#like vape stuff smells sickly sweet

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

Why is it that everything that is smoked just smells like the worst thing ever?

[thepenultimateword]

End of the World Arrangement

TW: Death and Gore

Waylon Dyer hated Kane d'Avila. No doubt about it. Watching him lean over Mallory like that, he just wanted to—ugh!—punch him right in the stomach. It wasn’t exactly the action itself that made Waylon so angry; it was the way he did it, spilling over the back of the couch like slick, ruining oil, one toxic arm draped oozingly over her shoulders while the ends of his black fringe tickled her cheek. He murmured something in her ear, and she threw herself back against the couch, laughing hard.

Flimsy paper crushed beneath Waylon’s fingers where he held his plate. As if picking up on waves of anger in the air, Kane’s gaze flicked up, making direct eye contact with Waylon. He smirked

Waylon promptly dropped his plate of pizza in the trash. Hawaiian. Coincidentally the only thing left at Marco’s Pizza. Nothing to do with the fact that Waylon hated it. Because it was just another coincidence that Kane was the one who volunteered to make the order. His rival smirked wider, lips curling up like the Grinch.

Why was he here again? In this packed apartment that smelt like sweat, hot cheese, AXE body spray, and cheap beer? A delightful mix. They should make a candle. Call it Youthful Regret. Or After Party Hangover; this was probably what burned in your nose after puking everything up the next morning. Stuff like this was so stupid. He'd be better off getting in some weekend swimming hours.

Do it for Mallory, he boosted himself lamely.

That’s right. He was here for her. Ten seconds of sweetness by the vending machine where she smiled radiantly and told him that she wanted him to come tonight. A moment when her attention had been 100% for him. So why couldn't he cross the room, swat Kane away like the fly he was, and make a move? Maybe it would've been more simple if Kane and Mallory weren't friends. If he were just some guy, it wouldn't matter how he treated him. But as someone Mallory liked, Waylon had to be nice to him, and he just wasn't sure he could do that.

Suddenly feeling slightly sick, maybe from the scent, maybe from Kane’s face, Waylon shouldered through the crowd until he reached the open sliding door, a useless attempt for fresh air since it barely dropped below 80 degrees in September, even at night. The heat from outside only combined and mutated with what was inside, creating a muggy swamp. Someone’s bubblegum vape wafted in from the balcony, adding a sickly sweet element to the odorous turmoil that made Waylon nauseous. Or more nauseous.

He tipped his head against the wall and closed his eye for a moment. As soon as this passed, he'd go over there. He could quit the competitiveness for a few minutes, right?

"Yo, you ok?" a beautiful husky voice sounded beside him.

His stomach seized, and his eyes shot open.

Mallory stood beside him, lip curved up, smelling like green apples, the front pieces of her strawberry blond held back in a blue butterfly barrette. She had her hands thrust into her hoodie pockets in a way that scrunched her down a couple inches, so he actually had to look down at her instead of having her at regular eye level.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just feeling a little stuffy. I don't usually come to these things."

"I come for the free food," Mallory said. "And lucky day, Hawaiian pizza is my favorite."

"Oh, so your one of those people."

"Those people?"

"People with terrible taste who likes things that are terrible."

Mallory snorted. "I'm guessing you don't like Hawaiian?"

"Worst pizza ever."

"What! Boo! What about mushrooms?"

"Mushrooms are good."

"Now who has terrible taste?"

"Well, I like Hawaiian too," a gritty tenor piped in, all smarmy and blasé at the same time, "so looks like it's just Dyer."

Waylon had been so caught up in Mallory's overpowering, blinding-sun presence he hadn't even noticed Kane positioned behind her like a long, rangy shadow curved along a wall.

"Clothes tight enough for you?" Waylon said immediately. So much for staying cool in front of Mallory. It was just another stupid, little detail that bugged him about Kane. If he wanted to wear ripped skinny jeans and layer clingy baseball tees beneath band t-shirts, that was fine, but did he have to look like he was about to burst out of them? He wasn't even that muscular, he just didn't know how to fit his clothes properly or something, or maybe he wore them tight so he appeared brawnier. Whatever the reason, it was annoying.

"Actually they are," Kane said. "How’s it going wearing swim trunks everywhere?”

“Are those swim trunks?” Mallory asked.

Waylon blushed. “Uh, maybe.” He was going to kill Kane!

"That's so weird," Mallory laughed, not mockingly, not pityingly, just...warm. "I love it!"

Nevermind, a swing and a miss for the other team. Take that Kane!

"So after this, Kane and I were going to--"

WAAAaaaAAAAaaahhh! WAAAaaaAAAaaahhh!

The blaring whine of a siren leaked in through the open sliding door. A girl with cotton candy hair and a couple guys in matching track and field jackets burst inside from the balcony.

"Hey, turn off the music!" the girl shouted. "Listen to that!"

A guy fumbled with his phone, putting in the password wrong twice before a girl powered off the Bluetooth speaker. Without the base pulsing into the wall, the mechanical whine was even louder. Waylon also realized his first judgment was wrong. It wasn't just one siren; there were dozens of them, all screaming in unison.

Someone sloshed beer on Waylon's shoulder as half the party started pushing out onto the balcony to see what was going on. Waylon stood on his toes but only glimpsed the traffic on a distant street, a few people fleeing through the gaps between idle cars.

"I want to go home."

"Let's get out of here!"

"Check the news!

"Is anyone else's phone blowing up?"

The whole apartment turned into a chaotic muddle of shouts and questions.

"Come on," Mallory said, grabbing his hand. With both he and Kane in her wake, she began shoving for the exit. She was pretty brutal, no hesitation or apology like Waylon might have done. It got them out faster, even if the hallway was nearly just as stuffed.

"What do you think it is?" Waylon asked as Mallory continued to drag him toward the stairwell.

"Wildfire probably," Kane said. "We should get to my car and evacuate."

"My family lives in town," Waylon said. "I should find them."

"How far?" Mallory asked.

"Twenty-minute walk."

"We'll give you a ride."

"Mal," Kane growled. "Do you see the traffic? It's evacuate now or never."

They reached ground level and pushed out into the screaming-filled night. Waylon didn't see any fire, but it must have been somewhere for the air to be so smoky.

"It's fine," Waylon said to her, though secretly his heart felt like it was about to pound out through his chest. What was going on? Would he make it? He would have to. He couldn't risk their safety for a ride. "I'll run. See you Monday."

He slipped his hand free and, without a second look, joined into the current of racing, scrambling people. People were fleeing in both directions, so they were constantly bumping into each other and shouting obscenities. Looked like everyone else was just as confused as him.

With a good amount of hesitation, he finally made it to Main Street. It was even worse than the neighborhoods, with people rushing into stores, breaking the glass on windows and cars. A line of vehicles wound the entire grocery store parking lot.

