A Fashionable Fiasco

by Robyn Peterman

  Elle tucked her thick honey blonde hair behind her ear and sat down on a shimmering purple chair that appeared as she bent her knees to sit.

  I shook my head and smiled. All the purple in my original dream should have clued me in to the fact that it was indeed Elle who walked in my dream.

  “Cat got your tongue, Gaia?” Elle inquired, crossing her legs and making herself comfortable. “I repeat. How did you know it was me?”

  “Because Samuel would never dress me in brown flannel,” I replied, quickly glancing down to make sure she wasn’t having fun at my fashion expense. Again.

  Thankfully she wasn’t. Payback was a bitch and now that I knew who I was dealing with, I was aware of exactly who needed to be paid back if necessary. I was still clad in a lovely pink Prada number with matching heels.

  Narrowing my eyes at my daughter-in-law, I glanced around. “There is someone else here.”

  Elle stood and scanned the strange room we occupied and then shrugged. “No. It’s just the two of us.”

  The uneasy feeling that someone else was present was fuzzy and wavered in and out. Maybe it was the lingering effect of the little people I’d just sent away. Or possibly I’d missed one. Pacing the area, I looked high and low for a tiny flaming person and found no one. Whatever. Dreams were not an exact science. Equating the conscious with the unconscious was a waste of time. And time was something I didn’t have in large quantities at the moment.

  “The end times are not coming,” I informed Elle with a raised brow. “God said it’s not on the schedule.”

  “God has a schedule?” Elle asked, genuinely surprised.

  “He does indeed,” I informed her. “And God does NOT lie.”

  Elle was quiet for a long moment, clearly mulling over the bizarre news.

  “Is this schedule written in pencil or pen,” she asked.

  “How should I know?” I answered and rolled my eyes. “I’ve only recently heard there even was a schedule.”

  “It’s important to know if God uses a pencil or a pen,” she replied, doing an even more impressive eye roll than mine.

  “Why?”

  “Pencil can be erased and amended. Pen cannot.”

  Shit. I had no clue how to answer. The lack of clarity in the situation and my lack of necessary information made me want to blow something to smithereens.

  “One, two, three, four,” I counted as I flopped down to the ground and sat on my hands.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Following my therapist’s suggestion,” I snapped, wanting to wallop both her and my therapist right now. “If I count, I don’t cause mass destruction.”

  “Does it work?”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I detonated the line of fun mirrors. They were unnecessary. Even though my outfit was not hideous brown flannel, the image the mirrors created was not flattering. I had entirely too much going on right now to look like Hell even if it was just an illusion.

  “Nope, not working today,” I said with a grin. “However, occasionally it does work. Darby is a decent therapist, even if he is a bit odd in his methodology.”

  “Darby the Dick Demon?” Elle asked, biting back a laugh.

  “Darby the what?” I demanded.

  “Dick Demon,” Elle said, not bothering to hide her amusement. “He and several others in Hell have taken Dick as a middle name and Demon as a surname. They believe it will help them get laid.”

  I digested this information and tried not to laugh. I tried very hard. I failed. Shaking my head, I sighed dramatically. It was looking like I was going to have to council my therapist. The name was horrifying, not to mention wildly embarrassing. I was certain Satan was appalled.

  “Whatever,” I said, still smiling. “We’re not here to talk about my violent tendencies or my idiot therapist.”

  “And why are we here?” Elle inquired, watching me closely.

  “You control fate,” I shot back. “Don’t you already know?”

  “I’m a messenger,” she replied smoothly and without emotion. “I don’t determine fate. I simply watch over it.”

  “You’re doing a shitty job.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me,” I snapped. “Only the Antichrist can cause the end times. Not Jim Bob Bob-Bob.”

  Elle sat quietly and observed me. Several times her lips began to move, but she stopped herself from speaking. I wanted to zap her bald. However, rules were rules. Even Mother Nature couldn’t mess with Fate. The consequences could be devastating. Plus, Satan might be put out if I de-haired his love.

  With another sigh—more put upon than my earlier one—I stood and approached the caretaker of destiny.

