The Incompetent Witch and the Very Big O

by DC Thome

  “Well, then, good luck to you.” Roger opened the door. “I was supposed to have left for the day already, so if you please…”

  “If you please,” Abigail said, “I really have to pee.”

  I thanked Roger and told him to thank Zelda, then twitched my nose, sending Abigail and me instantly back to our lovely broken-down house in Douchecanoe.

  Chapter 5

  I took off my jacket and sat on the loveseat in the gathering darkness and tried to process everything I’d learned from rabbity Roger. Not as much as I needed to learn, but at the same time, too much: I’d created the monster that was now terrorizing my community. And no one knew how to beat it. And, Goddess help me, that Spur was my life match. It really was too much—especially that last thing. Even I know there should be more to a long-term relationship than reliably decent sex.

  My gloom was interrupted by scratching at the door. I got up and let Abigail in. “Why were you outside?”

  “I told you: I had to pee.”

  “The litter box is in the bathroom off the breezeway.”

  She shivered. “Litter boxes—disgusting.” She jumped onto the loveseat, turned in circles, lay down with her butt on my best all-cotton Missoni throw pillow and said, “It’ll be dark soon, and you know what they say.”

  “What do they say?”

  “The night belongs to fuckers.”

  “The night belongs to lovers.”

  “Fuckers…lovers. Given the situation, it doesn’t matter. So what’s the plan?”

  I sighed. “If I need Spur’s help to destroy the Orgasmism, I’d better track him down.” I wiggled my nose, and my crystal ball floated to me from the coffee table. I rubbed it and said Spur’s name three times. The ball glowed white, but Spur took a long time to answer. When he finally did, he was in bed and shirtless.

  “Hey, um, Prudenzia. What’s going on?”

  “The usual. Staying up all night. Talking to rabbits. Chasing down orgasm monsters.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Totally. You’ve gone chasing rabbits, so you know you’re going to fall asleep.” He pulled a white sheet up to his nose.

  “What are you hiding, Spur?”

  “Hiding?” He pulled the cloth higher. “What would make you think—oh, this! I’m folding my laundry, like I do every Wednesday.”

  “It’s Tuesday.”

  “Yes, but I do it every week, and last week at this time it was Wednesday. Thanks for checking in.”

  “I didn’t just check in,” I said. “I have something important to talk to you about.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No. It’s ur—”

  He giggled.

  Okay, now you’re pissing me off. “I’m coming over there.”

  “Pru, no! I’ll—”

  I ran my hand backward over the top of the ball and returned it to its stand.

  Abigail’s eyes fluttered open. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “Would you be of any help?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll go alone.” With a twitch of my nose and a sweep of my arm, I rematerialized in Spur’s bedroom. He was still shirtless. And pantsless. And next to him, the sheet did a poor job of concealing distinctly human shape.

  A distinctly female human shape.

  My eyes narrowed. “Goddessdamn, Spur, you suck.”

  “No, actually,” said a familiar voice from under the sheet, “I would be the one doing the sucking.”

  The white sheet vaporized in a cloud of lavender steam, revealing a redhead in a pale purple bustier with matching fishnets.

  Brigid.

  Frigid Fucking Brigid.

  “She’s right, Pru,” Spur said. “She’s literally the one who—”

  I stomped my foot. “With those thin, dry lips? I suck circles around her—and you know it!”

  He shrugged. “Thin lips, thick lips. A guy likes variety.”

  My own life philosophy was biting me in the ass. And not in a good way. “Brigid, dear, Spurlock the Warlock and I have something important to discuss. Do you mind?”

  “Oh, no. I’ll just continue what I was doing.” She scooched down the bed, rounded her insufficient lips and aimed them at his dingalamundi. My response was to snap my fingers and fit Spur with a male chastity belt kind of thing that resembled a Hannibal Lecter mask. He scrunched over in pain; Brigid made a face. “So childish. If anybody needs me, I’ll be brushing my teeth.”

  When Brigid was out of the room, Spur begged me to remove the scolapasta from his fusillo.

