The Bad Boys of Assjacket: Magic and Mayhem Universe: Magic and Mayhem Book 9

by Robyn Peterman

  “Jango,” I choked out in an emotional whisper. “Youse dumb mug. Youse’ll be able to get dem mitts back on your marbles in no time. I believe in youse.”

  Jango glanced over mid-stride and flew off the treadmill. A girthy, screaming ball of flying fur launched about twenty feet into the air and landed with a sickening thud. After a full minute of impressive profanity, Jango got back on his paws and wiped the sweat from his brow. His furry chin dropped to his chest. It didn’t have far to go since his stomach was as big as his ass—which was fucking huge.

  “Thank youse,” Jango said, still breathing hard. “Dat means a lot to me, Fat Bastard. Gotta get back into shape so I can visit my meat clackers.”

  “Youse can do it, paisano,” Boba Fett said.

  “Hey now,” Jango complained. “Don’t youse be talkin’ about no pie.”

  “My bad,” Boba apologized.

  “Apology accepted. So, now dat I’m done with my exercise for the day,” Jango said. “Youse better explain yourself, Fat Bastard.”

  “How long did youse jog?” I asked, wanting to avoid the smackdown that was headed my way.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Jango announced with pride then narrowed his gaze at me. “Youse told Zelda weese was goin’ on the straight and narrow?”

  “WHAT?” Boba shouted. “Youse was supposed to tell her weese are gonna spray paint the word dingleberries on Main Street.”

  “It was bunghole,” I corrected.

  “It was?” Boba asked, confused. “Coulda sworn it was dingleberries.”

  “Happens to everybody. Dingleberries and bunghole practically rhyme,” Jango assured him, waddling over. “Can’t believe youse told Zelda weese would refrain from felonious activities. What the hell are weese supposed to do?”

  He had me there. I had no clue.

  “Weese could start a business,” Boba suggested.

  “Card sharks?” Jango proposed.

  “Dat’s iffy,” I pointed out. “Maybe a little more legal. Too damn hard not to cheat.”

  “Pyramid scheme?” Boba offered.

  “Umm… pretty sure dat’s fuckin’ illegal,” I told them. This was hard.

  Jango snapped his toe beans and a six-pack of beer appeared. “Youse guys want one?”

  “Shouldn’t youse be drinkin’ water if youse ever wanna see your love sac again?” Boba questioned with a huge grin as he grabbed a beer.

  “F-youse,” Jango grumbled. “It’s light beer.”

  I paced our quarters, aka The Kick-ass Cat Pad, and tried to figure out what we should do. Thinking was incredibly overrated and exhausting. Glancing around, I looked for inspiration in the massive suite that Zelda’s mate, Mac, built for us. It was feline heaven. The bright yellow room had strategically placed scratching posts, and three miniature beds lined the wall under the bay window where we spent hours staring at birds, planning illegal activities and napping. A pilfered collection of paintings depicting Garfield, Grumpy Cat, Sylvester, Mr. Bigglesworth, Monty and Cat Woman on the crapper were some of our finest possessions. There was catnip and a fridge filled with frozen pizzas, beer and Spam. Cat food was for losers. We lived the good life on pepperoni, cheese and mystery meat products.

  “What are weese good at?” I asked my boys.

  “Killin’ shit,” Jango said.

  “Spray paintin’,” Boba added.

  Jango flopped down on the thick green shag carpeting that we’d requested and burped. “Cheatin’ at cards.”

  “While youse both are correct, I’m thinkin’ Zelda won’t go for dat. Spray paintin’ dead people after we fleece dem for dough doesn’t sound legal to me,” I pointed out. “Also, weese are gonna have to return the big screen TV.”

  “Why?” Boba asked.

  “Cause weese stole it,” I told him, smacking him in the back of the head.

  “And dats bad?” he asked confused as he walloped me back.

  “Yep, dats bad.”

  “I got it!” Jango yelled, ripping open a bag of pepperoni sticks and inhaling them. “Weese can combine all the things weese are good at into a business.”

  “All the things weese are good at are criminal,” Boba reminded him.

  Jango was a dumbass, but he might have made an excellent point.

  “Dis is true, but what if weese spray paint dead people and charge for it?” I suggested, waggling my brows.

  “Dat’s a business?” Jango asked, scratching his head.