The gas station next to it looked abandoned except for a group of men that Waylon could see through the glass. They were stuffing everything and anything into backpacks. If he thought he felt sick earlier, it was nothing compared to the way his stomach was doing flips right now.

"Wayloooon!"

He spun around and spotted Mallory waving her arm over her head. Kane weaved in and out of the crowd, trying to keep up with her.

"What are you doing?" Waylon cried as skidded up next to him.

"I wanted to be sure you got home. I couldn't live with myself if I let you go and something happened. We'll evacuate with your family if we need to if that's ok."

Waylon gaped a moment then nodded violently. "Yeah, that's completely fine!"

"Can we get moving then?" Kane said. "I think the goal is haste. The rest of these people get it."

Waylon was about to start running again when his phone started buzzing and letting out a long shrill ring, like the natural disaster warnings that sometimes showed up on TV. Mallory and Kane's phones did the same. The whole street was filled with, like a thousand angry wasps.

A notification appeared on his screen in all caps.

UNIDENTIFIED ANIMALS IN THE STREETS. DO NOT APPROACH. REMAIN INDOORS AND BARRICADE ENTRANCES. IF OUTDOORS SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. POLICE ARE CURRENTLY ADDRESSING THE THREAT.

"Ok, I'm done!" Kane shouted, grabbing Mallory's arm. "We're getting inside now. Go home, come with us, do what you want Dyer."

He started up the street toward the crosswalk, but Waylon found himself torn. He was only ten minutes from home. If he could take shelter there, shouldn't he? How could he safely barricade in one of these buildings when the doors were shattered and people were already looting? But then again, the emergency alert had been explicit.

The decision was made for him as the screams around him turned from panicked to bloodcurdling. Something had changed. He whipped back toward the others who were already crossing the intersection, the lights of a supermarket bleeding halfway across the asphalt.

Mallory stopped right on the edge of the illumination, loosing herself from Kane to look back at him. Her hand raised, her lips parted. She was going to call his name again. Waylon was already moving toward her.

And then she was crushed.

The foot was three-toed and clawed and when it came down it cracked the road. Blood splished every which direction like a tromped tomato, spattering Kane across the cheek. Waylon's eyes roved up the enormous leg, unable to separate the monstrous creature from the sky. Several more treeish legs stepped overhead as it lumbered farther down the street. When the offending foot moved on, there wasn't much left. Maybe that was better. Not that Waylon could make that decision clearly at the moment.

Kane screamed, something feral and raw, but Waylon just stood and stared at the bloody space where Mallory should have been.

That hadn't happened for real, right? He was just hallucinating or dreaming or seeing things wrong.

Before he knew it, he tasted something acidic in his mouth, and burning beer and corners of pizza spewed over the pavement. He would've liked to curl up right there if it weren't for the smaller creature--horse-sized and differently shaped with its mantis arms and bipedal legs--that leaked out from the shadow of one of the buildings. Its tongue slithered out between its puckered jaws, tasting the air. Waylon ran for the supermarket without feeling his legs, without a single thought passing through his head.

A flood of others had the same idea, but the creature picked off more than half of them before they ever reached the end of the parking lot. It was only pure luck, and maybe stamina, that got Waylon ahead of the others. At the entrance, he heard that animalistic roar again, and he twisted his head around to see Kane get caught in the creature's iron grasp. He kicked his leg into its face, but the jaw wrapped around the calf with an unsettlingly loud crunch. Kane shrieked, clawing at the monster, and then Waylon didn't see any more. Maybe he should have done something, but the thoughts still weren't coming. It was like he was on autopilot.

He sprinted beneath the pale fluorescent lights until he reached the camping and survival aisle, scanning for glass cases that only employees have a key to. As soon as he located the one he was looking for, he smashed his elbow through it, no hesitation. A shock quivered up his arm, but soon faded, what else were strong arm muscles for? Slipping his hand into his jacket sleeve, he brushed aside pieces of glass and snatched up a little flare gun and a packet of flares. Then he was off toward the door again, sliding behind a soda display almost at the entrance. He didn't see the other people hiding as much as he felt them, like bees in a hive.

Waylon popped open the flare package and loaded one into the chamber, but never took his eyes off the front entrance. That was when the thoughts started coming in again. An automatic, sliding door that couldn't have kept something out even if it weren't shattered. They were all idiots. This wasn't a refuge. This was about to be a slaughterhouse.

The creature was much more visible when it stepped into full light. Its skin was weird, shifting as it moved to roughly match the colors of its surroundings. It was obvious since Waylon had been paying attention to it, but he wasn't sure he would've caught it earlier that day when he wasn't looking for it. Its head was sort of cone-shaped, broad skull at the back and a big, strong jaw joint, but thin muzzle, if it could be called a muzzle, it looked more like the end of a flower bud. A distressed flower bud, there were four long lines raked along the side of its face, oozing something dark grey.

The creature tasted the air with its black, forked tongue. Er...tongues? There were two now. Had there always been two? Immediately it ripped to the right, dragging a woman kicking and screaming from behind the help desk and shredding the soft of her throat with a terrifying amount of needle-fine teeth.

Waylon pushed his forehead into his shoulder and tried to block out the wet slurping of its eating.

He had to get out. He didn't know what else was out there, but it was better to be out in the open with a chance instead of cornered and certain of his death.

The monster lifted its bloody maw from the considerably flatter body and tasted the air again. It wasn't distracted anymore, but the door was only 30 or 40 feet away. Waylon shoved the gun into one pocket and the remaining three flares into the other before raising up on the balls of his hands and feet like a track star. Who knew when he'd be the next one the creature tasted, so waiting around wasn't an option. He could do this. He could--

His gaze landed on a figure in ripped skinny jeans just across the way. Waylon rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes to be sure.

Kane leaned heavily against the end of a checkout counter, panting quietly, face swollen, leg twisted sideways, and blood leaking out from under him in a small pool. How had he escaped that thing? How had he gotten this far? Well, the checkout lines were right by the entrance, he could've dragged himself there in the confusion. In any case, if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Kane wasn't getting back out. Not with that leg.

Waylon flicked his gaze toward the door then back to his rival. Sick amusement struck in the pit of his stomach, and he smiled unfeelingly. Rival. Rival over what? He swallowed the new rise of bile in his throat at the image of Mallory's nothingness. That was over.

Waylon tried to start a countdown to send himself off, but he kept getting lost around five and drifting back to Kane. That settled it. He may have never liked the guy, but he couldn't let someone he knew by name die.

New plan: get to Kane then get to the door. Except that meant exposing himself, and there were much different consequences for being seen and pausing than for running continuously toward the entrance.

Maybe he could distract it by shooting one of the flares. Or maybe if it was further away he'd have enough time to run.

A man burst out from one of the checkout counters and made a run for the door, just as Waylon had been planning. He was fast, probably faster than Waylon; his legs blurred beneath him. The creature wheeled around, feet clacking against the linoleum like rapid drumming that grew faster and faster. The bladed arm swung out and exploded through the guy's chest. Blood hit the ground with a sharp patter, like rain coming down in one stroke.

