#my blitz is literally 'green with envy'. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bates--boy · 4 years ago

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The bouncer obviously didn’t recognize the partier who came sniffing for more action for the second time that week. At least from afar; going from off-shoulder blouses and high shorts to a dress shirt and trousers made quite a difference. It was only when the bouncer saw the blue and bruised eyes, through the holes in the black leather bunny mask, that a glimmer of recognition shone in his own.

“...Bad week?” The bouncer chuckled.

“Decade,” Peter grumbled through busted lips as he pulled out a wad of cash to shove in the bouncer’s hands.

The bouncer counted out the notes and pressed the stamp onto Peter’s hand, going about it a little slower and more cautious, remembering the last time Peter freaked out when he did it so suddenly (so slow, in fact -- and with a smile to boot -- that Peter wondered if he was just being an unfunny ass). With the holographic ink to guide him, Peter flounced to The Mad Hatta’s quarters to retrieve his treat. He carried it back out with perhaps a little too much reverence, a faithless worshipper carrying his Communion cracker.

He returned to the dance floor, gazing at the altar with the suspended chains flickering in the flashing lights of purple and green and blue. The hymn filling the club wove into Peter’s veins, his blood stirring with the heavy bass of trap music.

Down the rabbit hole I go, Peter thought. He laid Wonderland on his tongue.

The span between the first familiar hit of mint cotton candy and when he broke from the crashing wave of the dancing crowd could not have been more than thirty seconds, but as he tugged on his rabbit ears to yank the mask off, he found his forehead drenched with enough sweat to cascade down his face and into the front of his shirt. He flipped his bangs, seeing drops fly away from his locks as he stumbled to the bar. In his haze, Peter slumped against the structure, slouching on the counter and crossing his arms on the black glass. The drinkers in the snowy filter of his vision jumped from the force of his body.

“Hey! Be careful, motherfucker!” A voice from behind the bar cried. Peter blinked, the dream-like grin on his face stretching wider as the bartender wandered into his view. He wondered if this is a place that muscular women frequented, because this is the second one that he’d crossed, dressed in a sharp white suit with a red tie, sleeves rolled up to expose toned forearms, a beautiful physique just on this side of total bodybuilder.

She tossed her towel on one of her broad shoulders, and Peter could taste a bitter, honeyed mix of muscle envy and craving.

She raised an immaculate, filled-in brow at the soaked and flushed individual. “Are you blitzed out? You gonna just sit there and drool, or do you want something?”

“Right...” Peter gulped and filled his chest with the heavy air heated with sweat, booze, a hint of coitus happening in some far-off closets and stairwells, and no small amount of sudden inner pride. “Yeah, that’s what you usually do at a bar, right? Order drinks, eat peanuts, maybe bribe the barmaid with your tongue and fingers for a night of unlimited cocktails...”

And Peter’s own brows slowly rose high on his forehead as he felt the buzz of the words left over on his lips. The silence between them as they locked a steady, tense gaze was thick enough to even drown out the musical switch from in-your-face trap to glitzy dance pop. The tiny remainder of common sense that wasn’t eroded by the chilly dreamscape of Wonderland dictated that Peter apologize immediately, chock his brazenness up to coy stupidity and being literally high (what was it she called it? “Blitzed”?)

Peter laid his chin on his crossed arms, widened his eyes and gazed up at her from under his long, coated lashes. His tongue slowly pass across his upper lip.

Nothing about the smooth slate of the woman’s face changed as she stared at this slumped, baby-faced man, or when she turned to grab a bottle of water to set in front of him. She then bent to reach under the counter, pulling out a plastic bucket and setting it to Peter’s side. “Yeah, you’re blitzed.”

Over the stench that suffocated Peter, he could smell a faint waft of vomit from the bucket. He recoiled, almost tripping backward on his unsteady feet, and clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. “Eugh!” He groaned, but the odd thing was that it came out as a giggle. “Is that bucket full of puke?!”

“Nope, clean as a whistle.” The bartender tipped the mouth to show Peter its deceptively squeaky clean appearance. “See? Now, d’ya need help inducing vomit? If so, I’ll have to call someone over.”

“Nm-mh!” Peter shook his head. ‘I only had one.”

“Ah, so you always sound like a virgin’s idea of a lady’s man and a hooker?”

Peter blinked, slightly lifting his head from his arms as if the sting of the bartender’s words jolted him. He felt his face start to twist, but because the high of the Wonderland softened the edges of everything, even the indignation, the grimace morphed into a lazy, self-deprecating grin. “It would seem so.”