  “Is it uncomfortable?”

  “Hell, yeah.” He grimaced and twitched his hips.

  “Then, no, I won’t remove it.”

  He moaned. “Why did you come here?”

  “First, since I’m the one you’re supposed to be boning, I had no reason to suspect that Cold Fishid would be here. And, second, there’s a chance that you and I are responsible for the thing that’s terrorizing the shifters.”

  “Isn’t that the shifters’ problem?”

  I reached out and made a twisting motion. The device turned like a crank. Spur’s knees shot up to his chin. “No, it’s our problem.”

  Spur grimaced and tugged on the chastity thing. “Why?”

  “Because, unfortunately, we seem destined to be chained to each other for all eternity.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  I folded my arms. “The rabbit from Assjacket said the thing that’s plaguing the shifters is an Orgasmism you and I created up on Sabbat Hill.”

  “You’re talking like a crazy person.”

  I twisted the ballbuster. “Let me try again: When I came, a monster went forth.”

  “So that makes it your problem.”

  “Not if you were the engineer that was driving the choo-choo.”

  He shot me a cockeyed look. “What does that even mean?”

  I held up my hand and twisted the dick cage a hair more. “It means that the rabbit says only true lovers can create an Orgasmism.”

  He grabbed his crotch, groaned and rolled onto his side.

  And he was laughing.

  I hurled a throw pillow at his head. “You think this is funny?”

  “You’re under the impression that you and I are”—he snickered—“true lovers?”

  “What?” Brigid’s voice came from behind me. “I’ve heard some stupid things, but—”

  I spun around and stuck my finger in Brigid’s face. “Believe me, I’m not thrilled about it, either.”

  Spur laughed so hard the bed shook, and I had no choice but to yank hard enough on the coccatula cage to make him moan. He fell back against the pillows—but kept laughing through the pain.

  Brigid was laughing, too. She plopped down onto a corner of the mattress and said, “He’s not exactly the marrying kind.”

  “She’s right, Pru. You’ve known that all along. Now, please take this thing off me.”

  I jerked it so hard he rose three feet off the bed. Then I twitched my nose and dropped him.

  Spur shifted to his side and cradled his scroto sbattuto and carne zucchini. “Goddessdamn it, Pru. I don’t know why I ever dated you in the first place.”

  “I’m pretty sure my ample cleavage and extraordinarily appealing posterior had something to do with it.”

  “That, and how easily you put out.”

  “Hey!” Frigid frowned at him. “I have made-for-a-centerfold tatas!

  In your violet smog-induced fever dreams.

  Spur got up and looked back and forth between us. “Truth be told,” he said, “you’re both kind of average. I can do better. And—you know what?—I think I will.” He pulled his wand out from under a pillow, conjured up some clothing—including a pair of loose-fitting jeans—then spun the wand and make his luggage appear, fully packed.

  “Nice pleats,” I said.

  Spur grabbed his crotch and froze.

  “Don’t wo
rry,” I said. “You run. The Orgasmism is my problem. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “You know what, Pru,” he sneered, “you were right. It was all about the tits and the ass. That’s pretty much all there is to you. Bye-bye, bitches.”

  I wanted to blast him again, right smack in the rigoletto. But…Wow. That hurt more than I would have thought.

  He waved his wand and disappeared.

  “Oh, well.” Brigid screwed up her lips. “He tasted funny, anyway. Salty.” And then she disappeared.

  I looked out the window. It was already dark. Amore time. Even if I was outmanned, outgunned and outgooed, I had no choice. I had to wage war with the horrible thing I’d created.

  I stopped for breath and checked out the High and Mighty Council of Dumblocks. The Grand Inquisitatertot was diligently writing notes. Three were just nodding off, heads bouncing like a set of Harry Potter bobbleheads. Three were already asleep. The one who’d passed out on the floor was sitting up, looking pale and weak, while the one next to him—No. 3—had taken his place and was lying with his feet up.