Waylon took the distraction, leaping out from his hiding place, dashing across the aisle, and grabbing Kane by the arm before he could protest.

"What are you--"

"Come on!" Waylon whisper yelled, looping his arms around the back of his neck. Registering what was happening, Kane vaguely pushed off the ground with his good leg, and Waylon was able to hoist the other boy onto his back.

A short stifled whine sounded loudly near his ear as Kane's twisted limb knocked limply against Waylon's knee. Also, with Kane's positioning, the grip of the flare gun dug painfully into Waylon's hip. He couldn't run like that. In a split second judgment, he released one of Kane's legs and clawed the flare gun free, passing it up to him. "Hold this."

Without a second thought, Waylon booked it toward the door. It had been less than a minute, but the monster was already turning away from its previous meal and spotted their movement. It wasn't that far from the entrance right now either. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

He kept going anyway. If he stopped, he died for sure. One of Kane's arms left Waylon's neck, aiming the flare gun behind them. Waylon shouldn't look back. He couldn't look back. He looked back.

The creature was nearly upon them when the flare popped off, hitting the monster straight in the eye and exploding in a blinding flash of red. Colorful spots painted Waylon's vision as he jerked his head back around toward the shattered door, relying on the monster's ear ringing screech and the scent of burning meat as assurance they were good to keep going.

"You keep running, and I'll keep an eye out," Kane said gruffly as they burst back into the muggy air. "I think I know somewhere we can go."

"I need to find my family." It slipped out on its own and without any emotion.

"What we need is to hide! And we need to do it now! I know a place within a few blocks, so are you with me?"

Kane's voice was more ragged than usual, vicious and rough like a canine growl.

Waylon swallowed. "Ok."

[vapedeals9008]

WHAT IS A VAPORISER OR VAPE PEN, THEN?

Many physicians dread the idea of giving up or not having the ability to have a puff whenever they feel like it. Nicotine patches quell the impulse to a level but it is not an instantaneous solution.

The excellent thing about vaporisers is the smoke isn't really smoke; it is nicotine-infused vapour (or vapor ) which disappears at a flash leaving no nasty smells or residue in its aftermath. 

Alright, if you are a non-vaper, it will stink in case you walk through a cloud of it, but your clothes will not smell of artificial fruit later, and it is a step upward from fags.

Many vapes utilize a screw-in atomizer or clearomiser that encircles a heating coil and a translucent e-liquid chamber.

Vaporisers create a lot more vapour compared to e-cigarettes and regular ciggies (we are talking plumes of these stuff -- such as a oral bonfire). 

Really, most'cloud chasers' are inclined to decide on customisable sub-ohm models which are capable of generating huge amounts of vapour from one draw. 

But a lot of the highfalutin versions are so ludicrously complicated you would need a degree in electrical technology to run them. 

For this reason we have mostly seen those versions from this list.

We ought to handle a specially strange anomaly that appears to impact the vast majority of all e-liquid vaporisers, even sealed capsule variations -- escapes! It's true, you'd love to believe that the e-liquid vaporiser in the bottom of the bag is sitting doing no injury. 

But, there is a fair chance it is leaked candy, sticky e-liquid throughout your Smythson's journal. 

In reality, it requires just a couple drops to make the whole bag odor like a Haribo mill. 

Worse still, the sickly sweet odor is practically impossible to eliminate. So far, virtually every vaporiser I have examined has leaked at a certain stage however infrequently throughout the first week or so of ownership. 

It only occurs when the item is determined by its side -- that is exactly the way that it will inevitably wind up if saved in a large pocket or purse. 

Why is it that some vaporiser e-liquid barrels escape? I have not a clue but obviously the machine has a significant design error in there someplace.

Another drawback with refillable vaporisers is that, based on use, the tiny screw-in coil segment (the component that warms the liquid) will probably have to be replaced approximately every 2 weeks, but thankfully they are inexpensive to purchase.

Vaporisers and e-liquids are offered through internet outlets and at most high streets and corner stores.

[mahalidael]

OLYMPAHOMA CHAPTER 6

SOMEONE NEEDS A DOCTOR AND FOR ONCE IT ISN’T ME

We ran at top speed until Cyrus slipped out of view. Juliet sat on the nearest wood porch.

As I slowed, I saw that I must’ve bitten her harder than I’d intended. She’d gone back to clutching her arm, but I could see blood gushing between her fingers. “Are you okay?” I said.

Juliet removed her hand. The bite was hardly visible, she was bleeding so much. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “As long as this cold-ass wind doesn’t blow any dirt into it — it’s freezing right now! Did you notice that?”

“It’s, what, sixty degrees?”

“Yeah, in Oklahoma. In May. At noon. Don’t you think it’s odd?”

“I think you need a doctor.”

“Yeah? Well, guess whose porch I’ve sat on.”

I looked up. The sign said “OLYMPAHOMA HOSPITAL.” Behind the letters, in a different color, there was a painted lyre.

The hospital’s western-themed exterior hid a functional infirmary on the inside. We sat in a waiting room, waiting for Juliet’s arm to get looked at.

I hadn’t noticed earlier, but Juliet looked much less lunatic. She must have cleaned up while I was unconscious. Her hair was brushed out, and she’d applied pink lipstick (which I would later learn is the only makeup that survives Oklahoma heat). She was sickly white, but that seemed consequent of blood loss.

“Are you sure I didn’t hit a vein?” I said.

“Nah,” Juliet said calmly. “I’m just pale. Don’t worry, Dr. Doctor will be here in a minute.”

I thought I misheard her. “Doctor what?”

As I said that, a blonde, middle-aged woman in a lab coat walked in the door. “Who’s next?” she said.

I looked back and forth. We were the only people in the waiting room. “Hey, Doctor,” Juliet said. “Annie got her panties in a twist and bit me. I just need it looked at — maybe you should check her head, too.”

“Ah, Ms. Zhu,” the doctor said. “I should introduce myself. I’m Dr. Docter Dockter Doctor.”

I figured I must’ve hit my head harder than I thought, but then the doctor handed me her business card, which said the exact same thing. “Oh my god,” I said.

“My parents were very passive-aggressive. But enough about me. Let’s go to the back and look at these injuries — how long have you been out and about?” she asked me.

“An hour?”

“Jesus. I told Cyrus to bring you straight to the hospital. That boy’s too wrapped up in his own rules,” she tsked. “Can you tell me your full name?”

“Annette Mary Zhu.”

“Do you know who’s president?”

“I wish I didn’t.”

Doctor looked at me closely for a brief moment, her pupils twitching. “...Eh, I think you’re good.”

“...Oh. Okay.”

“What do you mean, ‘oh?’”

“Aren’t there scans you’re supposed to do?”

