Winning is secondary.”
The Writer shakes his head.
“I don’t-”
“I need the person who taught me how to cut a shoot. I need the person who taught me how to turn a terribly bad MSN chatroom where I was gushing over my favorite wrestler into a world-wide vlog pushing at Kardashian numbers. I need the person who taught ME how to take a SINGLE victory and turn it into a LIFETIME of annoying reminders. I need the person who could set an entire fed on fire with specific loathing and hatred.”
She looks down and reaches into her purse. A burst of affection and sadness works its way through the Writer’s heart as he sees the ears of ‘Lil Hasenpfeffer Grey-Lacklan poking from the top, that Fairy Godmother’s gift. The girl pulls out an iPhone, which in itself nearly stops the Writer’s heart, and after several awkward moments go by where she presses many, many buttons until she finds the right one, she looks back up at him.
“I need…”
The sound of a lone trumpet plays from the iPhone with a long tone, a C in the middle of the staff.
“...NEED…”
The note rises up a 5th to a G.
“...the ONE and ONLY…”
The note rises a 3rd to the upper C.
“...Tragik.”
“DUH DUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Sarah’s voice sings out with the song on the iPhone, the famous modulation of E to Eb which sent chills down the spine of anyone watching A Space Odyssey: 2001.
“Can you do it?!”
The Writer is silent in his shock. “Tragik the Magnificent.” His first stage name. An assumed personality, or a “gimmick” as some would call it in the marketing world. A persona he left in the dunes of Texas when he married his late wife Zoe Chaos.
“Fangs...I…”
He shakes his head in despair. A lifetime ago. Yes, he has put on the red and blue lucha mask of the Generic Heel for reasons he was not ready to talk about, for a promise he made to a friend that he dare not let Sarah know of, but this? This was different. He wasn’t that person anymore.
“Duuuuuuhhhhh DUHHHHHHHH DAHHHHHHHHHHH”
She and the phone were persistent. Maddeningly so.
“DAAAAAAHHHHHHH DAHHHHHHHHHHH!”
A shiver goes through him as Sarah and the phone go up the octave on the modulation. Like all those times he walked out onto the stage and swagged his way down the aisle with nameless and faceless Asian hookers on his arm serving as valets.
“Can you do it?!”
His mouth opens slightly, but he is afraid to answer. Afraid to go back to the man who would style and profile his way down the aisle. Afraid to go back to the man who snorted coke off the asses of the Asian hooker valet. Afraid to go back to the man who would grab the house mic, tell them to cut his music so that he can show all the women what a REAL man looked like, and shook and swiveled his hips to the Stripper.
“I SAID CAN YOU DO IT?!”
His eyes snap back into focus at his Goddaughter. Her contacts gave her the shade of her dad’s eyes, but the shape of them were her mother’s. Lena. His best friend.
“I need TRAGIK-”
“THE MAAAAAG-NIIIIIIIII-FIIIIIIII-CEEEEEENT!”
And just like that, he found himself screaming out into the forest, causing those late-traveling puffins to scatter.
“I hope your friends are ready, Sar! Because on Monday, in but two day’s time, the face the man who causes women to become pregnant just by being in his presence-”
He thrusts his pelvis.
“-the man who other men pray to God they can kiss the feet of-”
Another pelvic thrust.
“-the man who little kids spend their entire lives worshiping and adoring, wishing that they had HIM as their daddy-”
Thrust!
“-and who might very well BE their daddy because I absolutely banged their mom before, during, and even AFTER their wedding day-”
Ew.
“-the Sultan of Swag, the undefeated and undisputed King of Sexy, the undeniable and stoppable Muffin of Studleyville. I’m the man who taught Angie how to lace her boots, who taught J-Bone how to do a roll-up, and the dream so wet that Bobbi conned her flood insurance into paying for the damage I caused. And it doesn’t even MATTER who your friends bring into that ring. You know why? Because all three of them could come together as a team, each of them backed up by fuckin’ ARMIES armed with rifles, missiles, machine guns, fuckin’ NUKES, and I’ll stand across from him in my birthday suit carrying nothing but a pair of swordchucks made from two sporks and a fishing line and it would be a SLAUGHTER. Rivers of blood, guts and body parts hanging from the rafters, each and every one of those pets from that stupid six-person tag match crying over the carnage I wrought. Because I am Tragik-”
He takes in a deep breath.
