Cupcakes,Lies and Dead Guys

by PamelaDuMond

  “Get Rid Of Evil Pesky Dead Assholes spell.

  Instrucciones: Under la luna bella at midnight, toss salt over each of the four corners of the grave. Read spell out loud and spit on each corner. Must do with passione!”

  Annie tossed salt in all four directions of the plaque.

  She spit on the north end of the plaque.

  “I spit on your head, for those you misled.”

  She turned and hocked one on the south end.

  “I spit on your eyes so you fry on your lies.”

  She swiveled and spit on the east end of the plaque.

  “I spit on your feet so you feel hell’s heat.”

  She gathered all her fury and her remaining sputum, spun 180 degrees and hocked a whopping lougie that landed with serious gravity on the west end. It took out a small unsuspecting spider that meandered across the plaque.

  “I spit on your grave to be your slave.”

  Oops. She screwed up that last line. It was supposed to be, “I spit on your grave to never be your slave.” Whatever. He was gone. The colossal jerk, known as Derrick Fuller, was history. She stared up at the full moon, stretched her arms tall over her head and arched her spine backwards. She closed her eyes and let the moon’s energy pour through her body. Yummy. Enjoy hell, bucko. Hope you brought your flannels and your fur coat.

  Blue vapor materialized and ascended from Annie’s multiple spits. The vapors grew taller, thicker, twisted around each other and merged into a single column. That column became a lumpy rectangle, then took on a human form – and transformed into the blue spirit body of Derrick Fuller. Wow, Derrick thought. The fact that he could do that was super cool.

  He stood behind Annie, crossed his arms and tapped his foot. He grew a couple of blue inches taller, looked surprised and then pleased at his reflection in the moonlit waters. He struck a pose, flexed his bicep muscle and admired himself.

  Annie wiped her hands. Everything was quiet. She checked her watch: 12:01 p.m. She did it. She was free. But, her stomach gurgled loudly and she hunched over in sidesplitting pain. A compelling hypnotic voice that said, “How dare you spit on the grave of a recently deceased person? That is disgusting and frankly, crass.”

  Had to be the cheap suit event organizer. Oh goodie. Another function for the multi-tasking crutch. She was going to nail this loser.

  She turned and saw a six foot two inch ghostly blue version of Derrick Fuller in his silver thong standing directly in front of her. “O-holy-je-friggin’-chris-friggin’-oh-my-God–shit!” She screamed bloody murder at the top, middle and bottom of her lungs. She screamed for the dead, to wake the dead, and possibly caused a couple of deaths from heart attacks and a few strokes at the nearby Senior Snoozes Cozy Condos.

  “Be quiet!” Derrick said in a low but firm voice. “It’s bad enough you have no manners. I won’t have a screamer on my staff. At least, not in an official capacity.” He winked at her. Twice.

  Annie screamed again, grabbed her purse and limped back towards the chain link fence with the crutch.

  When five monks in orange robes jumped from the bushes, ambushed and surrounded her. They held hands in a circle and captured her in their peaceful “Here we go round the mulberry bush” prison. Monk Ears stood directly in front of her. He was tall, bald and had enormous ears. Hence his moniker. He motioned his right hand across his lips in the universal symbol for zip it. Annie took that opportunity to try and push past him. But Monk Buddha, chubby faced with a big belly whipped out a “No Trespassing, Ever!” sign and blocked her escape when her head bounced off it.

  Annie clutched her forehead with the palm of her hand, “Trespassing? You think I’m friggin’ trespassing? Like I have nothing else better to do at midnight? I’ve been… I’ve been mourning the death of my good friend, Dr. Derrick Fuller. I was meditating and simply lost track of the time.” She looked at her watch. “Oh my. I’m late for my full moon midnight madness Sierra Club hike, in the Santa Monica Mountains.”

  She noticed the third monk was young, wide-eyed and trusting like a golden retriever puppy. Puppy Monk nodded like he bought her story. He was the weak link. Annie limped towards him. When she spotted blue, dead Derrick Fuller ambling towards her. She screamed again.

  Puppy Monk broke the peace prison circle and clasped his hands over his ears. All the monks winced.