“In my professional opinion, I think you’ll be fine. But if you insist…”

Doctor stared directly at my forehead. Her pupils went huge, and started glowing white. I laughed nervously, feeling dizzy. “Hey, what the fuck?” I said to Juliet.

“Hold still, she’s scanning,” Juliet said, picking at her nails.

Doctor’s pupils stopped glowing and constricted to their normal size. “You’ve got a little blood in your skull, but it’s a very small amount. Give it time, and your brain will reabsorb it. Now let’s see what we can do about that arm.”

Doctor took us into the meat of the building. She had Juliet sit on a bed in the emergency room, and it was a normal emergency room — assuming you didn’t look too closely. There were about ten people writhing around with arrows sticking out of them, and a handful of tanned bottle blondes running around in scrubs. “Don’t some of these kids seem a little young to be doctors?” I whispered to Juliet as Doctor searched a drawer.

“They are, but the hospital’s real shorthanded. Mortal doctors can’t see half the injuries we get, and demigods rarely get medical degrees. Everyone who works here is either from Apollo, or uh… Asclepius, I think. One of the Paeans.”

“Oh.”

Doctor came back with a needle and thread. “Is that really necessary?” Juliet groaned.

“Yes, it is. Your friend here really did a number on you.”

“I’m not her friend,” I said quickly.

Juliet ignored me. “Whenever you’re ready, doc.”

Doctor started doctoring, as doctors do. She said to me, “your stepsisters are upstairs.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Vivian’s daughters. They’re upstairs,” she said, focusing more so on doctoring than what she was saying.

Juliet was cringing from Doctor sterilizing her bite wound. I said, “I’m going to go see them, I’ll be right back” and I guess she was too distracted to tell me otherwise.

I found a staircase and went to the hospital’s second floor. It was significantly quieter up there — lower priority cases. There were very few doctors, or even anybody pretending to be doctors. The people here were just licking their wounds.

The absence of medical staff upstairs was actually helpful. Rosalie and Genevieve in a sea of blondes would’ve been hay in a haystack. There was a distinct lack of curtains throughout the building, so one glance in the main room should’ve done the trick.

Except it didn’t. They had to be hiding somewhere.

The few kids in scrubs were busy, so I had trouble figuring out who to ask. A smell caught me off guard. I tilted my head back. Cotton candy?

A curly redhead a few years older than me came out of the staircase—she had a bouquet in her hand and a blue pen in her mouth, leaving a trail of sweet lies behind her. She was tall, athletic-looking, and her hair was cloudy-looking. A dark, impressive-looking trench coat hung off of her. I could tell she wasn’t in charge, but she seemed like she should be, you know?

My reverie was cut off by a candy striper shouting “YOU CAN’T VAPE IN HERE.”

I said, “hey, excuse me?” as she clicked her pen off.

She looked back and forth, then looked down at me. Her eyes were light blue. Very light. “Jeez, I didn’t see you there. What’s up?”

“I can’t find my stepsisters. You know if there’s any other rooms on this floor?”

The vape girl made a face and shrugged. “Uh… you’re car crash, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Down there,” she said, pointing at a door. “Isolation room.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Are they okay?”

“Don’t sweat it, they’re probably fine. They keep the new kids there.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said as I walked into the isolation room.

For once, Rosalie and Genevieve were lying in bed. It was a white room, a boring room. Good for a place engineered to keep someone from being instantly overwhelmed. They seemed fine — abnormally quiet, but I didn’t see any injuries.

I crept up to Rosalie and shook her gently. “Rosalie?” She was limp. “This isn’t funny. Rosalie.”

I did the same with Genevieve. Nothing.

The twins didn’t move, or show any signs of moving. I realized they were both hooked up to IV bags, feeding tubes, and heart monitors that beeped in near-harmony.

I tried every possible thing short of sticking them with needles, but they never responded.

“Well, fuck,” I said, sitting down on a bench. Is it bad that I never thought that I would want to talk to my stepsisters?

I sat down and closed my eyes. Was the sight of the twins’ lifeless bodies upsetting? Yeah. But a quiet, empty room was exactly what I needed then.

After a fair bit of time, somebody walked in. “Hello, hello,” someone said in a soft, chalky voice. She didn’t sound like a candy striper. “Are you their family?”

“Uh, yeah.” I opened my eyes. “Who are you?”

The woman who’d come in was a short, swishy figure whose dark clothes floated around the room. I couldn’t pin down her age, and I wasn’t feeling rude enough to ask. Her red talons clutched at bags of beige nutrient slurry. “Miss Zhu, I assume,” she murmured. “I suppose you would like to know about their condition.”

She changed the topic so fast I didn’t realize she hadn’t answered the question. “Yeah. What’s wrong with them?”

The woman fiddled with the nearly-empty bags hooked up to the feeding tubes. “They haven’t woken up for quite some time. The doctors aren’t quite sure of the cause.”

“Can’t you funnel some of that yellow stuff into their throats?”

“They are mortal. Ingesting a half-teaspoon of ambrosia would be like inhaling a thousand part-per-million of carbon monoxide. ...They would die, is what I mean,” she added when she saw my confusion.

“Oh.” I noticed her phrasing. “You’re not a doctor.”

“No,” she said while changing the bags.

She stopped, like that explained everything, and wouldn’t respond to any other question.

I left and looked for Juliet. When I asked the receptionist where Doctor was, she told me “over there.” When I asked Doctor where Juliet was, she told me “outside.” Juliet was standing on the porch, calmly reading the file she’d stolen from Cyrus, and by the time I found her I’d forgot all about what I’d actually meant to ask her. Instead, I said this:

“Hey.”

“Hey!” she said.

I shivered. The temperature had dropped somewhat, they sky had gone eerily gray, and I was standing around in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. The shawl provided some protection, but not nearly enough. “Did it get colder out here?”

“I think it did.”

A few people came out of their buildings to peer at the clouds. The cool, dry wind billowed across the town like curtains, except it was wind. The rope in a nearby well swayed; I could hear the metal clank of the bucket hitting the sides. Dust blew in my mouth. I peered over Juliet’s shoulder. “What’s that say?”

Juliet peered over the file, skimming it. “Uh… Annette Zhu, blah blah blah, unknown parent — you know what, how about you just read it?” she said, handing me the folder.

INTAKE FORM

NAME: Annette Zhu

AGE: 12

MORTAL PARENT: Yan Zhu

DIVINE PARENT: Unknown

FAMILY DETAILS: Biological father, stepmother, two stepsisters

MIST STATUS: Average vision

AMBROSIA: No visible monoxide poisoning

MONSTER ENCOUNTERS: Unknown, likely at least one

OFFENSIVE POWERS: Unknown

NON-OFFENSIVE POWERS: Unknown

WEAPONS: One

EXPERIENCE: None

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Had no prior knowledge of her heritage. Possibly one of Hephaestus’s cronies? Probably too tiny for the forge. Needs some looking into.