“THE MAGNFICEEEEEEEEEEENT!”
As his voice trails off into the trees, the Writer breathes deeply in order to settle himself. After many moments, he looks back down at his Goddaughter and his eyes threaten to flood with tears. Like the shape of her eyes, the smile on her face was her mother’s. The REAL smile, not the one she marketed as being “Billion $$$.” A smile of mischievousness. Of joy.
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
She leaps forward and takes him in a hug, her arms too short to reach all the way around his girth. He hears her mumble “...ugh...you got fat again…” but he doesn’t mind. She has not hugged him in two years. He returns the hug, holding her close.
“One time. For you.”
She giggles with her head pressed into his chest. But then the girl freezes as a particular sound breaks through the trees. A high-pitched sound of clicking and clacking. Sarah pushes away from him and looks towards the sound further along the trail. She lowers herself into a crouch and moves forward slowly in that direction. The man nearly laughs as he sees the girl, who he had held in his arms the day her father befell that horrible accident that left him a charred mess, entered into her “ninja mode.” She moves forward silently with grace and precision, a skill which earned her many late night sweets nicked from the kitchen when she was younger.
“Tch tch tch tch”
He follows the girl as she mimics the sound they hear. They both knew what it was, though he had not seen one of them in quite some time. They travel down the trail a bit and then turn off as the girl makes the sound and it is returned. Before long, they find themselves at the hollow of a tree where Skeeter rests with his medicine pouch around his waist.
“Brunhilde? Are you sick?”
The girl’s voice is full of question which turns to worry as she gets closer. Turning a small bend, they approach the tree and see that Skeeter is sitting before the terrifying image of a giant black spider. Normally smooth in the body, this one seemed to be fuzzy.
“What is-”
The girl’s voice trails off and she suddenly squeals as the fuzziness of the spider moves and shifts. But the squeal is not of fear or revulsion, as the Writer’s own might be in her place, but one of joy.
“OH EM GEE! YOU AND THORVALD HAD 😍BABIES😍!”
Indeed, the fuzziness on the spider proves to be a flock of tiny baby spiders. Sarah skips over to the mother...the Writer could never tell the difference between Brunhilde, Thorvald, and Boudicca...and gently places a hand on her. Within seconds, one of the babies crawls onto Sarah’s arm and up to her shoulder, where it nests snugly.
“Oh! Oh!”
Her mouth falls open.
“Do you want to come home with me? Want to live in Lacklanland West with Auntie Sarah? Oh, yes you do! Yes you do!”
She picks up with spider and places it into her purse. The ears of Lil' Has stand up in alarm for a moment but then recede.
“Oh! Oh! They’re snuggling! Oh God, my heart might burst!”
She looks up at the Writer and Skeeter with a stern look on her face.
“Don’t ANYONE tell Kenzi! Not until we’re home and she can’t say no! Do you understand? NOT A WORD!”
The Writer and Skeeter can only shrug at one another as the girl looks back into her purse with pure adoration on her face.
Rain pours down on a duo of women as they walk up a long flight of steps. Dressed in a red and black dress trailing to her feet, a translucent black veil pinned into the front of a many-plumed hat and falling to her chin, Sarah Grey-Lacklan was the image of The Blood Princess in every form. Her spiked heels clack loudly on the cement leading towards the grand manor of archaic architecture and a host of women dressed in black and silver rush out from the house to meet her with umbrellas held high. Next to her, Kenzi Grey-Lacklan wore a simple “DGP” t-shirt and jeans, proudly annoying her wife’s inclination for pomposity, particularly when at her family’s home in Maine. Her multitude of braids were soaked from the rain and her face was pulled into a scowl, and she was more than happy to find herself under the offered umbrellas and relief from the rain.
I love my life with Mackenzie. It has been over two and a half years since I left home, and while nearly every moment of my life has been magical...and I wouldn’t even trade in the times of pain and tears...SoCal can SUCK MY THIRD TOE! I HATE the weather! I HATE the sun! It’s ALWAYS too hot! How can my Beloved STAND IT?!