  Derrick grinned. “This isn’t speed dating, Pumpkin, we just met. You’ve got no place to go, slow down. This is our courtship.”

  She flipped off Derrick and rushed Puppy Monk.

  But the monks regrouped, joined hands, hunkered down and she was pushed back.

  Annie huffed and put a free hand on her hip. “Listen to me! I have to be at the hike because… because I am the chosen one. I am the Moon Whisperer. The one who howls at the moon. That’s what I’ve been doing this entire time. Practicing!” She looked at the monks’ faces. This time no one was buying her story.

  Annie turned and saw that Derrick was now in the monk’s protective circle and leaning over her shoulder. He grinned and ran his dead fingers through her hair. “They don’t believe you. But no worries, Cupcake. I promise, I’ll take care of you - if you help me.”

  “Still practicing!” She screamed and pulled/pushed Derrick out of her hair.

  Derrick snickered. Since only Annie could see him, these spiritual goobers probably thought she was psychotic, or on crack. He laughed so hard that if his ribs were still real, he would have strained them.

  Pierced Monk was tall and buff with multiple ear, eyebrow, lip and possible other piercings. He frowned at Annie and pressed his index finger firmly to his closed pursed lips in the international symbol for “Shhh.”

  Definitely time for Annie to break out of this peaceful prison. If she could leave the Shrine, she’d ditch the dead blue ghost of Derrick. She eyed the monks, lunged towards them and went high. They anticipated, countered and stopped her. She went low; they were already there. She had a fleeting thought that the Green Bay Packers’ management should scout these guys. She retreated to the center of the ring, out of breath. How to get the hell out of Monk and Dead Guy Dodge? Think. Think. Packers. Football. Got it.

  In reality, these monk guys weren’t just spiritual acolytes; they were athletes. How could a girl escape from athletes? Her first idea wouldn’t work – she had no money. The second solution was also unavailable - her drugs and alcohol were back at her apartment. Aah yes, it came to her - she’d sweet-talk them. She was pretty good at that. Yeah there.

  “Look guys, I know about your vows.” She balanced on the crutch, stuck out one hip, put a finger in her mouth and sucked on it. She looked innocent, just a girl down-on-her-luck who needed manly rescuing. “I know you’re probably crabby ’cause you can’t talk and you’re sugar deprived and craving Doritos and M&Ms.” She fished around in her purse past the tampons, her hairbrush and found the soft yummy energy bar. Pulled it out and waved it high over her head slowly in front of the monks tempting them. “This rewards the first man, a gentleman, who lets me leave.”

  Several monks looked at her oddly. Two stared at their feet. Puppy Monk blushed.

  Annie looked up and saw she was waving a pack of feminine wipes in front of them.

  She stuck the wipes back in her purse, grabbed the energy bar, this time checking to make sure that was indeed what she was waving. “I meant, this is for the first gentleman who lets me leave.”

  Puppy Monk took the bait and reached for the bar.

  She tossed it in the air and ran for the break in the monk firewall. Almost escaped when Pierced Monk snapped out his elbow. His forearm connected with the bridge of her nose and stopped her cold. The crunch rang through her head, into her ears, and ran down her spine. She hadn’t heard a crunch sound like that since her First Major Life Debacle. Oh shit. She stumbled backwards, grabbed her nose. Hopefully, it was just dislocated. Not broken or mangled or dead like…

  She looked up and saw Silver Monk, probably in his seventies, with buzzed silver ha
ir. He glared at Pierced Monk, shook his finger and admonished him.

  Pierced looked embarrassed, but pointed to Annie and made the international sign for insane next to his head. Then he immediately bowed to Silver Monk, hands in prayer position at his heart.

  Silver pointed to Annie. Pierced turned and bowed to her, repentant.

  Derrick whispered to Annie. “I guess that means that you and I are partners, Cupcake. And you don’t even know what I’m planning yet. Does that turn you on?”

  The hair on her arms stood up. “I plan to never see you or the color blue, again,” she replied and wiped bloody snot from her nose onto her shirtsleeve. She looked at Silver Monk and implored, “Please, sir. A moment.”

