Misty's Mayhem

by Robyn Peterman

  “Umm, no. Hooker will be fine,” I replied as I considered throwing the pants-less idiot back out of my window. Mermaids would never live down the fact that we came from the Siren line. Whatever. I knew the brain matter-challenged dolt wasn’t being insulting. He proudly referred to himself as an arse. I suppose being called a swimming hooker wasn’t all that bad. “Answer the second part of my question.”

  “Me breeches are on the floor in the nuptial dressing room,” Thornycraft explained, covering his jewels with his hands.

  As he was missing three of his fingers and a thumb on one hand I could see a small section of his wrinkly old ball sac. Not my idea of a good time. Closing my eyes, I tried not to laugh or vomit. After all, he had been forced to wear a puffy shirt.

  “Favorite color?” I asked.

  “Me favorite color is green,” he told me.

  Opening one eye, I peeked at the bizarre Pirate to make sure he wasn’t making fun of my hair color. He wasn’t. It had become pretty clear to me over the time I’d known the arse that he wasn’t good at lying. The words honest and Pirate were kind of an oxymoron when combined, but they described Thornycraft to a T—an honest, semi-fingerless, odd little Pirate of unknown immortal origins.

  “Green is my favorite color too.”

  “Aye, and it looks mighty fine on ye,” he said, shyly with an adorable smile.

  “Thank you,” I replied, keeping my eyes on his face, far above his issue down below.

  With a snap of my fingers, I dressed Thornycraft in a pair of Kelly green breeches and a shirt with about ten pounds less of material than he had arrived in. Feeling generous, I conjured up a fabulous pair of shit kicking black knee-high boots and a sharp jaunty green tricorne hat that matched the breeches to perfection.

  “Thank ye!” Thornycraft sang as he danced around my suite with joy, admiring himself in the mirror. “Yar not a galley hoppin’ greasy haired rope burn. I don’t give a shite what anyone says.”

  Wait. What?

  “And who exactly calls me a greasy haired rope burn?” I demanded, completely insulted. I did not have greasy hair. Ever. My hair was freakin’ awesome.

  “Umm… no one?” he lied, turning a shade of deep red. He looked more like a Christmas ornament than I did at the moment due to the breeches and hat.

  “Try again if you want to keep your new fancy duds. Otherwise, you’ll be punted out of the window wearing so much lace everyone will think you’re a life-sized doily,” I snapped.

  “Yar a little rough around the edges—kind of like a very attractive pontoon splinter,” Thornycraft offered, clutching his new green tricorne as if it was the Holy Grail.

  Well, that was a new one.

  “Fine,” I muttered. I sat down on my bed and let my head fall to my hands. Maybe I was a greasy, rope burned, pontoon splinter. Awesome. And now I could add fucking Cupid to the unflattering description. At least I was an attractive one. “Could my life get much worse?”

  “Do ye want to talk about it?” Thornycraft asked, seating himself next to me and gently taking my hand in his.

  Well, kind of. With so few fingers it was hard to tell.

  “Ye might think of me as a thundering bilge rat, fake bearded crab, cod faced tar stain, but I have a degree in psychology from Yale. Mebbe I can help ye with yer problems.”

  “You went to Yale?” I asked, shocked.

  “Aye,” he said with a nod and a little grin. “Was bored with the pilfering life about seventy odd years ago and wanted to see if an old seadog like me could learn new tricks.”

  “And?” I pressed.

  “And shiver me timbers, I passed with straight A’s,” he informed me proudly.

  “Did you cheat?”

  “Aye. I’m a Pirate. Hornswoggling is in me blood.”

  Thornycraft was sweet and kind in his own weird way. I was impressed he’d gone to Yale—even if he’d cheated. Maybe he could help me… And maybe I’d lost my mind.

  “Little Hooker, do ye have a black spot on yer head?”

  “Umm… I don’t think so,” I told him. “I mean, I know I have all this magic shit all over me, but I was pretty sure it’s all silver and red.”