  The others rested their heads on their hands and stared into space, all with the same dumb look on their faces. I recognized that look. “You fuckers are thinking about porn!”

  Two jerked so hard their heads nearly smacked the bench. “No, I’m not,” said No. 6, even as he reached under his robe to tuck something back into his pants.

  “How many of you have watched at least one Orgasmism movie?”

  They all tried to look innocent, the way boys do when caught sneaking bra ads from a Sunday newspaper ad supplement into their bedrooms.

  “So, all of you.”

  No. 9 raised his hand meekly. “I’ve only seen the first four.”

  “Oh, my Goddess,” No. 10 said, “you’re really missing out if you haven’t watched at least up through The Orgasmism 8: The Rise and Fall of the Roman Candle.”

  Lord Douchecanoe harrumphed. “The leisure-time activities of council members are not on trial here.”

  They are “members” all right.

  “Miss La Strega,” he continued, “I assume there’s more to your story. Continue.”

  I wriggled in the hard wood seat until my bodacious baddoncudoncalamenti was comfortably situated. “I would be delighted to, oh Grand High Master of the Loonyverse.”

  Chapter 6

  Back at home, I pulled on my “work” jacket and buttoned it all the way up. Nobody takes a slutty monster fighter seriously. “I assume, Abigail, that if I ask you to fight this Orgasmism thing with me, you’ll say you want to ‘help’ by having me learn how to fight my own battles.”

  “No, I’ll come with you.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “As the Assjacket witch said, ‘Does it look like I’m shitting you?’”

  I studied her face. “Actually, no.”

  She put her paws on my legs so I could pick her up. “Let’s get going.”

  I transported us to the site of the most recent attack and levitated high enough to get a broad view of the area. The lights of the town twinkled off to one side as the wind tousled the tops of trees below us.

  When I looked toward where I projected the next attack would be, I caught a glimpse of goo. And beyond that, a pink glow that stood out in the landscape like a sore zit on a baby’s face. I swooped down and landed a few yards from the blob as it silently slid toward a bear shifter couple who were enjoying a romantic fine-dining experience in a horribly putrid dumpster.

  With a wobble and a shake, the Orgasmism engulfed the unsuspecting ursines—again, former clients of mine, Max Bear and his wife, Teddie. They immediately assumed the position—no foreplay at all—and went at it like rabbits. Large, smelly, grunting, short-eared rabbits.

  I dropped Abigail and ran toward them, shouting, “You! Hey, you bears! Come quickly!”

  Not the best word choice.

  I rushed toward the Orgasmism, stopping just a few feet away. It radiated warmth, and my skin started to tingle. I didn’t see any gold sparks forming, but while the bears seemed to be having a good time, I knew that one of them would be unconscious and the other feeling guilty if I didn’t do something fast. A dose of blasto-rays only made the bubble shake and make a noise that sounded like giggling.

  Great. Now it’s mocking me.

  “You could keep blasting it until you pass out,” Abigail said, “or try something new. An incantation, perhaps.”

  “Wow, Abby, that’s a helpful suggestion.”

  “I try.”

  I thought for moment, then raised my hands over my head and chanted:

  Oh big pink thing so eagerly sought

  That now has these bears in a death-grip caught

  Release them before one gets maimed…

  My mind went blank. “Oh, shit—what’s the last line?”

  “Go back to the place from which you came,” Abigail called from behind me.

  I raised my arms. Go back to the place from whence you came!

  “Not ‘from whence!’ Which!” Abigail shouted.

  “What?”

  “Whence means ‘from where,’ so saying ‘go to whence’ is like saying ‘go to from where.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Grammar always matters. I’m helping you get it right.”

  Where were you during my tenth-grade English final? The male bear’s eyes rolled back in his head as I lifted my arms. “So what am I supposed to say?”

  “Go back to the place from which you came.”

  Max’s body went limp. “Too late for grammar.” I prayed the Goddess would forgive me for having skipped class on whence day, held my arms high, said the line incorrectly and released a torrent of white-hot energy.