The women give them deep curtsies as they proffer the umbrellas, to which Sarah gives the tiniest nod of her head. Kenzi shoots her an annoyed glare and then proceeds to loudly thank the service staff of the Lacklan Manor, even offering one of them a hug. Sarah rolls her eyes in response, as one would imagine.
Ugh. Wives are the WORST. She has been trying to get me to think of the servants as “employees” since even before we got married and it is SO tiresome. They LOVE serving me! They always have! They get SO MUCH intrinsic reward and value from it! But NOOOOO. I had to increase their PAY, too. Ugh. Kenzi and her ‘you need to treat people better!’ routine. She is SO lucky she has that SWEET bottom!
Into the house the women go, through the large double French doors and into the grand foyer. Kenzi immediately starts shaking off the rain from her body, her alto voice full of grumbles over the weather and the travel. But instead of shaking herself off, Sarah freezes after walking through the doors. The red eyes behind the glasses are wide with wonder and the lips painted her usual harlot’s red spread open a little as her jaw drops.
Oh, Father. Daddy. How I miss you.
Her eyes move across numerous objects in the foyer. Three busts were the centerpiece of the space, created and featured to naturally draw the eye toward them. Made of polished marble, they were all of the same person, though in three distinctly different forms. First, a man with a strong chin and long hair flowing to his waist. Second, a man with a mask on his face and the hair replaced by a burned skull. Third, the man with his entire head covered by a hooded mask with a large visor and breathing apparatus.
I hope I make you proud, Father.
Sarah walks forward slowly, the natural skip in her step currently gone, until she stands before the trio. So lost in thought and memory, she does not hear Kenzi walk up behind her and jumps slightly as the caramel starlet puts her arms around her waist and hugs her from behind. Sarah leans her head back far enough so that their cheeks touch and she lets out a deep sigh.
“I love you, babe.”
Sarah shutters slightly at Kenzi’s whisper.
Ya know, I wasn’t EXACTLY known for being the MOST chaste person in the world when I was younger..shit up, Roxy, I can hear you snickering even in my inner monologue...but I am STILL putty in this woman’s arms. Like nothing I ever experienced before. I was always searching, ya know? Searching for an emotional connection. Searching for an equal. A partner. When I lived here...when I lived under Daddy’s gaze and under his words...I never would have thought that it would end up being a black woman from across the country, but here we are. And it will forever haunt me...SHAME me...that he only met her once or twice. They met briefly when she came to my 19th birthday party...we had only known each other for a few weeks but already knew we were BFFs...and then for but a few moments months later when we began dating. He didn’t get to see us wed. He didn’t get to see how happy we are. But he knows. He looks down upon us from God’s side and knows.
A clearing of the throat turns the heads of both Grey-Lacklans. Sarah smiles widely at the person, though Kenzi freezes, her grip turning to iron around her wife’s waist. Sarah squeezes Kenzi’s hands three times in quick succession, a silent message between them that things were okay. Still, Kenzi’s grip was one of protection and it did not lesson or slip. Never when in the face of Sebastian Hargrave.
“Princess. Duchess.”
He gives deep bows of his head with each name.
“A pleasure, as always.”
I can feel Kenzi holding me tighter. And tighter. And tighter. I squeeze her hands again, let her know that its okay, but still, her anger grows. I can hear her starting to growl deep in her throat. Shit. Is the wolf coming out? Normally that turns my legs to water but now is NOT the time. I do NOT want to have to explain to anyone that my wife has maimed...or murdered...Mister Hargrave! I squeeze again. Nothing. I understand. Can’t blame her. What his son did...it can’t be forgotten. But still.
I hum. A soft tune. Just low enough for her to hear. Not our wedding. Older. Even older than the one about following each other into the dark. I hum a song about how I would feel if I ever left this world alive.
Her grip loosens. She calms. Good. I should whisper to her, reassure her.
“...keep that energy for later, my wolf…”
Sarah hisses softly as Kenzi’s nails dig into the top of her hands. Kenzi turns her head slightly to press her lips to Sarah’s ear and to turn her eyes away from Hargrave.