  “Jim Bob Bob-Bob snapped a plastic white horse in two,” I said, watching her closely. “Did that represent the first Horseman of the Apocalypse?”

  Elle’s eyes only widened infinitesimally, but I saw it. And I didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t disappoint.

  “Tell me what you can,” I said. “I’ll figure out the rest.”

  “I’ve already done so,” Elle said, sadly. “Bring them together. Children need their mother. They will help you find the perfect recipe. They will have the ingredients. Good versus evil must be served by one with a little pinch of nature.”

  “They will be appalled to have to don aprons,” I muttered as I began to pace and tried to dissect the warning.

  “What?” Elle asked, unsuccessfully stifling another laugh.

  “Nothing,” I hissed. “I’ve already brought the boys together and they got along for the most part.”

  Elle nodded but refused to comment. Dammit.

  “So I’m guessing that wasn’t enough? Or I brought the wrong people together?”

  Again, Luck said nothing.

  I wasn’t winning. Losing wasn’t on the agenda. The stakes were too high.

  “Can you tell me anything?” I demanded.

  “Keep on the same track. Do what you would normally do. Pay close attention to what is happening around you. The clues are not just in the words I speak. They can be hidden in the details and pictures,” Elle instructed. “Fate has a way of finding everyone, whether they want to be found or not. And remember a mother’s love is more powerful than any magic in the Universe. And a little glue never huts anything.”

  With a barely disguised eye roll, I nodded curtly. “Got it. Do you happen to have a cell phone that will work in a dream state?”

  “I do.”

  Elle handed me an enchanted cell phone encrusted in purple diamonds.

  “Thank you,” I replied and slowly dialed a number I knew by heart. “God, darling. It’s mommy. I have a quick question for you. Is your schedule written in pencil or pen?”

  I waited for his reply. Elle’s eyes never left mine for even a brief second. She never even blinked.

  “I see,” I said, as my heart plummeted in my chest. “No. No reason. Just curious. We’ll speak soon. Love you to the moon and back, Snookums.”

  As I hung up, Elle approached me and touched my shoulder. My body shuddered as an electrical shock rocked my delicate frame and threw me to the ground.

  “Was that necessary?” I inquired, ready to swat her in the head and send her flying into next year.

  “Yes,” she said, pulling her hand back. “I’ve given you a little bit of me. When you need it, it will find you.”

  I paused and with massive effort, nodded my head in gratitude. Not throwing tantrums sucked tremendously. I knew what Elle was waiting for. The spiteful part of me wanted to withhold information, but the smart part would never do such a thing. I’d lived forever for a reason.

  “The schedule is in pencil,” I told her.

  “Shit,” she replied and let her chin drop to her chest.

  A truer sentiment had never been uttered.

  “You can find me in your dreams, Gaia. I will tell you as much as I’m allowed to,” Elle promised before she disappeared in a blast of lavender glitter.


  The schedule could be changed. The end times could very well be in the near future. The son of the Antichrist might be acting on the wishes of his sire. And the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse might be paying us a visit. Shitshitshit.

  And I was supposed to go about business as usual? Unbelievable.

  Next stop. Purgatory.

  Chapter Six

  Mr. Rogers was a hot freakin’ mess.

  “Sweet Saint Bartholomew,” Mr. Rogers whisper-hissed as he grabbed the hem of my dress and yanked me behind the bush he was hiding under. “Speak softly—very, very, very, very softly,” he warned.

  “Is Purgatory under attack?” I whispered as my eyes widened in shock. Purgatory was off-limits as far as battles went. However, I was quite certain the spawn of the Antichrist didn’t play by the rules. Although, a battle in Purgatory wasn’t a half-bad plan. It was so beige and boring that it put most to sleep. Even the bush we were hiding under was beige.

  Fred nodded. His eyes were wild and he shook with terror. “Our only hope is Saint Bartholomew now.”

  “Who exactly is Saint Bartholomew?” I asked, never able to keep all the robe-wearing martyrs straight.

  “The one you pray to for lost causes,” Fred explained, pulling a tiny statue of a bearded man in a dress from his pocket and shoving it into my hands. “Start praying.”

