by Nic Saint
“Your dad’s building?” asked the blonde. “Is your dad’s name Falcone?”
“Yeah, that’s him. I’m Rick Dawson,” he said, deciding that the best way to break the ice—and to make them stop trying to ‘vanquish’ him—was to introduce himself. “I took my mother’s name when—but that’s not important right now. What’s important is that you made my dad’s building disappear!”
“Glad you noticed,” said the blonde. “My name is Estrella Flummox.”
“Edelie Flummox,” said the redhead, still watching him suspiciously.
“And I’m Ernestine Flummox,” added the third one with a curt nod.
“We’re witches,” said Estrella, her blue eyes flashing dangerously.
He arched his brow. “Witches? What do you mean, witches?”
She gestured at his cellphone. “Is that thing still recording?”
“It is,” he confirmed.
“And you’re a reporter?”
“That’s right. I work for the New York Chronicle.”
“This is so great, you guys!” Estrella told her sisters. “We can have our very first interview right here, right now.”
“Are you sure?” asked Ernestine, sounding dubious. “Gran always told us to keep a low profile, remember?”
“We just made Falcone Tower disappear,” Edelie said. “Forget about a low profile.”
“I say we let the world know that the Flummox witches are here to do some real damage!” said Estrella, who seemed like a real live wire.
“Let the warlocks know,” corrected Edelie. She gestured at Rick. “So do you want an exclusive interview with the world’s premier witches? Now’s your chance.”
Rick shrugged. “Why not?” He’d discovered an even bigger story than Chazz Falcone’s election campaign. Chazz’s disappearance by the hands of these witches. If this didn’t land him a Pulitzer, he didn’t know what would.
Chapter 15
I didn’t particularly enjoy our first interview. Even though this bozo claimed to be a professional reporter, he seemed hell-bent on presenting the three of us in the worst possible light. For one thing he didn’t believe we were witches. According to him we were attention seekers and activists. He also kept harping on about our ties with FEMEN, though we had absolutely nothing to do with that particular organization.
I would never want to be seen dead in the nude in public, and neither would Strel or Stien. The only people in the world who have ever seen me naked are Gran, Mom, Mom’s obstetrician—though my recollection of that event is pretty hazy—and me, and then only in the bathroom, with the door firmly locked. And I’d like to keep it that way until I meet the right guy, who may or may not get a peek at me, too. If he promises not to take a selfie.
As long as I haven’t met the right dude, I’m reserving that part of me for myself and most definitely not for this reporter or the rest of the world. But judging from the way this Rick Dawson kept pointing his camera at us, he seemed to expect us to drop our clothes any second now, revealing our slogans scribbled across our bare chests. No! Just… no way, buddy!
The witches angle, he seemed to feel, was simply propaganda, and the disappearance of Falcone Tower just a magic trick. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t how I’d imagined our first outing as witches to go, and neither had our performance drawn out any warlocks, apparently. Just a bunch of crazies and this reporter. Or I should probably say reporters, plural, because before long, the sidewalk was littered with those huge cable news network vans, festooned with satellite dishes, reporters crawling out of them like so many bugs after a rainstorm. They were crowding around us now, firing one question after another at us, and pointing big, bulky cameras in our faces.
I suddenly knew what it felt like to be a politician trying to explain why I’d sent pictures of my private parts to my intern. It wasn’t a great feeling, and I was already starting to regret having decided on this nutty scheme.
The one question they all kept harping on about was why we’d done it. Like Dawson, they assumed we were political activists, protesting against Chazz Falcone’s presidential candidacy. To be honest, I’d never given a single thought to Chazz Falcone or the guy’s presidential ambitions, nor did I particularly care about politics in general. But it was pretty hard to get our message across when they were all shouting their questions simultaneously.
So the three of us just stood there, gulping a lot. The only one who managed to keep on talking throughout was Estrella, but then this had always been her biggest dream: to be a superstar, all the cameras focused on her. I very much doubt whether she’d ever wanted her big break to go like this, though. I mean, without her singing a single song on stage and all.