  Far from fazed, the Orgasmism grabbed the crackling bolts and used them as ropes to pull me to it. The air filled with moans and sounds of heavy breathing. I tried to turn off the power, but couldn’t. Oh my Goddess, I’m going to die. Or at least be knocked unconscious during a threesome with two hairy six-hundred-pound creatures with really bad fish breath.

  But I didn’t die.

  Instead, a flash of white streaked between the Orgasmism and me, cutting off the current. Some of the rays shot back into me. I felt dizzy.

  Then everything went black.

  ***

  I awoke with the sun stabbing my eyes, a headache stabbing my temples, and sticks stabbing my back.

  Sticks?

  I didn’t panic because during my Black Magic-swilling days I’d awoken more than a few times with sticks poking into my back. Just not ones made of real wood. What’s the last thing you remember, Pru? Trees. Garbage. Bears.

  Pink!

  It was a violent scene. But now, it’s so serene. My sun-dappled nest of grass and leaves lay below tall maple trees. A brook gurgled nearby. Birds chirped. A mass of warm fur blanketed my body, and a ball of ivory fuzz moved gently back and forth across my face.

  Ball of fuzz?

  I forced my eyes all the way open. The fuzz ball was connected to a long, slender tail, and the tail was connected to the muscular flanks of an ivory-colored mountain lion.

  A. Mountain. Lion.

  My brain shrieked, but the signal didn’t reach my mouth. Now panic welled inside me as I scanned the area. “Abigail?” I croaked.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Right here.” She popped up right in front of my face, scaring the shit so far out of me that I grabbed her by the throat, flipped her over and pinned her to the turf.

  “Good morning to you, too,” she said, sounding a hundred percent less sunny than before.

  “Fuck morning—good or otherwise,” I said. “Why am I lying on a bunch of sticks next to a lion?”

  “Why don’t you ask the lion?”

  “Yes, do,” the lion said.

  My mouth suddenly connected to my brain, and I shouted, “Goddess-fucking-hell!”

  The lion jumped to its feet—launching Abiga
il like a spitball—and said to me, “Don’t worry; I’ve got you.” It prowled the perimeter of the tamped-down nest and glared from side to side. “The coast looks clear. Did you have a bad dream, Prudenzia?’

  “How do you know my name?”

  “We know each other pretty well,” the lion said. “Maybe this will help.”

  The lion visage melted away, folding and twisting until a human form became apparent. But not just any human form. One with long sandy-blond hair, tropical blue eyes and a patch of dark fur between his rock-hard pecs.

  Hunter?

  Yes, Hunter. Tall, muscular—naked!—Hunter. “You’re a shifter?”

  “Is that a trick question?” He knelt beside me and brushed my hair back. “Did you sleep well?”

  I rubbed my glutes where the sticks had poked them. “I guess. But, why did I sleep here?”

  “Fighting the monster took a lot out of you.”

  I strained my brain for details. “Did I pass out?”

  “I told you that would happen,” Abigail said, still rubbing her throat.

  I gave her the finger.

  Hunter pulled a stick out from under my hip. “You did what you could, even though you weren’t properly equipped. That was very brave.”

  “Or very stupid.”

  “Bravery is when you take action to help someone else even though doing so puts you in danger.”

  “If I remember right, the action I took didn’t work.”

  “No surprise,” Abigail offered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hunter said. He kissed my temple, and suddenly my head felt better.

  “But, why are you here?” I asked.

  “I followed you.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Yes,” Abigail interrupted, “why in hell would anyone—ow!”

  I’d hit her with a one-finger burst of electricity. “How about you just sit over there and clean off your private parts, Abigail?”

  “My private parts don’t need cleaning.”

  My eyes narrowed. “They always need cleaning.”

  “But—”

  I raised two fingers; Abigail immediately buried her head in her crotch.

  “I’m sorry, Hunter,” I said. “I—” When I turned my attention back to him, it was clear that he’d never stopped looking at me. Which would’ve creeped me out if he was any other guy. But he wasn’t, and I found it comforting.