  “Nay, a black spot is a death threat. Do ye have someone after ye? Cause if ye do, I can take care of it.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Aye. Ye is like a little green haired hooker sister to me,” Thornycraft replied with a sad smile. “All me sisters are gone now. Bonar, Upton and meself are the only ones of our kind left in the world. Yer violent tendencies remind me of me weevil eating, rum swigging, eyeliner wearin’ dinghy dangling sisters.”

  “Was that a compliment?” I asked, trying to decipher what he’d just said. I was dying to ask him what his kind was, but terrified of the answer. I’d save that question and see if I lived until the wedding.

  “Aye.” He nodded. “A fine compliment at that, Hooker.”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly, wondering if I was hatching a sane plan of action. I wasn’t, but since my life was the definition of insanity I figured I had little to lose. “If I tell you what’s going on, can you keep your cakehole shut?”

  “Aye. I will dance the hempen jig and beat meself with cackle fruit while puttin’ me own head in the head if I utter a word of yer secret,” he promised, crossing his heart. “Pirate’s Honor.”

  “I didn’t think Pirates had honor.”

  “Ye have a point thar, hooker. I swear on me mum’s life then.”

  “Okaaay,” I said, wondering if he’d just said he would flush his own head down the toilet. “But just so we’re clear here, I will zap your arse into the next century if you betray me and dress you in a permanent lacy romper with sequins on it. You’ll be begging for Davy Jones’ Locker if you talk. You feel me?”

  Thornycraft’s eyes grew wide and his grin matched. “Ye have some salty nards, little hooker. Ye have me word. No hornswoggling.”

  “I did something stupid and now I’m totally screwed.”

  “Could ye be a bit more specific?” Thornycraft inquired, wrinkling his brow in confusion. “Not a lot to go on thar.”

  “Right,” I said, hopping up and pacing the room. “Do you mind if I do pushups while we talk?”

  “Nay, go right ahead, hooker.”

  “Great,” I said, dropping to the ground and exercising like my life depended on it. “I boinked an idiot. Well, actually I’ve been boinking him on and off for a half century or so. You know, just casual—no names,” I huffed out as I increased my pace. It was harder than I’d thought to actually tell my horror story.

  “Ye don’t know the name of the scallywag yar boinking?” Thornycraft asked, clearly shocked.

  “Don’t judge,” I snapped as I rolled to my back and began doing crunches. “I don’t do relationships. Love is for jackholes.”

  “Aye,” he said, clapping his hands and producing a notebook and pen. “Do ye mind if I take notes? Me professors at Yale said it helped to decipher the problem if ye put the words on paper.”

  “Umm… okay,” I said. “Anyhoo, the idiot told me his name the other day after the best boink of my life. I promptly decided to never see him again because he cheated.”

  “He cheated on ye?” Thornycraft demanded indignantly.

  “No,” I corrected him as he scribbled away a mile a minute. “He cheated by telling me his name. That wasn’t in the rules, but that’s not the worst part. It’s bad, but now it gets terrifying,” I explained, getting up and changing it up with lunges. “So the asswipe I was boinking apparently stole magic from a god. When he left, he sprayed the pilfered enchantment all over me, hence the freakin’ red and silver sparkles I’m wearing.”

  “Sounds like the stripey-sweatered son of a sea bass has a death wish,” Thornycraft commented.

  “Right?” I said, sucking in a huge gulp of air as I upped the ante and began doing high kicks combined with squats. “He’s an idiot, but it get worse!”

  “No,” Thornycraft
said, eyes wide.

  “Yesssssss,” I told him. “Poseidon saw the sparkles and informed me that I was hired to take over for one of the demigods that had been slacking on the job.”

  “Shite,” Thornycraft gasped out.

  “Shite is right,” I shouted. “Apparently the Johnson-man-tool stole magic from Cupid because he’s a gaping crack. Poseidon sees me with Cupid’s magic all over me and decides I’m getting freakin’ Cupid’s job even though I don’t even believe in love. It’s all kinds of fucked and now I’m going to have a fat-assed, pissed-off baby-man after me for taking his job. This is all happening just because I boinked a formerly nameless guy that I didn’t know stole from freakin’ Cupid.”

  “Who is this Johnson-man-tool?” Thornycraft asked, looking a bit dazed.