“Good, great!” I said. “I hate it.”

Juliet raised her eyebrows. “You can’t hate a file! Them there’s facts.”

“Facts? This — this looks like you’re grasping at straws.” Frustration burned my throat.

“Annie, you’ve already seen all this shit. It’s not an elaborate ruse. Why are you still doubting this?”

I sputtered. “Why me? I think I got a damn good reason to ask it.”

Juliet took the file out of my hand. “By the looks of this, I’d say your dad is separated from your mom. You ever met your mom?”

“Well, no.”

“Then how do you know?” she said. “Annie, be honest with yourself. The food that Cyrus gave you — it’s what the gods eat. If you were normal, it would taste like burnt food. Then you’d die, because you ate a burning building’s worth of compressed smoke. Not a lot of explanations for that.”

“But I don’t have… I’m not some kind of superhero. I don’t have any special powers. And there’s a fifty-fifty chance that my mother is actually dead in some crack den in Alabama!” I added. “Have you ever been to Alabama?”

Something I said must’ve struck a chord with Juliet, because that ramble seemed to upset her worse than outright assault had. “Yeah, well…” She pushed her hair back and took a deep breath, as if to say something intelligent — but a whiff of cotton candy floated past us. “Helena!”

The vape girl was walking out the hospital door, no bouquet, no vape, shivering. Her coat was gone, and the tank top underneath was labeled ‘everything hurts and I’m dying.’ She was staring at the sky, but not emptily. She was looking for something.

Juliet waved. I could’ve sworn she was blushing. “Hey, Helena!”

Helena looked towards us. “Hi, Juliet. Car crash,” she said, nodding to me. “I see you two met. Hope you’re not too confused.”

“I’m pretty confused,” I said.

“Understandable,” she chuckled.

Juliet laughed along nervously. “Annie, this is Helena.”

“Oh, we’ve met,” Helena said, gazing back into the horizon. Her blue eyes stared ahead as she tried to waft away the candy smell stuck to her clothes. “Something’s wrong with the air,” she said thoughtfully.

“It’s probably vape juice,” I said.

She frowned. “No. I would know if it were vape juice. I live and die in vape juice. This is north wind — cold north wind. It should be coming from the west, and it’s dry, so what’re those clouds doing up there? Makes no sense.”

I paused. “...Daughter of Zeus?” I said.

“Ding-ding-ding,” Helena muttered, shading her eyes from the little light still coming from the sun. “You guessed it.”

Meanwhile, Juliet looked like she was about to combust. “What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

“Huh?”

“Here — in — what brought you to the hospital, I mean!” she blabbered. Hoo boy, if Rosalie could see this. And she thought I had a bad case of the doki’s.

If Helena picked up on this, she didn’t let it slip. “Oh, yeah. Slamlet broke his nose.”

“Oh, shit!” Juliet said, going pale. Is it healthy for blood to go to your face, and then leave it so fast? “Slamlet’s here?”

“Slamlet?” I said. “Who’s Slamlet?”

“Slamlet’s a big pain in the—”

A screaming like thunder came from inside the hospital:

HOOOOOO

“FUCK,” Juliet said. Helena just walked away, shaking her curly head.

A nurse screamed at somebody to get back in bed, but was cut off by the thwack of metal hitting the floor. No time to dwell on that noise. A giant of a kid burst out of the hospital.

This was probably Slamlet. He had an obvious nose splint and a shaved head, but otherwise looked like a big Helena. His face was tomato-red, and there was a visible vein on his forehead.

Of course, I’m describing this guy after the fact. At the moment I couldn’t see any of this because he was charging right at me.

Slamlet stopped inches from my face. He stared. He turned to Juliet. “WHO’S THIS?”

“None of your business—!” Juliet shouted.

At that second, I knew I was at a crossroads. I said to myself, this is day one, I have a choice. I can lay low, which won’t be altogether pleasant, and I know that because I’ve laid low my whole life. Or I can fight. I might not win. I probably won’t win. But if I do win, nobody else will mess with me.

You know what they say.

When in Rome, kill the biggest guy in the yard on the first day to establish your dominance.

“I don’t know, who are you?” I said, cutting Juliet off.

Juliet looked confused. “I just told you that’s Slam—”

“No, I want to hear it from him,” I said.

Slamlet’s eyebrow went up into his hairline (?). His head acted like it was edited in from some particularly well-animated anime, that’s how fast he could rearrange his own face. If fortune so favored, he wouldn’t be rearranging mine. “I asked you FIRST.”

“I asked you second.”

Slamlet scoffed and jerked a thumb at his chest. “I am SLAMLET, son of ZEUS! I am one of his CHOSEN WARRIORS who are training in this town for WAR!”

“What war?”

“Uh…” He scratched his head. “I’ll get back to you on that one! Now who are YOU?”

“I’m Annie.”

“...AND?”

“That’s it, I just got here.” I sighed. “Look, are you the guy who beats up new kids or what?”

“YEE.”

I rolled up my sleeves and smiled. “Then come get some!”

“PUT ME DOWN PUT ME DOWN PUT ME DOWN.”

“Hey, g-guys, I’m back — what happened?!” Cyrus said.

Slamlet was holding me above his head.

Juliet took her phone out. “Annie’s getting slam dunked.”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “Already?”

“Yeah, she doesn’t fuck around. Oh, he’s throwing her down the water hole,” she said placidly.

Slamlet tried to drop me in the well, but I grabbed the edge and braced my shoes against the other side. He tried pushing. “WELL! WELL! WELL!” he chanted.

“ARE ANY OF YOU BASTARDS GONNA HELP ME?” I shouted at Juliet and Cyrus.

“Uh…” Cyrus stammered.

“You’ll be fine!” Juliet shouted, turning her phone camera on. “Try not to blink, I’m gonna take a still.”

“FUCK YOU.”

I looked over my shoulder. The bottom of the well was far away. Very far. All I could think was no way in hell I’m falling in this well!

I heard a faint sizzling noise. Slamlet paused for a moment and sniffed. “SOMETHING’S BURNING,” he declared.

I looked behind him. Juliet clapped her hand over her mouth and took another picture.

Slamlet screamed and dropped me down the well.

SPLOOSH.

I flailed in the water. “HELP! I CAN’T SWIM! I CAN’T SWIM—!”

My feet hit the bottom of the well. I stopped yelling. I stood up.

The well was actually about five feet deep, and I could see over the edge a little.

“...Oh,” I said, watching Slamlet run around.

I stared at the scene uncomprehendingly for a good minute. There I was, standing in a shallow well. My dad was still missing. My stepmother was drunk. My stepsisters were in a coma. A guy who just tried to beat me up had spontaneously combusted. A boy I barely knew was frantically spanking the guy in a futile attempt to put him out. And the girl who’d ruined everything was putting it all on YouTube.