“...I plan to…”
Sarah’s pale cheeks turn a bright scarlet as she tries to ignore Kenzi and focus on Hargrave. Tall and thin with wild graying hair, he had been right-hand man of the Lord Lacklan during his lifetime, and the accountant was as important to the Lacklan family and trust as any other. He had seemed genuinely shocked and horrified at what his son Jacob had done two year ago, though the Grey-Lacklans were split on his sincerity.
“Mister Hargrave. I trust our rooms are prepared.”
The man gives her another nod.
“And the meeting commences in two hours, enough time for you two to rest.”
Sarah gives him a nod of her own. While they had personal matters, the two of them were there for a meeting of the stakeholders of the Lacklan trust. Sarah normally participated in the meetings via teleconference as they traveled the world for their wrestling careers, but she had opted to be in person this time.
“And Godfather?”
Hargrave gives her a flat stare.
“The Writer is spending time with the First Citizen.”
Sarah gives him another nod after rolling her eyes. She hesitates for a moment and then asks another question.
“And Step-Mumsie?”
Sarah cocks her head to the side in that inquisitory way of the Lacklans, one even Kenzi had begun to pick up, like that of a bird looking at a particularly tasty worm, and Hargrave answers.
“No one has seen her in weeks. After your...company...left the grounds in July, she shut herself up in her quarters. No one has seen or heard from her since. Except for Redmaine, of course. He takes her all meals. It is...disconcerting.”
WrestleStock. Step-Mumsie had surged. Defeated everyone in her path. Won the Massive Melee. And then faltered against Angelica. My Beloved MAY have given a SMALL, TINY, SUPER TEENY assist with that, but she fall, she still did. And she hasn’t returned a single #DigitalPigeon of mine since.
Yes, I axly say the word “hashtag” in my inner monologue.
I have spent a LOT of time hating Ava Quinn. She COULD have been the bestest older sister ever. Shit, she WAS! But then she decided to try to be my MUMSIE. Bitch, please. NO ONE will EVER replace my Mumsie. NO ONE. But what I did...as my Beloved has rightly pointed out...because she is a MUCH better person than I am...was cruel. And mean.
Just like how Ava has to come to grips with the fact that Daddy DID approve of my relationship with Kenzi, I have to come to grips with the fact that Daddy and Ava DID love each other. There were a LOT of stupid whores who wanted Daddy’s money...holy SHIT there was a lot, and I even knew that when I was a kid...but only ONE was worthy of putting a ring on her finger.
I broke my family.
Its my job to fix it.
Sarah gives Hargrave a slow nod.
“Understood. We will take our respite, now.”
Before long, the two Grey-Lacklans were rested, showered, and changed. The meeting, attended by faces Sarah had known her entire life, was as droll and boring as usual. She was not the BEST at math, but she had always had a good head for accounting, and she understood investment strategies. Kenzi was usually absent from these meetings, though the Grey-Lacklans talked in depth about their futures and ideas outside of them, but she was present for this one, and more than one face wore a surprised expression at how well she came off.
That’s right, you racist fucktards. I get it...I GET IT! This place was all ABOUT hate for a VERY long time, but if Daddy can see the error of his ways, why can’t you? I GET that so many of you were against my marriage initially, but holy FUCK! Its been almost two years! And Kenzi is badass! Take it, old white foggie racists! Take it all!
The meeting adjourned, dinner was had in the great hall and a whole new game was played. Much of Sarah’s upbringing had been in these settings, where words were weapons and what was said was not necessarily what was meant. The world of politics and subterfuge had been what was her destiny, and though she chose to follow her father’s career instead, she still had the training and natural aptitude for the task. And though she’d never admit it, so did Kenzi: The actress knew how to perform.
Alone in their rooms that night, Kenzi’s eyes were full of devious fire.
“I don’t care if that bitch is here or not...I’m going to make sure she HEARS us no matter WHERE she is!”
Sarah’s entire body turned scarlet in full understanding that Kenzi’s words were no mere threat. And as per usual when the Grey-Lacklans were home, many staff members throughout the house found themselves closing doors and covering the ears of children.
My life rocks.
The Writer holds in his breath as he hears the sound of clopping hooves. He closes his tired eyes and lets the breath out slowly, his body feeling every bit of its weary age.