And then I saw flashing lights and heard police sirens and when the pack of reporters parted, like the red sea before Moses, I saw to my horror that Sam Barkley had arrived, and he didn’t look very happy to see us.
The next moment he was placing us under arrest for disturbing the peace and for misplacing Falcone Tower and we were riding along in his squad car.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snarled as he turned to us from the passenger seat while we were safely ensconced behind the partition.
“We… we just wanted to reveal ourselves to the world,” I said, quite lamely. I was starting to think that this hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
“What did you do to Falcone Tower?” he barked.
“I…” Actually I didn’t know where Falcone Tower was. Usually when we made stuff disappear, we didn’t really think too much about where it had gone to. This time, though, as Sam pointed out, we’d made an entire building disappear, probably containing hundreds of people, chief amongst them Chazz Falcone, apparently the next president of the USA.
I shared a look of concern with Estrella and Ernestine.
“That’s a great question,” admitted Estrella. “Where is Falcone Tower?”
“Vanished into the ether?” suggested Ernestine.
“This is going to be considered an act of terrorism if you don’t return Falcone Tower right now,” said Sam, still looking extremely unhappy.
Gone were the tender looks I’d sometimes imagined he was casting in my direction or that of my sisters, and gone was the sexy gravelly voice with which he spoke to me, telling me he was going to be our aid and support in our new bodyguarding venture. All of that was now a thing of the past, I saw. No one was going to want the bodyguarding services of three women who made VIPs disappear into thin air. Why hadn’t we thought about this before?
So I just sat back, hunched over and feeling miserable.
“Look, you have to answer me this one question and you have to answer it right now,” warned Sam. “What the hell did you do to Falcone Tower?!”
But we simply stared at him and shrugged. “No idea,” I finally admitted, and Strel and Stien agreed that they didn’t have a clue either.
Sam groaned. “The moment we arrive you’re going to be handed over to the NYPD’s counter-terrorism unit for questioning. This is out of my hands I’m afraid,” he said, turning back to the front of the car.
We rode on in heavy silence, as I directed silent cries for help to Tavish Mildew, hoping he’d soon come to our rescue. Or Gran, for that matter. But Gran was gone, and Tavish didn’t answer. We were on our own, apparently.
Chapter 16
Chazz Falcone rubbed his eyes. He’d returned to the window of his office, to direct a triumphant look at his domain. He liked the view. It included a big chunk of Manhattan and, of course, Central Park, where one day he hoped to plunk down a couple of high-rises and make good use of the one piece of prime real estate he hadn’t been able to get his hands on. Yet.
Now, however, as he gazed out the window, his eyes met a strange sight. So he rubbed them and then opened them again, not sure if what he saw was real. He’d been dreaming of becoming the White House’s latest inhabitant, and now, before his very eyes, there stood the White House, nicely nestled at the foot of Falcone
Tower! Almost as if Falcone Tower had somehow magically moved from Midtown Manhattan to the White House rose garden.
“You guys,” he now grunted, addressing his small staff. “Come over here a minute, will ya? And tell me…” He pointed at the White House, tiny in comparison to Chazz’s own majestic building. “Is that what I think it is?”
Johnny, Jerry, Skip and Spot 2 joined him, and judging from their surprised gasps and startled cries, he wasn’t hallucinating after all.
“But how is that possible, boss?” asked Johnny now.
“Beats me,” he grumbled. But he knew exactly how this was possible.
He’d always been a firm believer in the power of positive thinking. His bookcase at home was filled with the thumbed tomes of Louise Hay, Napoleon Hill, Norman Vincent Peale and other great thinkers. He’d been thinking positive thoughts and muttering affirmations for so long now that the sheer power of his mind had materialized the seemingly impossible: he’d simply drawn the White House to him! Now all he needed to do was walk out of Falcone Tower and straight into that old pile James Hoban had built so he could finally take up his position at the helm of this great nation! Elections were for suckers! Sheer willpower had secured him the presidency!