  My smile widened and I nodded. “Yep. Dat’s a business.”

  “What the hell kind of business is dat?” Boba questioned.

  “Weese are gonna open a funeral home,” I announced.

  Boba wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Weese are?”

  “Yep, Assjacket ain’t got no funeral home,” I pointed out.

  “Might be because Shifters and witches don’t croak dat often,” Boba said, popping another can of beer.

  He made a superb argument, but I needed a nap and couldn’t think of anything else. “Not a problem,” I assured them. “If nobody dies, weese don’t have to spray paint dem. Win-win.”

  “I like it,” Jango said, nodding. “Weese could pilfer a building and set up shop.”

  “I like it too,” Boba said. “And just so weese don’t get thrown in the big house, weese can borrow a building instead of pilferin’ it.”

  “Good thinkin’.” I told him. Weese can borrow Roger the rabbit Shifter’s office. He’s on vacation for two weeks and weese only have to be law abidin’ for one week. The bunny won’t even know.”

  “Perfect.” Jango grinned, warming even more to the idea. “Weese have tons of spray paint just in case weese accidentally off someone or an Assjackian kicks the bucket.”

  I knew I could count on my boys. The plan was coming together.

  “Wadda weese gonna call it?” Boba inquired.

  “Maybe somethin’ dat rhymes with dead?” I suggested.

  “Got it,” Boba said. “Dead and Shred.”

  I almost puked in my mouth. “Dats fuckin’ disgustin’.”

  “It rhymes,” Boba huffed, flipping me off.

  Jango chuckled. “I can top dat. Youse Kill It—Weese Grill It.”

  “While I dig the thought behind it, no f-in’ way,” I said with a laugh. “Hows about The Dead Bed?”

  “Nah,” Jango said. “Should be more fun. Youse know, somethin’ dat makes people wanna bite the big one and come to our place.”

  “Fine point. Well made,” I said, laying down on my bed in preparation for a nap. “What do people do when someone buys the farm?”

  Boba raised his hand and waited to be called on. I rolled my eyes. “Speak.”

  “They mourn,” he said. “Weese could call it Sworn to Mourn.”

  “Closer,” I said, getting under the blankets. “Not quite right yet.”

  “Grieve and Thieve?” Jango suggested, giving up on his diet and grabbing a pie we’d absconded with from the Assjacket Diner yesterday.

  “Sounds a little shady,” Boba said, removing the pie from Jango’s paws and swallowing it whole.

  The hair on the back of Jango’s neck stood up on end, and he hissed viciously. Pie was pie. You didn’t fuck with a man’s pie. Ever. They beat the hell out of each other for three minutes and twenty-six seconds. Smackdowns were a regular occurrence for us. Nails were out, chunks of fur flew and the language was salty. It was a good healthy way to communicate. Couldn’t let that shit stay bottled up. Last time we tried being socially acceptable, we’d ended up incarcerated for six months after an unfortunate spray-painting incident at the Super Bowl. We’d learned our lesson and tried to whack each other daily to avoid stints in the pokey.

  “Youse girls done?” I asked. Both of them were bloody and laughing like dummies.

  “Yep,” Jango said. “But when Boba drop kicked me into the garbage can, I had another idea.”

  “Spill it,” I said, yawning.

  “Bereave,” he announced, pumping his paws over his head.r />
  “What’s dat mean?” Boba asked, mopping the blood off his whiskers and sipping on his beer.

  I sat up. “It’s like when youse eighty-six someone and den youse feel guilty for offin’ him even though he deserved it because the jackhole bilked youse outta 10K.”

  We sat in silence and mulled over the possibilities. They were endless.

  “Youse Better Bereave It!” Jango shouted.

  “Hows about Bereave It or Not?” Boba bellowed, not wanting to be left out.

  “Or…” I said with a naughty grin. “Don’t Stop Bereavin’.”

  “Dems all good names,” Jango said. “What are weese gonna do?”

  “Three owners. Three names. Youse assholes in?” I asked.

  “In like Flynn,” Boba said.

  “I’m in with a grin on my chin drinkin’ gin with a twin and her kin on a spin…” Jango said, not to be topped by anyone.

  “Shaddup,” I said with a laugh. “Youse are gonna give me a headache. I’d suggest a nap and den a trip into town to borrow a building.”