“We ‘ave comp’ny, brudder.”
He opens his eyes and takes in the form of the owner of the voice. With a massive beard of gray curls and a hairy body full of wirey muscles, Skeeter sat on the log next to him with his one good eye looking over his shoulder. The fire pit between them brought a much-needed warmth in the dreary morning, as well as a way to heat the water for their coffee, and it lit up the false eye that stared lifelessly and unmoving at him. A bear in these very woods had taken the eye of the wildman, as well as nearly maimed one of his arms, but that bear’s pelt made a comfortable bed for him to sleep on when he visited his old friend.
“I know. Its why I’m here, I suppose.”
The Writer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small compact, black with dazzling rhinestones which catch the light of the fire. When he opens it, those tired blue eyes look down to where the makeup once was and now was placed a picture of a raven-haired beauty with a red stripe running down the front of her head who had her lips pressed to the cheek of a man who looked much like the Writer himself once upon a time. When his eyes travel upward to the mirror, he sighs at his reflection. It had only been a little under three years since that picture was taken, but he had aged much in that time.
He snaps the compact shut with a loud clack and pushes himself to his feet. His body groans in defiance, his joints screaming their protest, but he still stands. Skeeter joins him, the man standing tall enough for the Writer’s eyes to meet his shoulder. He whistles and two hound dogs run from the small log cabin behind them, tongues wagging from their mouths in hopes of treats.
“C’mon out. Pay yer ‘spects.”
The Writer sighs once more before turning around to face the sound of the hooves. A tall black horse with an elegant shaggy mane, Fireheart had been the Sweet 16 present that every girl in the world wanted but only spoiled ones received. The Friesian mare has strong and swift and had a temperament to match her owner. And that owner had arrived with every bit of ostentatious nonsense he had anticipated: Wearing a black and red dress with skirts specifically divided for riding, Fangs sat atop the saddle with the practiced ease of one trained to ride since childhood, and she slowed to a halt a few steps before them. She was wearing one of her ridiculous hats, as he also had expected, along with the translucent black veil which was a part of her “Blood Princess” station.
“First Citizen. Godfather.”
She gives them both a nod of her head as she speaks to them and the Writer has to bite the inside of his cheek in order to not sigh. Skeeter, of course, gave her his own nod of his head.
“Lil’ sistur.”
Another bite of the cheek to hold off a sigh. The Writer knew the truth of Sarah’s Londoner accent...a mimic's desperate plea to stay connected to a mother she never knew...but there was nothing fake or put on about Skeeter’s thick Alabama accent. Many people could not even understand half of what he said!
“Fangs.”
She gives him a flat stare and he sees that her eyes are blue today. Her dad’s shade. He finally relents and gives her a small nod in return, and then she dismounts the horse after in one smooth movement, dropping down near six feet to the grass below. His eyes open in surprise when she lands gently, without a hitch in her legs to be seen; it seems she indeed had fully recovered from her time in that wheelchair. Reaching into a small bag attached to the horse’s saddle, she pulls out a carrot and feeds it to Fireheart while chittering at her. Along with accents, she is remarkably talented at mimicking animal sounds. After giving Fireheart a thankful pat, she turns to face them again, putting her focus on Skeeter.
“First Citizen. It is good to see that you are well.”
She kneels down, spreading her skirts a bit as she does so, and gives out a high whistle. The two hound dogs rise from their haunches and rush over to her, accepting ear scratches from gloved hands.
“And you, too! Are you good boys? Are you being good boys from Uncle Skeeter? Are you helping keep Lacklan Forest safe?”
Wags of tails and slobbering tongues answer in the affirmative.
“Lookin’ to add a pup to yer menag’rie?”
The girl shakes her head at Skeeter’s question.
“No...though I could have SWORN the Duchess wanted one the other day. Kept going on and on about puppies, but when I pressed her for it, she snapped at me and yelled ‘No!’ like I had done something wrong. Wives are SO confusing.”
She rises to her feet after a final pat for each dog, and the Writer is once again impressed by the girl’s ability to go back and forth between voices in such a fluid way.