  Silver nodded at her.

  “I’m not screaming for my health. I’m terrified. There’s a ghost, here, in this circle. He’s tall, blue and isn’t my friend or yours. He wants something from me and I have to get out of here. You put his ashes here, so you deal with him. That is karma and that is fair.”

  Silver thought for a moment and nodded at her. Looked at the other monks in the circle. They all nodded and everyone dropped their arms.

  “Thank you,” she said, bowed to Silver, turned and limped off down the cedar path. Which meant that on her current course, she’d have to climb the damn fence, again, to leave this beautiful hellhole.

  “You won’t leave me,” Derrick said. “You’re empathic. Probably intrigued, mystified, even aroused by the possibilities I’ve dropped in your lap. After all, how many empathics get to see and communicate with a powerful dead spirit?”

  Annie paused and listened.

  “I heard the gossip at my funeral,” Derrick said. “I know about the cyanide-laced cupcake and understand you’re a suspect in my untimely demise.”

  “I knew nothing about you when you died,” she said.

  Derrick smiled. “I also heard you were a talented pastry chef. But…” he put his hand to his ear. “Hmm. What’s that sound? Oh, the rumble of your promising business imploding because the gossipmongers labeled you, ‘The Cupcake Killer.’ Think about it, Annie. Stay with me, help me. In twelve years, you’ll be fifty. Do you want to be fifty with no money in the bank, no career and no husband?”

  “After my stellar pick of my first husband, I’m not currently scouting number two. While I might be thirty-eight whole big years old, I’m still alive. Unlike you.”

  “Work with me. When we bring my killer to justice, you’ll get a book deal or at least your own cable TV show – ‘Passing Under’ has a ring to it. This would re-establish your career. Really mean something.”

  Annie yanked off her diamond engagement and wedding rings. “Yeah there. So did these.” She flung her sparkly wedding ice at Derrick’s buff blue naked chest. They flew through his man cleavage, struck his memorial plaque, bounced off it and sunk in the pond. “And one more thing,” she turned around and hopped over to Pierced Monk. “FYI, Mr. Peace and Love – don’t you ever accost a screaming woman who’s scared to pieces and attempting to flee on a bum ankle, ever again!” She balanced on her crutch and kicked him with her good foot, square in his shin.

  Pierced Monk blinked.

  Yeah there and that was another thing a crutch was good for thought Annie, turned around and hobbled towards the Shrine’s front entrance.

  The Observer heard Annie’s screams. Could only imagine what was going on behind that fence. Hoped it was bad. A black and white pulled up to the shrine’s front gate. The Observer watched two officers exit the car and race to the gate where a silver-haired monk met them. The monk appeared to reply to the officers’ questions silently and wrote on a pad of paper. The officers returned to their car and drove off. The Observer couldn’t believe it. Thirty seconds later, Dimwit hopped out supported by two monks, who helped her into her car. She revved the engine and drove off. Why hadn’t the cops arrested Dimwit? The plan was getting screwed up. The Observer would not allow that to happen.

  Raisin’ the Dead

  Description: Raisin cinnamon swirl bread glazed in fresh powdered sugar icing.

  Appropriate Occasions: When all the alcohol and prescription drugs in the world can’t heal the pain, or help you sleep. When that dead person screwing with your mind and your life cannot be tolerated one second longer.

  Best Served With: Determination. A book of magical spells. A slip of the tongue. A solid crutch – this could include friends, family, or that thing you limp with when you’ve sprained your ankle. All come in handy. All are keepers.

  Special Note: Enjoying too many ‘Raisin’ the Deads’ could significantly add to your spread. You know what we mean. (Someone’s sweats shrunk so much at the Frisk & Fold that it appears Someone’s up two extra sizes. Not fair.)

  ELEVEN

  Tata Pancakes

  The waiting room at St. Cecelia’s Breast Clinic was calm, clean and professional. It had Martha Stewart wallpaper, comfy love seats, cushy chairs, side tables, reading lamps and an abundance of used women’s magazines as well as the occasional Time and Newsweek. It was filled with women from all races and backgrounds who were primarily thirties and up. They pretended to read old copies of Glamour while they bit their nails and waited for their names to be called by a receptionist.