  “Should weese get permission to borrow Roger’s office?” Jango asked as he settled himself on our cat-sized couch for a mid-morning snooze.

  “Nah,” Boba said, curling up on the floor. “Much easier to apologize after a minor pilfering.”

  Truer words had never been said.

  Chapter Two

  “Dat could work,” I said, casing Roger’s office while hiding behind the enormous half-headed cement bear in the middle of Main Street.

  Sadly, the cement bear was also missing his nards due to the sticky-fingered groundhogs. With half a head and no balls, Assjacket’s mascot was a sad sight to see. It broke my heart to look at the ten-foot bear without his spangle berries. I’d get his stone nuts back from those thieving groundhogs soon. They’d pay for castrating the grizzly and for trying to bury us alive.

  “Youse think dat hurt? When dem groundhogs pulled off his marble bags?” Jango asked, staring at the empty spot where the bear’s jewels used to reside.

  “He’s a rock,” Boba pointed out. “But he does look kinda sad about his missin’ boulders.”

  I shook my head and sighed. “Poor son of a bitch don’t even have a name. Just ain’t right to have no balls and no name.”

  “Let’s name him,” Jango suggested. “Weese can spray paint his name over his missin’ junk until weese get his crotch nugs back for him.”

  “Dat’s beautiful,” Boba said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Youse are a sentimental guy, Jango.”

  “Thank youse,” Jango said. “I try. Hows about weese name him Sturgill?”

  “His nuts or his name?” I asked, wanting to be respectful and get it right.

  “Weese are namin’ his junk too?” Boba asked, confused.

  Jango nodded solemnly. “I think weese should. Seems right. Hows about weese call him Sturgill and name his bits Little Sturgill?”

  Nodding, I patted my comrade on the back. “I like it. Easy to remember if his nuts and his name are similar.”

  “Yeah,” Boba said. “Although, Sturgill’s concrete dong pillow isn’t little. Maybe weese should name his clams, Big Sturgill. Youse know, so he doesn’t get his feelings hurt.”

  “He’s a rock,” I reminded Boba.

  “Rocks got feelings too,” Boba insisted.

  Glancing up at the sad, magic bean-less bear, I saluted him. “Sturgill and Big Sturgill it is. Youse asshats ready to break into Roger’s office?”

  “I still think it was a better plan to spray paint the word dingleberries down the middle of the road,” Boba commented.

  “Bunghole,” I corrected him again.

  “What did youse just call me?” Boba hissed.

  Jango shook his head and gut punched Boba. They proceeded to pummel each other once more, while I pondered how easy it would be to pick the lock on Roger’s door in broad daylight.

  Ignoring the smackdown, I stared at the building and grinned. Main Street was deserted. It was always deserted. The Shifters of Assjacket were fucking brilliant. The town looked like a total dump on the outside so humans would just drive right through without looking back. However, inside the ramshackle structures, everything was pure enchantment. All magical beings lived very public but private lives. If discovered, we’d all end up getting eighty-sixed by humans terrified of what they didn’t understand… which would suck.

  “If youse jackholes would quit tryin’ to off each other, weese could break in and start rearrangin’ the place.”

  “Weese still need to graffiti Sturgill’s meat kiwis,” Boba reminded me, taking one last swipe at Jango.

  “Incoming,” Sassy shouted as she strafed our heads on her broom.

  “Holy shit! Duck,” I shouted at my boys.

  Landing upside down and swearing like a sailor on a bender, the witch jumped to her feet and pretended like we hadn’t just seen her pink lacy underpants.

  “Sorry aboot that,” she said, yanking her dress down and brushing the gravel out of her blonde hair. “Sure glad I’m wearing underpants today. That could have been embarrassing.”

  Sassy was a hot dame. The dingbat was Zelda’s BFF and a magical menace. We liked her immensely. We hadn’t started out on the right paw with the crazy broad, but we’d come to a truce. She’d waxed us not too long ago for firing her adopted chipmunk Shifter sons, Chad, Chip, Chunk, and Chutney from our underground poker parlor. That had been a bad day. We'd had to disappear for a while. As embarrassing as it had been to be hairless, it had been nice not to hack up hairballs for a few weeks.

  “What did youse say?” I asked.

  “I said sorry aboot that,” she replied. “It’s Canadian.”