“I do not wish to be rude, but I was hoping for a quiet moment with Godfather.”
The Writer and Skeeter share a look with one another before the wildman nods his head.
“Its’ a’right. Brunhide be needin’ this med’cine.”
The girl gives him a curious look and the Writer shakes his head. She had always been overly interested in the spiders in the forest, and he hoped she didn’t learn what the wildman’s medicines were for in this particular case.
“C’mon, Fangs.”
She glares at him as he turns and begins to walk. He walks alone for a moment but then he hears crunching of leaves behind him. Before long, she catches up to him and the two walk in silence side by side along a path through the trees. The forest is typical for Maine, outside of the spiders, anyway...and what might possibly be the ability for small animals to turn into humanoid versions of themselves...populated by fir, beech, and birch. Strong trees which made infamously good stationary, one of the many industries under the banner of the girl’s family. What was left of it, anyway.
“So...what’s up?”
He has not heard from her in months. Things have been tense between them since his wife died. She had loved her Godmother, and she blamed the pain caused by their separation, no matter how temporary, as a contributing factor to her quickly declined health. While medical science might disagree, he did not hold it against her. Lord knows how many bottles he had emptied with the same thought in his own mind. And then last week, a summons via text. It takes the girl several more strides to respond, but that response surprises him.
“I need your help.”
She never asked for help. In anything. He stays silent, allowing her to work through this at her own pace.
“My friends...you know my friends…we have a problem. We are torn asunder lately and its my job to fix it all. I have always been the heart of my circle. I’m the reason why we came together! The star with the gravitational pull to bring the planets in close. And I have always believed that my little galaxy could live up to a particular expectation, something that defies the logic of professional wrestling, or any sport, for that matter. That we could train together, prepare together, WIN together. And also LOSE together. To push ourselves to be the best. To PROVE that we ARE the best by BESTING each other. And then coming together in hugs and cheers, in celebration of victory and the love of sport.”
She grows silent for a time. Birds chirp in the trees above, black and bluebirds, and perhaps even a puffin or two not yet flown for the coming winter. She liked birds. She liked a LOT of animals. He had even bought her a cat when she was little. And of course, Z gave her the bunny a couple of years ago as a gift from Fairy Godmother to her Little Babygirl.
“Things went well for the first year or so. But this last year? Its been tough. The four of us are at the top of our game, especially now that I’m back full time. There is a lot of competition between us. And...unfortunately...not much in the way of comradeship. Roxy seemed to avoid fighting Angie at all costs, much like how my Beloved refused to fight me at first, but that has gone away. And perhaps been replaced by...smugness? Yes, smugness. Angie has been in a dour mood since losing her championships. And Kenzi is at Roxy’s throat, ready to rip it out, if it proves that she is correct that Roxy specifically injured her for the sake of her championship. It has NOT been pretty, lately.”
More silence as they walk through the trail, now beginning to circle back towards Skeeter’s cabin. Skeeter was important, and had earned the title of First Citizen, through a remarkable dedication to Fang's dad. When Western medicine had failed the man, it was Skeeter’s mountain man holistic remedies that had taken away the pain of Stage Four cancer so that he could pass peacefully. He had promised Lacklan that he would watch after the girl, though she didn’t seem to need it, and had been beside himself when he had learned of the various injuries that had befallen her outside of the ring.
“Its up to me to pull us back together, Godfather. I’m the reason we are together, so I need to be the reason we STAY together. Thus, I hatched a plan. We like to play games, you see? Video games, board games, being dumb with each other on Twitter. So I thought that a break like THIS needed a much BIGGER game. Instead of us just playing ourselves in the video games, we could play someone REAL. Have someone follow our instructions like in the game. But not just ANYONE. Someone special. Someone flashy. Someone FUN. Because we need FUN.”
She stops suddenly and holds onto his arm. The Writer stops with her and looks down at her, down nearly half a foot. He is not a tall man in any way, but the world towers over her. That was why it is so important that she controls every room she walks into with her personality. Which she does.
“I need YOU.”
The Writer shakes his head for a moment.
“Dexter Severin is retired, Fangs.”
A smirk comes to her full red lips.
“And STILL Chickenwing Eating Champion…”
His eyes go wide.