Actually, now that he came to think of it, he might as well stay in Falcone Tower, which was so much more nicely furnished, and commute to work!
“It’s time, fellas,” he said now, adjusting his collar and smoothing his tie.
“Time for what, boss?” asked Johnny, still goggling at the White House.
“Time to take a look at our workplace.” He grinned. “The Oval Office.”
“But, boss,” protested Jerry, “you can’t just waltz in there. America already got a president, remember? Name of Jack Gnash?”
“I know America’s got a president,” he said, pointing to himself. “Me!”
His tone was confident, just the way Tony Robbins advised in his many books and trainings. If you want something, you have to pretend you already have it, and it will simply materialize, just like it had now. Think you’re the president, and you are the president! Easy as pie!
“Um, boss?” asked Skip, darting a curious glance down at the White House. “I don’t think the Secret Service is gonna let you in. They’ll simply arrest you.”
“Yeah, never seen White House Down, boss?” asked Jerry. “Or Olympus Has Fallen? President Gnash is not gonna like it when you come waltzing in.”
“They’re probably gonna shoot first, ask questions later,” added Skip.
Chazz shook his head, an indulgent smile on his lips. Only a man who’s managed to plow through all of Eckhart Tolle’s books can muster the compassion to deal with ignoramuses like Skip Brown, a kid who probably got his knowledge about the world from playing video games all his life.
“They’re not gonna shoot me,” he declared, directing a knowing look at his underlings. “I’m the president,” he added, thumping his chest. “I wanna see them shoot me!”
“We’re gonna see them shoot you,” muttered Jerry.
But when it came time to ride the elevator down to the second floor, they all filed in obediently, and when Chazz started his ceremonial descent into the lobby, they were right behind him, not wanting to miss this auspicious and historic moment. Or it could be they hated him so much they wanted a front-row seat when he finally did get shot by the sitting president’s Secret Service.
Of course there were no reporters present to watch him stride into the lobby of Falcone Tower, but that couldn’t be helped. He still descended those stairs, feeling like Louis Quatorze of Versailles fame, and then he was striding down the lobby, his three assistants closely in his wake, walked out of the front door and stared up at the White House, which was right where he wanted it: ripe for the plucking.
“Come on, boys,” he said. “Let’s take over this sucker.”
To his surprise, there were quite a few Secret Service people present, whom he recognized from their suits, earpieces and sunglasses… Oh, and their weapons, of course, which they had out and pointing directly at him!
He frowned. In his daily visualization exercises and affirmations he hadn’t foreseen this scenario. In his vision there had been rows of local and foreign dignitaries, politely cheering and poised to listen to his speech, and of course Beyoncé ready to sing the national anthem, preferably without lip sync.
“Hiya, fellas!” he called out, holding up his hands in greeting.
“Drop. Your. Weapon. Now!” one of the Secret Service agents screamed.
Since he didn’t have a weapon, he chose not to comply. “I’m unarmed!”
There was a brief pause, then the same man shouted, visibly agitated as he trained his gun on Chazz’s head. “Drop. The. Cigar. Now!”
“Oh. Right,” he grunted, only now becoming aware he was still holding his cigar in his hand. Instead of dropping it, he handed it to Jerry. “Pity to waste a perfectly good cigar,” he muttered as Jerry’s eyes went wide.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you one more time! Drop. The. Cigar!”
Jerry, who didn’t possess Chazz’s iron will, instantly dropped the cigar.
“Look, I’m your new president,” he announced, seeing there was some kind of misunderstanding going on. He enunciated clearly, in case these guys were morons, which, judging from the way they were staring at him now, was very likely. “You’re all working for me now, so lower. Your. Weapons. Now!” Two could play this game, he thought, still feeling extremely benevolent.