  “Boots are Canadian?” Jango asked.

  Sassy nodded. “Yes, they are, eh?”

  “Wait.” Boba scratched his ass and eyed her in confusion. “Did youse just ask a question or confirm dat boots was Canadian?”

  “Yes, eh?” she said with an eye roll. “Canadian is a very difficult language to master. I’ve hired tutors from Toronto to come down and teach me. They’ll be arriving later today. In the meantime, I’ve been watching Strange Brew and drinking beer.”

  “Beer?” I asked, my ears perking up.

  “From Canada, eh?” Sassy said. “I’m not really a drinker, and it’s next to impossible for a witch to tie one on, but Bob and Doug McKenzie drink a lot of it and speak Canadian fluently.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Boba said, nodding. “Youse want a beer now?”

  “You have Canadian beer, eh?” she asked.

  Dat I do,” Boba announced, clapping his paws together and conjuring up a cooler. “Youse want Alberta Crude, Helles Half Acre, O Canada Maple Ale, Beth’s Blackout Oyster Stout or KickSled Cream Ale?”

  Sassy leaned over the cooler and peeked in. “So many choices, eh?” she mused. “I have to think aboot it.”

  Jango grabbed a can and popped the tab “What do boots have to do with beer?”.

  “Everything,” Sassy explained. She picked up a can of Alberta Crude and sniffed the contents. “This one smells very Canadian.”

  The broad downed it in one noisy swallow. Impressive.

  “I’ll have one of each,” she said, picking up a can of O Canada Maple. “A variety of Canadian beer will relax my brain and make it more open to absorbing the nuances of the language, eh?”

  “Whatever youse say, Sassy,” I agreed, sampling Beth’s Blackout Oyster Stout. “Dis is nice. Havin’ a brew at noon in the middle of Assjacket with good friends.”

  Thirty minutes and twelve beers apiece later…

  Sassy burped and giggled. “Why are we hiding behind the half-headed bear?”

  “Crap,” Boba said, wobbling on all fours. “Weese gotta paint Sturgill’s name on his nuts.”

  Sassy glanced around. “Who’s Sturgill?”

  “Weese named the bear,” I explained. “His name is Sturgill and his missing gangoolies are Big Sturgill. Weese are gonna spray paint his name over
his missing privates so people will know what to call him.”

  Sassy stood up and grabbed the can of spray paint from Boba Fett. “I’ll do it.”

  We watched in appreciative shock as Sassy misspelled Sturgill in neon blue. The ten-foot, ball-less, half-headed cement bear now had the word Seagull painted right above his crotch. While the witch was a looker and could hold her booze, she couldn’t spell for shit. Whatever, it was the thought that counted.

  “Done,” she announced. “You still didn’t tell me why we’re hiding behind Sturgill.”

  “Cause weese are casin’ Roger’s joint,” Boba said, handing everyone another and eyeing the crappy job Sassy had done on the bear. “Weese are goin’ on the straight and narrow.”

  “For one week,” I added.

  “Righteous,” Sassy said, downing her thirteenth beer. “Have you hairy dummies ever played beer pong?”

  “Invented it,” Jango Fett said with a grin. “Youse wanna go?”

  Sassy scrunched her nose and tugged on her long locks. “I have to think aboot it.”

  We sat for nine minutes and twelve seconds while Sassy drank two more beers and thought about it.

  “I’m done thinking aboot it. The answer is yes,” she announced.

  “Youse want boots?” Jango asked, confused and staggering a bit on his paws.

  While we could hold our liquor, Canadian beer was fucking strong.

  “Everyone wants boots,” Sassy explained, waving her hand and producing a beer pong table, twenty-two plastic cups, and ten balls. “You weenies ready?”

  “Born ready,” I said with a grin.

  One hour later. No clue how many beers…

  “So lemme get this straight,” Sassy said, only slightly buzzed. “You’re going to open a legal business?”

  “Bingooooo,” Boba said, slurring his words. “Weese are openin’ a numeral dome for sssled steeeeeple.”

  Sassy tilted her head to the side and stared at Boba. “Are you speaking Canadian?”

  Boba shrugged. “Could be.”

  “I think you are,” Sassy confirmed. “Very impressive. I still have no clue what the hell kind of business that is, but my tutors will be able to explain when they arrive. Do you need any help?”