The bartender returned the bucket to its hidden space. “Whatever you were trying to do wouldn’t have worked, anyway. I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh...” Peter sat up fully and picked up the bottle, twisting the cap off and lifting it halfway to his mouth. “Well, I was only trying to get some free drinks. So, whatever...”

The bartender still kept a blank face as she watched her patron down half the bottle of water. Then she snorted, covering her mouth with her fist as she gently shook with laughter. She turned to the shelf and freezer behind her and, with some clinking, gathered a glass and a few bottles of brightly colored liquor, syrup, and jars of cherries and pineapple dices. “Hey, don’t pout at me just because you took your shot and ended up going full Shaq.”

She laughed louder, almost spilling the thick peach starter as Peter started coughing on his water. She stopped when other clubbers made their way towards the bar, composing herself to the closest sense of professionalism she could manage while Peter glowered through his coughing fit. She hurried through her mixing, swirling a reddish brown syrup along the inside of the glass and filling the rest with a yellow, cold foamy layer that she dotted with the cherries and pineapples. She stuck a straw in it and placed the glass in front of Peter.

“House special,” she said. She went to take the orders of the other patrons, filling up a mug of beer for one and mixing a gin and lime seltzer for the other. Coming back to Peter, she jolted at how Peter had the glass up, straw tossed aside, throat working as he sucked down the beverage and somehow managing to keep the fruit bits in.

“...Okay,” she said as Peter sat the glass down with a gasp for air. “You good?”

“Heugh!” Peter patted his chest and blinked at the chill ballooning within the cavity. “Yeah, yep! I’m -- koff-- good. Hey, can I get another of that?”

“Nah, not a good idea.” The bartender shook her head. To Peter’s returned and confused glower, she added, “You’re still in Wonderland. By now, your body temperature’s almost swinging low, so you definitely don’t need another ice popper. And you’re already so high that you don’t need another strong drink.”

Peter pinched his brows together and picked up his straw. He stabbed the straw into a pineapple piece to fish out of the glass and put into his mouth. “What are you, my doctor? Why give me a drink at all, then?”

The bartender shrugged. “You looked like you could use one. But like I said, one’s enough for you.”

“Huh.” Peter fished a cherry out and popped that into his mouth as well, wincing for just a second at the tangy and bitter juice. “I can’t be that obvious.”

“Oh, trust me, you are.” The bartender nodded. “Even if I hadn’t seen types like you stumbling in for as long as I ran this place, I would still tell.” She tapped at her bottom lip, in the same place that Peter could feel his wound stinging from the alcohol.

He touched his fingers to the split in his lip. “Ha, I guess that -- Wait.” He tilted his head slightly. “You run this club?”

Relief softened her face when the music changed into a playlist with a lower bass, one that offered them a break from practically yelling over the noise. “Yep. Seven years next month.”

Peter’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. “But you’re behind the bar...”

“I’m just filling in for my usual girl.” She looked off to the side. “My little worker bee. She’s going into labor -- twins, I still can’t believe it! -- and after she recovers, she’s going to take her exam for her LLM.”

“Oh, shit!” Peter stabbed into the glass multiple times and raised the kebab of cherries and pineapple pieces in the air. “Fuck! Good for her!”

“Yeah. I’m so proud of her.” The bartender went to pick up the drained beer bottles left behind by the departing couple and dumped them into a recycling bin. She turned to find Peter with a quirked brow and a dry half-grin, and mirrored that look on her heart-shaped face with sharp cheekbones. “You don’t believe me?”

“I mean...” Peter shrugged and ripped the fruit off the straw with his teeth. “Not really...”

The bartender crossed her arms. “Why would I make up the fact that I own this place?”

“I’m trying to figure that out right now.” Peter ran his tongue over his lips once more, savoring the leftover taste of the ice popper. “Even if I was just a bartender, it would still be a cool gig in a club like this. Then again...”

He dropped the straw into his empty glass and folded his arms on the bar once more. “Maybe you want more, want to be more, like the rest of us. So what would it hurt you to spin this wild tale of filling in for a woman who suspiciously sounds like that American who took her own bar exam while in labor? Especially to a total stranger who you probably won’t see ever again?”

The bartender started to slowly shake her head. “American woman? Who...” She raised her palms. “Anyway... I like that you came here only a couple times and you think you already have everything figured out.”

“Oh, like how you have me figured out just from a busted lip? One that I could have easily gotten from a falling book or a skateboard accident?”

The bartender's face twitched. She opened her mouth, her lips working to protest, to retort, to joke, to explain, but remaining silent through her indecision. Finally, after a long deliberation and her tongue pressed into her cheek, she uncrossed her arms. She unlatched the bracelet from her wrist and gestured for Peter to hold his arm out. Confused, Peter did so, and the woman clipped the accessory, with it's jute cord and red and white glass beads, on his wrist.