  Fred Rogers, a beloved citizen of Heaven and the caretaker of Purgatory looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. His light blue cardigan was inside out and sported a large hole in the elbow. His pants were wrinkled. On his right foot was a loafer and on his left was an untied canvas sneaker. And his hair… normally slicked back and nicely sprayed into a somewhat dated style was sticking straight up on his head.

  Shit.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, peeking out from behind the bush. Had Jim Bob Bob-Bob really come to Purgatory?

  “I’m sure, Gaia,” Fred said with a shudder. “They’re dreadful.”

  “They?” I asked in a slight panic. Did the Antichrist have more than one spawn? If my fate had indeed found me already, it was working seriously fast. I thought I had a damn week.

  Double shit.

  “Fred darling, I need you to be a bit more specific please,” I insisted, scooting to the far side of the bush to put a little distance between us. The poor man looked like he was about to blow.

  I never underestimated Mr. Rogers. Many did, but not me. Fred was a favorite of God and quite tight with Satan. He took the Immortal Party Bus to Hell for Satan’s weekly poker game and always won—without cheating. Mr. Rogers was so trustworthy he was the one chosen by both God and Satan to protect the Sword of Death—the only instrument that could end the life of a True Immortal. Of course, the True Immortal had to choose to die and have a broken heart to boot, but the Sword of Death was the key piece.

  Plus, Mr. Rogers knew his way around a pole. We’d been pole dancing together for the past two years. He had a wicked Back Hook Spin and his Banana Splits were to die for. If he wasn’t the nicest man on the planet, I’d be jealous.

  “Five of them,” he mumbled, dazed. “Five heinous monsters.”

  “Five?” I choked out. This was far worse than I’d thought. Elle was going to get an earful from me if the world didn’t end in the next ten minutes. It wouldn’t have killed her to let me know there were five damned Antichrist spawns running loose.

  “Is Jim Bob Bob-Bob with them?”

  “Not unless he’s had a sex change,” Fred told me.

  “Interesting,” I said, mulling over the horrifying possibilities. “When I came upon the rotten fruit of the Antichrist’s loins at the grocery store while trying to abscond with Booby Canker he was a man. Do you think they can take different forms?”

  Fred gaped at me in complete confusion for so long I thought my lipstick might be smeared. “What are you talking about?” he whispered, shaking his head.

  “What are you talking about?” I countered, now as confused as Mr. Rogers.

  “I asked you first,” Fred snapped.

  Fred never snapped at anyone. Whatever was happening here in Purgatory was bad—very bad.

  “I outrank you,” I pointed out. “You have to answer my question first.”

  “What was your question?” he demanded, pulling twenty more mini-Bartholomews out of his pocket and lining them up like toy soldiers.

  It was alarmingly bizarre.

  “I have no idea what my question was now. Your Barbarellas distracted me,” I said with an eye roll.

  “Bartholomews,” he corrected me.

  “Whoops. My bad.”

  “And who is Booby Canker?” he asked, pulling more pint-sized plastic saints from his pockets.

  “I didn’t say Booby Canker,” I hissed. “I said Boopsy Cracker.”

  “I stand corrected. So sorry,” Fred apologized politely. “Who is Boopsy Cracker?”

  “She’s a very famous chef,” I explained, throwing my hands up and incinerating half of the bush we were using for cover.

  Mr. Rogers squeaked like a girl and dove for another bush, taking the batch of Bartholomews and me along with him. “Stay low,” he advised. “They’re pissed and dangerous.”

  “Did they give names?” I asked, beginning to adopt Fred’s terror. I could possibly take on one spawn of the Antichrist and survive, but five? That was incredibly iffy. Bill would be furious with me if I bit the dust.

  Mr. Rogers nodded and looked as if he wanted to hurl. I really liked my pink Prada dress, so I scooted a few inches away.

  “Hortense, Fran, Joan, Cathy and Velma,” he choked out and began to quickly dig a hole to bury himself in.

  Triple shitshitshit.