“I...um...I mean...what?”
She giggles at him, the light and high-pitched laugh from the girl always surprising to people when coming from someone known to be vicious in her actions and words.
“I’ve known you were the Generic Heel from the moment you popped up. No one else does, though. Except perhaps Johnny. He’s a hard read with those dumb sunglasses on all the time.”
The Writer shakes his head.
“Listen, I-”
“I don’t care why you are hiding behind a mask. Play the fool all you want. That’s not who I want, anyway. I don’t want the Generic Heel to wrestle for me.”
He shakes his head at her again.
“I told you, Dexter Sev-”
“I don’t want HIM, either.”
He gives her an odd look and she waves him off dismissively.
“You were too successful as yourself, Godfather. Godmother unlocked something inside of you that none of us knew existed. You won multiple championships as yourself...even pinned Nikita when she was World Champion! No, I need someone FAR less successful yet FAR more entertaining. I need someone who can go into that ring, embarrass the hell out of himself, make everyone laugh, and help bring my friends back together. Winning is secondary.”
The Writer shakes his head.
“I don’t-”
“I need the person who taught me how to cut a shoot. I need the person who taught me how to turn a terribly bad MSN chatroom where I was gushing over my favorite wrestler into a world-wide vlog pushing at Kardashian numbers. I need the person who taught ME how to take a SINGLE victory and turn it into a LIFETIME of annoying reminders. I need the person who could set an entire fed on fire with specific loathing and hatred.”
She looks down and reaches into her purse. A burst of affection and sadness works its way through the Writer’s heart as he sees the ears of ‘Lil Hasenpfeffer Grey-Lacklan poking from the top, that Fairy Godmother’s gift. The girl pulls out an iPhone, which in itself nearly stops the Writer’s heart, and after several awkward moments go by where she presses many, many buttons until she finds the right one, she looks back up at him.
“I need…”
The sound of a lone trumpet plays from the iPhone with a long tone, a C in the middle of the staff.
“...NEED…”
The note rises up a 5th to a G.
“...the ONE and ONLY…”
The note rises a 3rd to the upper C.
“...Tragik.”
“DUH DUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Sarah’s voice sings out with the song on the iPhone, the famous modulation of E to Eb which sent chills down the spine of anyone watching A Space Odyssey: 2001.
“Can you do it?!”
The Writer is silent in his shock. “Tragik the Magnificent.” His first stage name. An assumed personality, or a “gimmick” as some would call it in the marketing world. A persona he left in the dunes of Texas when he married his late wife Zoe Chaos.
“Fangs...I…”
He shakes his head in despair. A lifetime ago. Yes, he has put on the red and blue lucha mask of the Generic Heel for reasons he was not ready to talk about, for a promise he made to a friend that he dare not let Sarah know of, but this? This was different. He wasn’t that person anymore.
“Duuuuuuhhhhh DUHHHHHHHH DAHHHHHHHHHHH”
She and the phone were persistent. Maddeningly so.
“DAAAAAAHHHHHHH DAHHHHHHHHHHH!”
A shiver goes through him as Sarah and the phone go up the octave on the modulation. Like all those times he walked out onto the stage and swagged his way down the aisle with nameless and faceless Asian hookers on his arm serving as valets.
“Can you do it?!”
His mouth opens slightly, but he is afraid to answer. Afraid to go back to the man who would style and profile his way down the aisle. Afraid to go back to the man who snorted coke off the asses of the Asian hooker valet. Afraid to go back to the man who would grab the house mic, tell them to cut his music so that he can show all the women what a REAL man looked like, and shook and swiveled his hips to the Stripper.
“I SAID CAN YOU DO IT?!”
His eyes snap back into focus at his Goddaughter. Her contacts gave her the shade of her dad’s eyes, but the shape of them were her mother’s. Lena. His best friend.
“I need TRAGIK-”
“THE MAAAAAG-NIIIIIIIII-FIIIIIIII-CEEEEEENT!”
And just like that, he found himself screaming out into the forest, causing those late-traveling puffins to scatter.
“I hope your friends are ready, Sar! Because on Monday, in but two day’s time, the face the man who causes women to become pregnant just by being in his presence-”
He thrusts his pelvis.