"Head back to the Mad Hatta in an hour. Show him this and tell him you want to be let into the Looking Glass."

Peter held his wrist up and studied the dangling beads, surprised by their heavy weight. "You guys sure do like your Alice in Wonderland, huh?"

"I loved that masterpiece since I was little. Always will be one of my faves." She shrugged, nudging the plastic bottle with what was left of the water closer to Peter. "One hour. In the meantime..."

She turned back to the refrigerator behind her and scooped and scraped. She came back to Peter with a couple baggies full of ice. "Try to avoid falling books and skateboards."

“Roger that!” With a wink, Peter spun and skipped his merry little way back to the dance floor, melding back into the throng with ease and instantly floating in its cloud of sweaty arousal and electropop buzz. At first, Peter wanted to chuck the ice bags into the nearest bin; besides how much harder their chill added to Peter’s sinking body temperature and made him shiver, he knew he looked silly holding them to his face while he swayed and swirled and dropped and popped.

Then went the gaiety of Wonderland, fading away and abandoning him on the real dance floor. Without the softer, snowier edge of the cotton candy tab, Peter felt the full force of his still swollen eye and busted lip and pressed the ice packs harder onto his face. He tried to remember how many songs he’d danced to, trying to keep track of time that had passed, and decided to go on through a couple more songs. He might be a little early if his sense of time was off, but he hoped for late. In a place like this, and for a party that the bartender invited him to, one must be fashionably late -- a metaphorical cock tease to a literal lesbian.

The final song neared its end, a cue for Peter to swim through the crowd and search for the back door. Once there and taking the hall behind it, Peter sucked the warmed water from the baggies and dropped the baggies on the floor. He reached the Mad Hatta’s lair, stopped to wipe his face on his arm and pull the mask back into place, and stepped through.

And froze, eyes bulging out at the bodies on the twisted layers of silk. He felt snaps going off in his skull, pops and pulls, an urge to run, a burning shame, a renewed desire at the sight born from envy and anger. With the end of Wonderland came the withdrawal, a sense of everything being worse, and how easily any little thing can paralyze him.

The Mad Hatta lifted his face from the moaning woman’s thighs, wiping his lips and propping his elbows on either side of his twitching lover’s legs to hold himself up. “Hey! The fuck d’ya want?” he called out, his stretching grin betraying the impatience in his voice.

Peter felt his mouth opening and closing, felt his brain hurt trying to find words through the storm in his head. He tried to draw on the bravado he was full of barely a few minutes ago on the dance floor; getting desperate, he tried to cling to that last, nonexistent bit of Wonderland still in his system, to mollify his inner, crippling disaster. Desperate still, he tried to put himself back into the body of Peter that was there the first night, the one who had his fingers through a stranger’s waistband and wanted to be fouled up in a far-off and dark corner. He tried to go back to the Peter at that hotel, to when he shoved his underwear into John’s mouth and made off with his money. He needed the brazenness of the first, the audacity of the second, to even look the girl in the eye.

Yet he had neither, and when their eyes did meet, he was embarrassed to find the gently panting woman watching him, her glassy hazel eyes asking When the fuck are you leaving? The slow curve of her lips wondering Are you going to join or not?

“Aaaah,” the Mad Hatta said with a slow nod. “You’re waking up, aren’tcha?”

Peter hesitantly reached behind his head to scratch. “I-I... I guess...” Is that what they call this impending sense of a world-ending doom?

The Mad Hatta shook his head and clicked his tongue. The woman beneath him gave a whimper as he ran his thumb along her slick cunt; she melted into the silk as that thumb slowly circled the swollen clit. “Ooooh, oh oh, that is no fun, no fun, indeed!”

Run, some voice commanded through the violent storm of shock in Peter’s head. But he stared, swallowing against the dry lump in his throat. Take notes, another broke through the crashing noise. What a fucking perv, yet another groaned, and Peter couldn’t tell if it meant the Mad Hatta or himself.

The Mad Hatta paused his hand job to sit fully upright, his hand reaching into a pocket of his robe. His open robe. “Did you buy another stamp upfront? Let me see it.”

“I thought--” Peter’s voice died as a quick glance downward completely wrecked the last dying shred of his coherency. He tore his eyes away, but it was too late. Like the woman, Peter’s mind was penetrated by that bit of flesh, stiff and unashamed.

The Mad Hatta snickered, and Peter could see movement from the corner of his eye, a side-to-side sway of the hips, and a slow swing of red, throbbing flesh. “What? You have the same equipment as I do, don’tcha? Never been to a boys’ locker room before?”