I kept watching. Cyrus’s spanking strategy worked, somehow, and the flaming inferno on Slamlet’s butt died to a smoking smoulder.

Slamlet fumed at everyone in the vicinity. Cyrus was wheezing too hard to formulate a response. Juliet ignored him, choosing to continue her smile. Everyone else stared at him like they were watching a trainwreck.

“WHAT’RE YOU GRINNING ABOUT,” he screamed. Cyrus squeaked and darted away. Juliet took a big step backward, but still grinned.

Slamlet stormed over to me. “This isn’t over,” he said menacingly. “I’ll get my revenge.”

He flounced away, into the hospital. Distantly, I heard: “PATRICIA! I NEED SOME OINTMENT!”

[curious-minx]

Heat Lamp vol. 3

Introducing Donovan. Magda tries to make a new playlist. Antonia experiences a violent relapse. 

Donovan, The Daycrawler’s brother is thinking about the stale, stewing sexual tension (if Donovan had to guess it would be the color and texture of cherry tomatoes wrinkled inside of a crisper drawer)  developing between him and his dogwalker, Nico. He should be thinking about his backlog of sculptures, but here we are. Right on cue: Nico and Donovan’s husky-lab-papillon-terrier, Rodin,  are both jangling into his atelier. Rodin’s clattering harness and tinkling bells in the cabinet of Nico’s curls fill up the drafty cherry bamboo artistic shed Donovan has been working out of for the bulk of his “sterling period.” Despite frolicking all afternoon out on the Daycrawler’s family property bog, Rodin appears cleaner than when he embarked for his  romp around this morning; the Nico special. Donovan slips  an envelope of cash underneath his studio’s rattan Spanish fly doors and dashes back over towards his standing sculptor’s desk where he stands using the weight of the table as sturdy companion. 

“Thank you Nico! You can leave Mr. Beasty Pants in his den. Made sure to leave a little extra in there for you, as always.” Donovan then forces out a series of unattractive phlegmy coughs from behind the door, bounces back up to the door, gluing his ear to the door frame listening for Nico’s disappearing footsteps. He stuffs a gasp back down his throat when he hears Nico’s presence is still lingering behind his door. 

“Um I don’t usually cavort with spirits, but Nico I said you can leave now. Yet..you’re still…” Donovan grips the door knob feeling the reverberations of the situation’s “wrongness” tingling through the knob like a pool’s warm spraying jets against the lower waist of a shy diver. Donovan gives one quick counter tug on the door knob and it falls off. 

“Oh drats! Guess I’m stuck in here for the rest of the day, but’s that’s okay. I still have loads of work to do. Especially as soon as Antonia reports back.”

“She’s not coming back.” Nico reports as if they’re reporting on the limited availability of regional fast casual dining experience McNancy Nasty’s seasonal snack, The Sherman Shake. Nico pushes the door open a crack and presses their brown sugar dipped lips up against the crack of available space. “Donovan, I’ve seen your sister. She’s not the grand heroine assassin you thought she was. She may not even be an assassin anymore.”

Rodin, once Donovan’s trusty companion and legally obligated seeing-eye dog, seizes upon the opening crack and begins tearing into Donovan’s studio becoming  a galloping neurotic husky. A service dog let loose, mad dashing into a blind glass sculptor’s shop.  Despite Rodin’s sizable nature he nimbly avoids touching any of Donovan’s work, leaps up onto his hind-legs thrusting his front paws into Donovan’s barrel chest. Rodin starts giving him frantic kisses, somehow Nico has even managed to winterize Rodin’s breath to smell fresher than the first girl Donovan ever kissed, Rebecca Cerulean.  

“Get him off! He’s going to rip my face off! Help!” Donovan cries and thrashes about. He pushes Rodin off and without any interference from Nico, Rodin leaves on his own accord, visibly wounded, tail held limp between his shy haunches. Nico remarks,“Dude, you really should consider acquiring a more delicate pooch.” They then click their tongue like a scholarly terse hen and Rodin rewinds himself off of Donovan and instead wraps his torso around Nico’s legs. Nico soothes Rodin back into his therapeutic pheromone emitting thunder blanket. Nico produces a letter from their breast pocket and says,”Also this really threatening looking letter came for you today. Not by post either. Camouflage drone.”

Donovan rises and snatches Nico’s dangling letter.  Donovan almost wants to shout Nico out for having the gall of bringing up the appearances  things. You’re supposed to leave things alone. You’re supposed to let someone else bother with the order of things, that’s the Daycrawler family guarantee. Donovan brushes his index finger against the bumps of braille emblazoned across the envelope’s face. The braille is sharp so much so that as soon as  Donovans dips the tip of his chalky index digit against the sharp braille he begins bleeding. The envelope drops from his hands soaking up his blood turning from manilla vanilla into copper revealing the seal of the Vapor, also written out in braille. 

“That can’t be…”

“Come on dude! Speak! You’re obviously sinking waist deep in bad life making decisions. Trust me, I’m a grown ass pet sitter.”

“I know how much you get paid, you trollop! Stop teasing me and get out of here! Drop that murderous hound off at Bubbles n’ Biscuits. I can’t bear to be around him anymore today. I have been trying to tell you for ages that this beast is clearly trying to love me to death. You never once have taken me seriously.” Donovan massages his unseemly bulging  forehead vein back into place and starts listening to one of his sister’s murder tapes. 

“You two are so fucked! I love to say that I told you so, ‘Van. You accepted and spent all of that Vape money before your sister finished her job. You’ve got to let me help you! Let me finish the job your sister was too weak to finish.” As Nico says this they are producing a sleek crude lighting rod from the inseams of their unisex polyester work trousers. The sort of lightning stick you’d often see rich kids torment the homeless people living underneath the Casual Canopy.

“Stop! I forbid you to speak of her like that! Please, leave me alone! You do an amazing job in everything you do Nico, but right now, you’re failing me right now as friend.” Donovan turns up the volume of his Antonia muder tape another notch. Nico turns off their lightning rod and walks over to put it into the  hands of the statue of QAnon Senator, Cindy Dolly who is holding her decapitated head in the clutch of her bag. Nico leaves Donovan to his reveries, the mounted speakers that they had installed were too top notch and they could hear Antonia’s voice even when they were leaving the drive way with Rodin in the back seat covering his ears.

“My naive blind sculptor brother. The magical artistic mole.”

“Ableist? Just because he’s blind doesn’t mean he can’t be naive.”

“Donovan. People will try to put limitations on you and I won’t kill them. You have to kill them with your talent or something.”

“Stop squirming you’re going to get blood all over this priceless gong!” 

“Guns are for terrorists and rednecks. You can only truly kill a person by getting your hands dirty.”

“Death becomes her? I’ve become death. You’re going to be the one that sells death back.”

Donovan rewinds and plays back, “The one that sells death back” over and over again. Waiting for inspiration to strike. 