  There was an upside to this news and a downside. The upside being that the spawn of the Antichrist wasn’t in Purgatory and as far as I knew there was only one. The downside… I was going to have to admit what I’d done. Fred was never going to pole dance with me again.

  Dammit. I should have sent the rude, bulbous bitches straight to Hell.

  “Umm… I have a confession to make,” I said, standing up and trying to pull Fred to his feet. As he was almost buried up to his neck in beige sand, it was impossible. Although, his position was to my advantage if Fred wanted to chase me down and try to decapitate me for sending the Fearsome Five to his neck of the woods. I’d have an excellent running start since he was encased in sand.

  “Gaia,” Fred begged. “Stay low. I’m certain they eat people for lunch.”

  “You love me—right Fred?” I asked with one of my brightest smiles and a slight head tilt to the left. It was my sweet and innocent pose.

  “In a platonic way, yes,” Fred said. “And that is exactly why I want you to bury yourself alive.”

  “Hang on a sec,” I told him. “If I did something very, very naughty, would you still love me?”

  “Of course, I would. Platonically, that is,” he said frantically. “Hide, Gaia, I can’t love you like a brother if they eat you.”

  “They won’t eat me.”

  “Of course, they’ll eat you. You look very tasty in that pink frock, in a very chaste and nonsexual way.”

  “Why thank you,” I said and did a little spin. “However, I’m quite positive they won’t eat me… or you… or anyone. Well, Hortense might take as sip since she’s a Vampyre, but as far as I know, she’s never killed anyone during snack time.”

  “Mother Nature,” Fred ground out between clenched teeth as his eyes narrowed dangerously at me.

  Crap. We were being formal now. Not good. Fred wiggled for a good three minutes until his arms popped out of the sand. A bright blue box magically appeared in front of him. It was far too small to be the Sword of Death. My dancing buddy might be angry, but he didn’t want to behead me. It was the little things that counted.

  “Spit it out, Mother Nature,” Mr. Rogers said tightly.

  “So… umm… I kind of sort of sent the gals to Purgatory because they said I’d poisoned them with my cooking, which is prepo
sterous. Well, when they said it, it was definitely preposterous. Since the unfortunate luncheon, I’ve discovered I can’t cook. Of course, that’s why I was trying to kidnap Bossy Cocksucker. Unfortunately, the spawn of the Antichrist was at the grocery store and all Hell is breaking loose. Soooo… instead of turning the horrid women into toads, I sent their sorry asses to Purgatory. I didn’t really think the whole plan through,” I said, sheepishly.

  Fred’s eye roll was worthy of an Academy Award. He was so perturbed that his face turned bright red. His lips moved, but nothing came out.

  Again. Shitshitshit.

  Yanking a puppet from the box, Mr. Rogers slapped King Friday onto his left hand and Lady Elaine Fairchilde onto his right. It was almost as terrifying as my disastrous luncheon. My buddy was clearly not speaking to me. However, his puppets were very chatty.

  “Those abominations are your friends?” Lady Elaine shrieked.

  Lady Elaine could scare the bejesus out of anyone when she was being nice. When she was pissed, it struck terror in the soul. However, I was wildly impressed at how little Fred’s mouth moved when he made his puppets talk. I wanted to compliment him, but the timing was off.

  “Umm… not exactly friends. More like somewhat friendly acquaintances—or frenemies,” I explained. “Tell you what, how about I escort them out of Purgatory and we call it a day?”

  “Unacceptable,” King Friday sputtered as Fred moved his hand spastically to demonstrate the royal puppet’s ire. King Friday looked like he was having a seizure. “Penance must be paid.”

  He was correct. The Fearsome Five hadn’t even been in Purgatory forty-eight hours and Fred looked like Hell. Not to mention, he was talking to me through hand puppets.

  “A solid gold stripper pole?” I offered.

  “Go on,” King Friday said, only slightly seizing at this point.

  Clearly, Fred still wasn’t speaking to me. I needed to up the ante.

  “Mmmkay—a solid gold stripper pole, a state-of-the-art puppet theatre and as many Saint Bubba statues as you want.”