“-the man who other men pray to God they can kiss the feet of-”
Another pelvic thrust.
“-the man who little kids spend their entire lives worshiping and adoring, wishing that they had HIM as their daddy-”
Thrust!
“-and who might very well BE their daddy because I absolutely banged their mom before, during, and even AFTER their wedding day-”
Ew.
“-the Sultan of Swag, the undefeated and undisputed King of Sexy, the undeniable and stoppable Muffin of Studleyville. I’m the man who taught Angie how to lace her boots, who taught J-Bone how to do a roll-up, and the dream so wet that Bobbi conned her flood insurance into paying for the damage I caused. And it doesn’t even MATTER who your friends bring into that ring. You know why? Because all three of them could come together as a team, each of them backed up by fuckin’ ARMIES armed with rifles, missiles, machine guns, fuckin’ NUKES, and I’ll stand across from him in my birthday suit carrying nothing but a pair of swordchucks made from two sporks and a fishing line and it would be a SLAUGHTER. Rivers of blood, guts and body parts hanging from the rafters, each and every one of those pets from that stupid six-person tag match crying over the carnage I wrought. Because I am Tragik-”
He takes in a deep breath.
“THE MAGNFICEEEEEEEEEEENT!”
As his voice trails off into the trees, the Writer breathes deeply in order to settle himself. After many moments, he looks back down at his Goddaughter and his eyes threaten to flood with tears. Like the shape of her eyes, the smile on her face was her mother’s. The REAL smile, not the one she marketed as being “Billion $$$.” A smile of mischievousness. Of joy.
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
She leaps forward and takes him in a hug, her arms too short to reach all the way around his girth. He hears her mumble “...ugh...you got fat again…” but he doesn’t mind. She has not hugged him in two years. He returns the hug, holding her close.
“One time. For you.”
She giggles with her head pressed into his chest. But then the girl freezes as a particular sound breaks through the trees. A high-pitched sound of clicking and clacking. Sarah pushes away from him and looks towards the sound further along the trail. She lowers herself into a crouch and moves forward slowly in that direction. The man nearly laughs as he sees the girl, who he had held in his arms the day her father befell that horrible accident that left him a charred mess, entered into her “ninja mode.” She moves forward silently with grace and precision, a skill which earned her many late night sweets nicked from the kitchen when she was younger.
“Tch tch tch tch”
He follows the girl as she mimics the sound they hear. They both knew what it was, though he had not seen one of them in quite some time. They travel down the trail a bit and then turn off as the girl makes the sound and it is returned. Before long, they find themselves at the hollow of a tree where Skeeter rests with his medicine pouch around his waist.
“Brunhilde? Are you sick?”
The girl’s voice is full of question which turns to worry as she gets closer. Turning a small bend, they approach the tree and see that Skeeter is sitting before the terrifying image of a giant black spider. Normally smooth in the body, this one seemed to be fuzzy.
“What is-”
The girl’s voice trails off and she suddenly squeals as the fuzziness of the spider moves and shifts. But the squeal is not of fear or revulsion, as the Writer’s own might be in her place, but one of joy.
“OH EM GEE! YOU AND THORVALD HAD 😍BABIES😍!”
Indeed, the fuzziness on the spider proves to be a flock of tiny baby spiders. Sarah skips over to the mother...the Writer could never tell the difference between Brunhilde, Thorvald, and Boudicca...and gently places a hand on her. Within seconds, one of the babies crawls onto Sarah’s arm and up to her shoulder, where it nests snugly.
“Oh! Oh!”
Her mouth falls open.
“Do you want to come home with me? Want to live in Lacklanland West with Auntie Sarah? Oh, yes you do! Yes you do!”
She picks up with spider and places it into her purse. The ears of Lil' Has stand up in alarm for a moment but then recede.
“Oh! Oh! They’re snuggling! Oh God, my heart might burst!”
She looks up at the Writer and Skeeter with a stern look on her face.
“Don’t ANYONE tell Kenzi! Not until we’re home and she can’t say no! Do you understand? NOT A WORD!”
The Writer and Skeeter can only shrug at one another as the girl looks back into her purse with pure adoration on her face.
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