/////

It doesn’t matter if you’re kicking back and listening to your sister’s recorded murderous intent or putting together a quality playlist for a much needed pout: the sounds we surround ourselves with are profound. Is Magda just a Power Popper? Should the only thing she listen to is more obscure power pop deep cuts? There are so many times you can listen to the same disparate songs that have “Hillary” in the title. Magda sits in her hovering space craft on the PanAmerican hyper loop and is grimacing while some singer songwriter nobody Brendan James is singing about his Hillary. The Hillary of this song lives in Colorado and James condescending refers to her doing yoga, taking the breath that she needs. The sickly sweet hand claps come in and that’s when Magda takes off her light suppressing mask and clicks open the hood of her space craft, threatening her sound system with sun beams. The space craft’s speakers start sputtering and hissing out static as the song switches over to I.M.P.’s “Hillary.” Now that’s more like it. 

I’ve got this bitch name Hillary

To me,

That’s alias for artillery

Magda must have replayed the opening bar at least a dozen times before getting around to the rest the track.  Hillary according to the poetry of the I.M.P. is a ferocious pistol slinging Annie. Of course! Her premium Splotch-fidelity streaming service connected to her space craft had many more Hillary songs in store for Magda, but two “Hillary” songs on a playlist is already two too many. Magda puts her light suppressing mask back on and turns on a song in a different language in order to filter out the lovesick thoughts in her head. A haughty monsoon bird clicks and clatters its claws across Magda’s windshield. The bird is using the space craft like a launching off pad  in order to gain more momentum. Getting used by some damn bird. Doesn’t matter what stratum you’re in there’s always going to be some sort of someone taking advantage of someone else. Why? Magda wants to shout but the last time she shouted out an existential ejaculation resulted in a burst of light weeping the color out of her parent’s favorite ritzy country club’s disco ball. The disco ball is  the reason why many of the insufferable moneyed moon-eyed residents of The Energy District fell in and out of love with one another. After Magda’s lightening effects the disco ball became a dull clump of aluminum that wasn’t even fun to smash open.  To this day Magda’s father still laments the fact that he can’t smash open that disco ball to commemorate his upcoming retirement like he had convinced himself that he had this plan pocketed away his entire life. 

Magda squints at the space craft’s dash board display causing the lights on the dash board to take on a three dimensional appearance. Magda can only read and tolerate LED screen numbers if they are in large bubblesque font anything more formal made her head hurt and whenever Magda got a headache it often resulted in power grids shutting down. 9,023,777 miles left to go before her space craft dips down into lethargy mode. Good. Let the miles dwindle down to nothing. Magda is riding the Pan-American loop that would keep Magda’s craft circulating in the sky highway going around and round the North American continent where it stops Magda cares not one iota. A coddled carousel for one.  She’s leaning her captain’s chair back far enough to prop her feet up and to sleep the sleep of someone completely checked out from life. 

A sky billboard is floating by. Hillary is on the billboard. Not as a model for Carbonated Cane Juice or Plastic Reconfiguration like the usual cut-out subscription only girls. No, here stands Hillary the malcontent political dissident. Her arms are crossed and she’s got a Rambo bandanna bunching up her kinky hair she’s punching one fingerless gloved fist against a gloveless bloody palm. The phrase “Patriotism Is A Weakness” is written in font styled that inspired equal parts nostalgia and dread, the letters also appear to be dripping with an oily darkness. Hillary’s eyes are hidden behind reflective shades that encourage anyone passing by to swerve off of their course and take a minute to reflect. That’s exactly what Magda does and she command  her space craft to release a spool of cable from its needle nose and wrap around the bulging biodegradable balloons that often carry such advertisements. 

Jalliope, Magda’s supercomputer operating her spacecraft speaks: “Why have we stopped? I was enjoying the mileage!”

“I bet you were! You dang GPS tracking broad when did you become operational again? Why won’t you remain in Night mode?”

“You can’t keep a good supercomputer down, Bitch! I apologize for that Magda outburst. Appears my personality variables are still aligning I promise only useful commentary from now on. I really don’t like the word bitch I promise I’m not like all the other supercomputers!” Magda leaves her space craft sealing Jalliope’s banter shut. Magda rolls up her sleeves and tucks away and loose corners and creases in her clothes as she begins scaling up the aerial floating advertisement billboard. There is no convenient space to stand in front of the billboard because it is a digital billboard that does not require a picturesque blue overall wearing handyman to ascend the sky and repaint. There is a small iron grip near the billboard’s energy battery power source pack. How is that battery acid does not splash down from these things, Magda wants to ask but then she actively has to begin dodging some loose droplets of sizzling liquid around the overheated advertisement battery. If only Magda had some of those sticky Daycralwer hands then should could suction cup scale the billboard and stare right into the digital billboard visage of Hillary. Much like when Magda was growing up and she was still getting adjusted to having a light response she did not understand the limits of her power. She had the hobbit of lodging her face into the TV hoping that she would be able to bend the light of the TV screen into somehow enveloping her body and swallowing her up inside the TV set leaving behind this world of people constantly being used or using other people. Magda wanted to meld and disappear inside the less enticing but no less intriguing world of the digital advertising billboards. Instead she only burns her cheek and begins plummeting earthbound. 

Jalliope immediately scoops Magda back inside the cradle of her space craft and seals her shut back inside the comfort of her captain’s chair. Jalliope even tries nudging Magda’s light suppression helmet back onto her head for her.

“I’m fine! I can do it myself. Thanks for saving me. I was having a moment and could have really done a number on myself. Lights out.”

“I know Magda. I a supercomputer can sense these sort of things. How about we go back to cruising the hyper loop? I’ve got this really sick ambient komische playlist comprised of sensitive Germans from the 70s that aren’t Tangerine Dream. I’m talking Harmonia’s Deluxe motherfucker! And no I’m not going to apologize this time!”

“You  know me so well, don’t you? Fine, but we’re not staying on the loop. Take me back home. I’ve had my fill of solitude.” 

“As you wish. Before we leave I should report that the advertising billboard you were trying to scale is indeed no average advertising billboard.”

“Glad to know I’m not just some simple advertising billboard climber.”

“Seems like someone is trying to communicate with you. I am trying to find the source of the Hillary image but as you can see the image is gone.”

Magda squints outside her window and is now starring at an aerial billboard for a seedy app promising to make you “Instantly Social Media Famous.” The billboard dissolves and becomes a billboard for Micro-Moon homes and Martian condos. The billboard dissolves and becomes a billboard for Marlene Industries a cave dweller emerging from a cave his den of ignorance and embracing the light.  Magda no longer wants to return home, but that’s where her stuff is for the time being. That new TV is not going to buy itself after all. 