  Behind the rosy granite counter, the receptionists tried their best to be as calm as possible and promote the air of, “No problem – it’s not the big C - it’s either baseline or fibrous.” For malpractice reasons, they couldn’t actually say those words.

  Annie sat in the waiting room and flipped through women’s magazines. Her ankle was still bandaged, but she was done with the crutch. In her wait at St. Cecelia’s Breast Clinic she had learned how to seduce a man, reduce her gut, fake an orgasm, and/or have a real one even with a teensily endowed man. One of her fingers bled fresh red blood from where she picked on its nail. She wiped it on her dark blue jeans.

  “Mrs. Piccolino. Mrs. Annie Piccolino?” a receptionist called.

  Annie jumped. “Yes!” This couldn’t be as bad as her last trip to the doctor’s office.

  The receptionist was an older African-American woman with a mane of braided salt and pepper hair. They walked down a sterile hallway filled with closed doors.

  “My name is Lekisha, and this is your file. No worries,” she said and handed Annie a thin file folder.

  A middle-aged female nurse walked past them carrying a stack of files. Annie recognized her. “Nurse Jennifer! The yoga and anxiety brochures helped. Thank you so much!”

  Nurse Jennifer regarded Annie, confused. “You’re welcome, Mrs. …”

  “Just call me Annie,” she said.

  “We at St. Cecelia’s are one big family, Annie. Just here to help. Lekisha – heard your kid was kicking butt on the soccer field.”

  Lekisha smiled. “Working hard and hoping for a scholarship, thanks.”

  “We need to catch up. I’ll call you,” Nurse Jennifer smiled, squeezed Lekisha’s arm and walked off.

  Lekisha pointed Annie to a door on the right side of the hallway. “Gown opens in the front. Hand your file to the tech who calls your name. Is this your first?”

  “Yes,” Annie said and her hands shook slightly as she held the file.

  “It’s no big deal. Just a baseline,” Lekisha said and smiled at her.

  Annie returned her smile. She looked calm. Appeared serene. Was completely freaked out.

  Annie’s gown was open in the front. Her nipples sported special markers that indicated which was her left breast and which was her right. She thought that was funny ’cause over the years no one she hung out with exhibited partiality between her breasts. Both had equal admirers. She looked around the official mammogram room filled with all its high tech machines. Everything looked clean, sterile and efficient. Please, how bad could this be?

  A nice young tech named Elena pulled Annie’s right breast five inches past its normal dimensions and flattened it between two sections of a mammogram machine. Told her not to fiddle or wigg
le, to just stay put.

  Annie thought that the scientist that came up with this helpful torture device was both brilliant and sadistic. Maybe the CIA could replace water-boarding suspected terrorists with mammograms.

  Elena said, “Okay?”

  “Absolutely. No problems,” Annie said as sweat poured off her palms.

  Elena cranked the mammogram machine completely closed and squeezed Annie’s breast to pancake proportions. Clicked off the images.

  Annie wondered if her breasts might stay flattened forever. This would be a major bummer in her love life or bra-buying future. Maybe a past issue of Glamour in the waiting room had an article on this subject.

  Elena ran out from behind the machines. “You’re doing perfect,” she said and released the helpful diagnostic/torture device, grabbed the same breast, rotated it onto a different angle and smashed it again.

  When Derrick in his snappy thong materialized and squeezed Annie’s arm. “This is good sign, Cupcake. I need you around. I’m encouraged that you’re taking care of your health.”

  Annie screamed.

  Elena snapped, “I know it’s your first. Stay still, and we’ll be done super quick.”

  “No!” Annie declared. “I need to go.”

  “Just one more breast!” Elena ran out, switched Annie’s breasts, pulled the second one and squished it between the machine’s cold plates.

  This Derrick thing was probably just a mental hangover brought on by the stress of pancake breasts. She could do this. “Yeah there,” Annie said and exhaled loudly.

  “I was thinking Annie, where do we go from here? I need your help finding my killer. I won’t take no for an answer. Let’s negotiate a contract,” Derrick said.