  “Oh, that’s the guy I boinked. The one who stole from Cupid.”

  “Ahhhh, got it. Stealing from Cupid is a bad move. That peg legged bow bungler is one of the most violent demigods in the Universe,” he said, looking a bit pale.

  “Are you fucking serious?” I shrieked.

  “Nay, I’m Thornycraft.”

  “I meant… never mind. Are you telling me a porcine toddler is one of the most violent demigods around?” I asked with a sinking feeling in my gut. As worried as I was for myself, I was more concerned for Archer the asshole.

  Why? No fucking clue.

  “Aye. Zeus made Cupid one of the strongest warriors in existence,” Thornycraft confirmed. “Never seen him meself, but I’ve heard the stories.”

  And the day just kept getting worse…

  “What in Poseidon’s diaper-wearing ass am I supposed to do? I don’t even want the job. I’ll suck at it.”

  “Nay, ye will actually be fine,” he assured me. “Are ye a good shot?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Then ye have no worries there. Where is Johnson-man-tool?”

  “Umm…” I debated whether to tell him that he was calling Archer by the name of his weenie, but decided against it. It made me giggle and I needed a laugh right now. “I don’t know. I’m actually worried about him,” I admitted begrudgingly. “As much as he deserves to have his ass skinned, I would be devastated if Cupid killed him.”

  “Hmm… very interesting,” Thornycraft said with the hint of a smirk on his face.

  “What?” I demanded, narrowing my eyes. “You think this is funny?”

  “Nay, hooker. Methinks ye might like Johnson-man-tool more than ye admit.”

  “I most certainly do not like Johnson-man-tool,” I informed the still smirking Pirate. “He’s the reason Cupid probably wants to kill me.”

  “Yet yer worried for his scallywag hide,” Thornycraft pointed out.

  Shit. He had a point. I didn’t like his point, but he had one.

  “I don’t have any time to deal with that right now,” I snapped. “I need a plan of action. I’m not in the mood to be hunted by a violent fat baby.”

  “Aye, I feel ye. Yar gonna need to contact Johnson-man-tool. Are ye sure he stole the magic?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, he had to have stolen it. Right? I did not play hide the salami with a chubby miniature demigod,” I told him with an eye roll.

  “It’s good to know ye have standards even if they be low.”

  “Duuuude,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “Let’s keep my morals or lack thereof out of this. And just so you know… it’s not like I’ve been boinking a bunch of ass monkeys whose names I didn’t know. I’ve only been boinking one guy. In fact, he’s the only douche canoe I’ve boinked in fifty years. So you can shove my not so low standards up your breeches wearing arse.”

  “Ye’ve been with no one but Johnson-man-tool since ye met him?” Thornycraft inquired, biting down on his lip so hard to keep from grinning that I was certain he was going to chew it off.

  “I don’t like what you’re implying, turd knocker.”

  “Not implying anything, hooker,” he said with a shrug while staring at the floor. “Methinks ye should summon yer Johnson-man-tool and get to the bottom of… several things.”

  “Poseidon is bringing me Cupid’s arrows and the crossbow. What should I tell him?”

  “Nothing. Tell him nothing. I think ye should take the instruments of human love and train. If ye don’t, ye will have less of a chance of defeating the chubby bastard baby.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Maybe talking to Thornycraft had been my best idea ever. Although, he was smoking rotten seaweed if he believed that I liked Johnson-man-tool… I mean, Archer. However, the part about training was still an issue.

  “How do I train for a bullshit job?” I asked.

  I was pretty sure the Pirate rolled his eyes at me, but it was quick. I was tempted to zap his ass, but I needed him.

  “Ye sure yar a good shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ye run a tourist trap full of human guests?”

  “Yep,” I said as my smile widened.

  “Sounds like ye won’t have a problem then, hooker. Practice on the humans.”

  “Awesome and brilliant idea,” I agreed with a laugh. “Thank you, Thornycraft. You’re a good friend.” The Pirate blushed so deeply I thought he might keel over.

  “Right back at ye, hooker. Now call Johnson-man-tool and let’s get yer shitshow on the road.”

  “Will do.”