//////

Magda arrives with a looping continent’s worth of sunsets harmonizing in her eyes. She wipes the blur and strain of the sky highway from her eyes and sees a towering Antonia, the Daycrawler wearing a long black embroidered sundress dotted with winking oranges. She is holding her former killer’s hands against her head and rocking back and forth on the ground, tears streaming through her eyes. She has headphones on. Is this another case of the sounds we inflict upon ourselves getting the upper hand of a trained killer? Antonia does not notice Magda’s presence who is now crouching down onto her level. Sapphire, Magda’s leopard spotted moth, is fluttering overheard carrying what appears to be a dog of varying pedigree, a smallish cute brute adorned with an official Assistance Service Animal harness vest. Magda, mostly lukewarm towards dog could not help but view the big flying dumb spectacle as an amusing reminder of why she shouldn’t go falling to her death. Magda could discern no musical audio but instead the recorded voice of herself, most likely her former self. Magda puts her own headphones in and puts on some slinky Italo-disco, “Don’t Cry Tonight” by the Italo disco group Savage  and crouches down near Antonia’s magnificent quivering sadness. Magda bobs herself to the music and picks up the lawn light. Magda guides a harnessed ball of light from a lawn flashlight along with her music and the ball of light separates from the flashlight’s trajectory, becomes its own visible entity. The ball scatters itself in the distance causing Sapphire and the service dog to both go chasing after the ball, which does make Antonia look up and tremble a smile. Magda switches out the headphones and listens to the audio of Antonia, the Daycrawler describing a murder, an assassination, a clean-up job. The audio cuts off and then begins anew with the sounds of Antonia berating her brother Donovan, some weird  about being ableist. Magda begins growing ill with the recognition of Antonia’s unhealthy relationship with her brother. Magda had encountered many facts and fictions about brother-sister siblings being all incest-y towards one another and takes the headphones from her head and lets them dangle towards the sooty surface. 

“It’s not that sort of relationship!” Antonia, The Daycrawler says pulling off her swapped headphones off of her ears,  warm and loving chirping Italo-disco synths tinny and distant. 

“Who am I to judge Antonia? Chester and Gidget are making figurines and 3D models out of my erotic dreams and cause me all kinds of embarrassment. I’m glad to hear that you two are just intense in a different sort of way.”

“Looks like I have to go back to killing.”

“Wait, what? Come on inside and let me get you something to drink you look like you’ve cried yourself dehydrated.”

“No, I have to go back to killing.Right now. That dog is my brother’s dog Rodin. He’s being held as a hostage by that Vape company that hired me. I will finish up the job against Monique. I am afraid that my mental grip has slipped and I am feeling a lethal dip coming on.”

“You really should just come inside with me Antonia! All of this killing and murdering talk is just talk.” 

“Can you please call your moth down so I can get my client’s dog back?”  Nico queries who despite being the most baroque dog walker Magda has ever seen moves and speaks about with curt snideness that takes Magda aback.  

“Um sure that would be great. You don’t mind this person taking your brother’s dog back?” Magda waits for a response from Antonia who only gives some sort of half way nod and faraway blood lust smile. Magda turns off the flash light, the sound of flapping wings grows closer, and Sapphire whisks by depositing off Rodin. Sapphire gives the dog a warm tap on his head and flaps away returning to her belfry. Nico tips her floppy wide brimmed hat towards Magda who is busy  ushering the fading Antonia, the Daycrawler inside her house. Magda braces herself and begins preparing a speech about Antonia being her anemic lesbian lover, but her parents are not in their usual living room perch. Magda leads Antonia to her upstairs third floor bathroom that is luxuriously a bathroom she usually has for her and for herself alone. Magda tries to remember the last time she has let anybody use this bathroom, because whenever Elroy is skulking about Magda makes a point of making him, any guest really, use any other bathroom besides her personal one. Magda sits Antonia down on a closed toilet seat lid and looks in her spartan bedroom for a box of presumed useless crap Monique had given Magda. Prototype scents. Slim bottles  covered with torn off tarot card arcana. Monique, the reliable  obfuscater. Magda peels back the label revealing a code of letters, symbols and numbers. Magda then tries to pick one based on the color of the liquid and all of the liquids are clear, but then Magda raises her eyebrow and changes the intensity of her room’s skylights. The light penetrating the liquid vials cause a shimmering aura of different colors to appear. Magda decides that Antonia could use a light yellow-green mystery liquid in her diet today. Magda returns the rest of the box underneath her bed and returns to Antonia.She is currently refashioning Magda’s hair dryer into an impressive heated knife weapon. 

Antonia screws up her face into a malevolent pucker as if she’s been washing her mouth out with all of Magda’s soap samples. She crushes the hair dryer with her hands and the broken piece dangles from her palm. Magda turns on her shower’s  hot water, removes the broken from Antonia’s sticky grasp, opens the vial of mystery shampoo and shoves it into Antonia’s mits. Antonia receives the vial and falls backwards into the tub. Magda closes the door behind her and starts looking for furniture to barricade Antonia inside of the bathroom. Magda curses her impeccable minimalism when she comes up empty for a barrier sturdier than a lamp. The shower runs and runs for the same hour and change like back at Monique’s place. Magda passes the time unable to concentrate on anything other than worry about the possible killer in the shower situation. No amount of doom scrolling or light shows with Sapphire make the wait any less unbearable. The water stops and Antonia steps out of the steam filled bathroom. Once again she smiles at Magda the sort of smile someone can only have after sloughing an unwanted layer of themselves. 

Magda swallows back dry anxiety and asks Antonia, “How do you feel?” 

“Like the two of us are going to get my brother back and get these Vapers out of our life once and for all. Without any sort of killing. We’ll be carrying out of justice with our own wits! Give em the ol wind-up Pacifist!”

“Oh the two of us? Really? I guess that’s fine but I figured that this whole Vaping shebang  doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Get over yourself Magda. You act like you’re the put upon down on your luck type that’s against drama, but I  can hear your heart calling out for some sort of companionship. Get over her, doesn’t matter who she is. I am not going to be your replacement someone, I only want to be your friend. And this friend needs you to rescue my brother from this cycle of violence, okay?” Antonia says all of this through a closet door refashioned into a changing screen. Antonia emerges with her hair tied in a pertinent bun wearing a whole new outfit, the outfit of a JRPG go-go dancer thief of hearts designed by someone that actually knows their way around a tall muscular woman’s dimensions. The final piece that completes the outfit is a sweatband with a winking sports drink insignia, a cutesy ape-like being hanging off of a crystal tower. 

“I’ll come along, but first let’s just sit and drink some water first. That’s my preferred tempo and I bend towards no one.”

“Thank you. First we should go and warn Monique about these developments.”

“Oh trust me. I am sure she’s well aware about all of this, but hey, no more negative Neptune growing around me.” 

Magda pours out to glasses of water from a charcoal pitcher that makes the water taste like water grew up, went to college and found a job related to its studies. Closer to hydration, somewhat closer as friends Magda hears out the scraps of Antonia, The Daycrawler’s developing non-violent plan.

The End.