There was a slight delay, as the men and women of the Secret Service all touched their earpieces simultaneously. Then the same guy, who was obviously the ringleader of this bunch of nincompoops, yelled, “Surrender now, sir, and you will not be harmed! Please be advised, we will shoot! I repeat, we will shoot if you don’t. Surrender. Right. Now!”
Surrender? Why the hell would he surrender? He was the next resident of this frickin’ place. The supreme ruler of this country. So he took a step forward and held up his hand in a gesture of appeasement. “Look here, fella,” he rasped. “Cut the crap, all right? I’m your new boss, so if you want to keep that cushy job and that fifty thousand dollar salary, you better stand down!”
But a single step was all it took for the world to come crashing down around him. Or at least that’s what it felt like when a dozen Secret Service agents tackled him and pinned him to the White House lawn. The next moment he was down and swallowing dirt, exactly where President Jack Gnash liked to welcome foreign leaders and Thanksgiving turkeys.
Things moved so fast he had trouble processing them. Before he knew what was going on, he was handcuffed, thrown into the back of an armored car, and whisked away from the scene. When he came up for air, he found himself in the presence of Johnny, Jerry, Skip and half a dozen very angry-looking goons, their guns drawn and all pointing at his person.
And as he stared down at his soiled five-thousand-dollar suit, he vowed to lodge a formal complaint with the writers of all those positive thinking books for putting him in this mess. It was obvious that those books and seminars and training sessions he’d gone through hadn’t done squat! Instead of becoming the next president of the United States, he’d just been formally charged with treason, terrorism and trying to overthrow the government!
Chapter 17
During our drive down to NYPD HQ, Sam’s radio suddenly crackled, and the dispatcher’s voice echoed through the car loud and clear as she said, “You’re not gonna believe this, Sam, but they just found Falcone Tower…”
Sam sat up a little straighter, as we all did.
“So? Where is it?” he asked impatiently when the dispatcher decided to pause for suspense, a trick she’d probably picked up from Carson Daly.
“The White House Rose Garden!” she finally cried, then laughed, as if hardly believing it herself. “It’s all over the news, Sam. Falcone Tower is planted right outside the Oval Office! And Chazz Falcone has been arrested for trying to take over the White House! Can you believ
e it? This is crazy!”
Judging from Sam’s dropped jaw he couldn’t believe it. I did, and so did Ernestine and Estrella, who looked about as stunned as I felt. “Oh, god,” I groaned. “We’ve done it again, you guys.”
“We messed up big time this time,” confirmed Estrella.
“Why can’t we ever conjure a spell that turns out right?” asked Ernestine.
But it was a rhetorical question, for we all knew the answer: because we were the world’s worst witches, like Gran had often said, and every time we cast a spell, things went horribly, catastrophically wrong.
“What’s going to happen now?” I asked, though I had a good idea.
Sam turned to us, slowly reeling in his jaw. And then, instead of responding, he simply kept on staring at us, as if seeing us in a completely new light. “How…” He grimaced. “How did you do it?” he finally managed.
I shrugged, and so did my sisters. “I told you, we’re witches,” I said. “We… cast spells and… stuff happens. That’s pretty much the whole story.”
“Bad stuff happens,” Ernestine added for completeness sake. “Like that time you almost made all of our guests disappear, remember, Edie?”
I remembered. “You don’t have to keep reminding me,” I reminded her.
“Or that time you turned the mailman into a dog and then he bit his own ankle,” she told Estrella, who scowled at her. She obviously didn’t need reminding either.
“I just wanted to bring a smile to his face,” Strel said sullenly. “He always looked so sad I felt sorry for the guy.”
“Well, he sure laughed about it,” said Ernestine with a chuckle. “All the way to the vet!”
“Ha ha. That’s not funny, Stien,” I said. “Better not to throw stones. What about that time you wanted to make a good impression on a client and you scared him half to death with your horrible grimaces, huh?”
Her face instantly fell. “That wasn’t funny. I got fired for that stunt.”