  Who knew a strange little Pirate with missing digits would be so brilliant?

  Thank the gods for small and fingerless blessings.

  4

  Cupid

  “Heard you’re out of a job, lover boy,” an obnoxiously delighted and familiar voice said from somewhere behind me.

  “Interesting. I heard you’re an asshole,” I replied flatly.

  “Touché. Someone’s in a poopy mood.”

  “And this is why I avoid Mount Olympus like the fucking plague,” I muttered as I turned to greet the annoyingly pompous Apollo. With what barely passed as a smile plastered on my face and an extremely rude eye roll, I glared at my drama-loving childhood friend. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but it’s not.”

  “Come, come now, Cupid,” Apollo shot back with a wide grin. “You can’t still be upset that I kicked your sorry ass in the Olympic archery competition. That was centuries ago.”

  “You cheated,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, well there is that,” Apollo admitted with a laugh. “So the old bastards finally did it. They fired you?”

  “Apparently,” I snapped, slipping the wedding invitation into my pocket in preparation to leave for the Mystical Isle. However, I stopped to admire the ridiculous view. It was far too good not to.

  All six feet of my cheating friend was dressed in flowing green robes. Apollo looked like the stem of a pumpkin standing atop a mound of bright orange sand. The bolt of lightning my ass would undoubtedly receive when Poseidon discovered his chambers covered in the day-glow orange hued dunes was worth it. Taking out my cell phone, I snapped a quick picture.

  It would be going up on Instagram shortly. Gods and Goddesses had their own private channel. It would take my vain friend a few decades to live it down—especially after I put the likeness through Photoshop and made a few enhancements.

  “You do realize that I’ll destroy you if you post that,” Apollo informed me with a raised brow.

  “As that’s practically impossible, I say bring it, O God of Dancing and Singing,” I replied with a grin and an extended middle finger.

  “You’re forgetting a few of my other attributes, former demigod Cupid,” he reminded me while returning the middle finger salute.

  “And I’m quite certain you’re going to remind me,” I said, checking Poseidon’s desk for any other useful information. Perhaps the name of my fucking replacement…

  Apollo joined me at the desk and handed me a dossier. The name on the file was Misty. Misty. Who exactly was this Misty? Was the mysterious Misty my replacement? If she was she had a rather large and unpleasant surprise coming. I would
not be replaced. Ever.

  “Not only do I dance and sing—very well, I might add—I also reign over knowledge, healing, plagues…” Apollo began to lay out the list I’d heard too many times to count.

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest? You make humans sick and then you heal them?” I interrupted, thankful all I had to deal with was the ridiculous notion of love. Most of the gods had a shitload on their plates.

  “Yes, I suppose it is. However, I’m not done,” Apollo informed me with a grin.

  “Of course you’re not.”

  “I lord over manly beauty for obvious reasons,” he bragged, flexing his muscles. “And let’s not forget poetry and archery.”

  “You suck at archery,” I pointed out.

  “Beside the point,” Apollo stated with a shrug and a chuckle. “But my gift for prophecy is the one you should be most interested in at the moment.”

  My perusal of the desk and the dossier came to an abrupt halt as I turned my attention to the one idiot with an ego that was possibly larger than mine. Apollo did have the gift of prophecy. Normally I never listened to what he had to say. I enjoyed living on the edge and knowing what the future held was not appealing. When you lived forever, you needed something liven it up the unending monotony.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” I told him.

  “I must insist you listen,” he countered, no longer smiling. “I don’t have a clear picture, which I find disturbing.”

  I paused, glanced down at the folder in my hand, and considered what Apollo had just revealed. Blurry visions didn’t bode well. They usually meant violence or death for someone involved. Did I really want to know if I was walking into my own demise? Did I care?

  I’d existed on this mortal plane for so long I was hard pressed to remember my own age. Eternity, while nice in theory, was tedious and lonely. I’d been fired from the only job I’d ever had—the job I’d been created for. Maybe it was my turn to go.

  “I still don’t want to hear it,” I announced curtly. “However, I will say as much as I’d like to beat you to a bloody pulp that I’ve also enjoyed our dysfunctional friendship over the many thousands of years it’s lasted.”