“I...” Peter put his hand up to block his vision. Then, swallowing, he tried for indignation. “How would you even know? Maybe I’m trans!”

Peter could hear the shrug in The Mad Hatta’s voice, over the choking moans of his pet. “Born with it or not, looks like it’s starting to tick up--”

“I’m here to see the bartender!” Peter screeched.

There was a pause, in which Peter silently willed his body into submission, tried to curb the arousal that made his pants squeeze too tight. Even the woman stopped whimpering and shifting in the pile of silks, probably staring quizzically and comically at the poor bastard with the blushing and bruised face. Peter didn’t want to check. He didn’t want to look at all. In fact, spinning on his heels and fleeing this crime scene grew ever more appealing.

“Oooh!” The Mad Hatta’s voice cooed out of Peter’s field of vision. “I knew that trinket looks familiar!” There was a lot of fabric shuffling, and The Mad Hatta grunting. “Why didn’t you say so? Could’ve saved us all a whole lotta embarrassment! Put your hand down, I’m decent!”

Peter yelped as The Mad Hatta grabbed his wrist and tugged at it, pulling him past the bed of silks and to a set of golden curtains on a far wall. The Mad Hatta pulled one of them aside and opened a flight of stairs. “Well, hop to it, little Alice! The Queen awaits!”

Peter took a breath to still the shakes and swept into the stairwell, the upward tunnel going dark as The Mad Hatta let the curtain drop back into place. Halfway up, the voices of the fuck bunnies carried up to him.

“Awww, why didn’t you let him join us?” The woman pouted. “I would’ve loved to have some fun with him.”

“Don’t tease the poor lad, he looks like he already had a bad enough week!” The Mad Hatta chuckled.

The tip of Peter’s ears burned, no matter how much he huffed and grumbled.

He stomped his way up to the landing. Immediately, he was hit. Though his eyes usually adjusted quickly from near total darkness to light, his sight took a hard slam with chopping, flashing series of colors. Red, blue, green, pink, yellow, going from neon to LED and back. It was the same lights display as the ones on the dance floor, but this felt different. This filled the room like lasers in a pool of water, or having a flare right in front of his eyes. Peter hissed and blocked his face once more.

“Well, well, well, it’s about time you showed up!”

Blinking, Peter partly uncovered his eyes to squint into the space in front of him. A figure, warped by the intense illumination all around them, sauntered up to him, arms held open and head cocked sideways.

“I thought you were going to take off with my bracelet.”

"And miss out on the invitation from The Queen, herself?" Peter said over the music bouncing against the walls, trying to put some ease and charm back into his voice. As he stepped forward to meet the bartender halfway, Peter rolled his shoulders, beginning the long and arduous work of shedding whatever the hell that was downstairs. He looked around. "What is this, anyway? A secret lair? Your throne room?"

“Something like that!” The Queen took Peter’s wrist and undid the latch of the bracelet. Removing it from his arm, she shoved her white tuxedo sleeve up and fastened the accessory back on its rightful place. “More like a watch tower. Or theater. Basically, where I get to watch my subjects and domain.”

“Your ‘subjects’, huh?” Peter snorted, though less in derision and more in genuine amusement. “You’re having a lot of fun with this theme, aren’t you?”

“Most fun of my entire life.” The Queen sauntered to the wall where a table of miniature bottles and chrome tumblers sat on a tray.

Peter jumped as a figure bent from the wall in front of her, then, narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized the figure’s movement and shapes. Oh. His eyes trailed to the spot in the wall next to him, to the person across the way that raised his hand and waved in perfect synchronization with Peter. Mirror walls. Peter then realized that he may need to slow down on the vices for tonight before his brain completely fries.

But then The Queen came back with a pair of bubbly, soft green drinks in twinkling crystal glasses, lime rinds curling out of the tip and half cucumbers floating in the concoction. She held one of the glasses out to Peter, who took it with caution screwed. The first sip was strong yet mellow, a French 75 with a refreshing twist and a hint of mint.

“Like I want to jump off a bridge,” Peter replied, opting for the more appropriate answer. He fished the cucumber out of the glass and popped it into his mouth, to fill his stomach and stave off the worse of the alcohol.

The Queen took a sip as she went over to stand in front of the theater window, in the space between the glass and the crescent leather couch set on a dais. With a hand shoved in her trouser pocket and her shoulders straight back and proud, she looked every bit as regal as her play title commanded, with her bush of curly red hair parted at the side and combed back. Looking like she took notes from The Great Gatsby, too.

Despite the episode he had in The Mad Hatta’s quarters and the sting of rejection from earlier, Peter was still very not opposed to dropping to his knees and shoving his face into her thighs until she ripped his hair out in a climatic hysteria.

“It looks like you’re waking up. How are you feeling?”

“Yeah, I figured. It’ll wear off soon, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

The Queen jerked her head, nodding Peter over. He obeyed and placed himself next to her, taking an awkward stance of crossing one leg over the other, knee slightly bent and thigh slightly raised, wishing he’d had opted for his special concealment underwear tonight. At least The Queen’s focus was on her subjects, the mass of drunkards and addicts.

“They’re so beautiful,” The Queen said. There was a change in the music and the light show. Most of the dancers turned to the stage, where lights beamed down on the line of straps hanging from the grids. In the glass’s reflection, Peter could see the half-smile on The Queen’s full lips. “It’s almost the Grand Hour.”

Peter stepped closer to the window, pressing his hand to it to keep balance as he watched the club workers stepping onto the stage and next to their chains. He couldn’t see their faces from this high up and with the lights nearly blinding him, but their arms were crossed, their stance wide and strong, so he could imagine their expressions, all cool and blank except for maybe a cocked brow as they eyed this crowd reaching up to be selected for the first round of dancing. Then, they stepped forward, helping ones brave enough to just climb onto the damn thing. And hoisting up ones that were being lifted bodily. His breath hitched watching them, watching the people’s hands grab a dancer and offer them up to The Queen’s chosen like lambs.

He started to feel warm all over, especially in the small of his back and his thighs and calves, the places where hands grabbed him and lifted him to the stage all those days ago. And the cool of the chain links around his wrists, nipping his skin as he swung his body and jerked the chains. His breaths came shallow and dry, his head going dizzy.

“What’s up?” The Queen’s voice said, closer to his ear. “You want to head back down and join the Grand Hour again?”

Again. He imagined The Queen in this very spot once more, standing in the exact same way in front of the window. He imagined what he may have looked like from up here, a sweaty and drunk thing in barely-anything shorts and a half-blouse chained up and dancing for her amusement. The way his skin prickled was not from shame.

His tongue passed over his sugary, minty lips a couple times before Peter realized that she was serious and shook his head. “Nah, I want to enjoy the show from up here.”

The Queen freed her hand from her pocket to slip her arm around Peter’s shoulder. Turning him around, she suggested, “Let’s get comfortable. We might get a hell of a show!"

They stepped up to the platform and settled onto the crescent sofa, side by side, like crowns of different kingdoms coming together for a night of camaraderie and a jolly good show. The cool French 75 cocktail laid in Peter’s stomach better than the ice popper, though he did miss the fruitier taste. Taking slow sips and swirling the glass, Peter watched as the last of the chosen was fitted into the chain links, a cute little chick with a skin-tight skirt so mini that half her ass bared as she jutted it out and rubbed it against the woman putting her wrists in place.

The cheer of the crowd thrummed through the window, weaving through Peter’s skin and fueling the electricity already crackling within him. The pop music is filthier and more sultry, an anthem to strippers who aren’t afraid to wring sad and lonely old men dry of their money. Everyone on the stage is shaking their asses like they have something to prove, with legs spread wide and clothes disheveled like they snuck out of the back bathrooms after a good fucking. Peter wondered which of them are in Wonderland. Which of them is feeling the exaggerated heat of the crowd’s hands touching at their feet and legs? Which of them is dancing in a gentle flurry of snow, in a world softened around the edge in a hazy ring of white and pink?

The contemplation drew Peter back to that stage, to being chained up like a dog for a Dominatrix’s amusement. Someone had slipped him a second snowflake on his tongue before he was tossed up there on the stage, and the world was disappearing into pure white. Or, at least it tried to, for he still remembered the taste of salty latex fingers shoved down his throat to induce vomiting and save his life. But damn, the way the music took him away that night, the way his skin braised under someone’s touch, the wild abandon as he flew and twisted himself on the chains, bringing his profession into this playground.

The way he shimmied and bounced on the couch now -- was that Peter dancing to the music, or was it needy squirming from built up arousal? He downed the rest of his cocktail and blinked against his twirling vision and hte flashing lights. Fanning himself, Peter crossed his leg over the other and bounced and rolled his shoulders to the beat. He looked over to The Queen, raising a brow as she peeled off a snowflake from a car and stuck it to her tongue.

Her eyes met his, and her head shook. You had enough.

He tilted his head and smiled his pearly whites grin. Aw, come on!

She frowned, eyeing the empty crystal in his hand and the brightness on his cheeks. I don't know...

Peter laid his head on her lap, jutting his bottom lip out as he looked up at her. Pretty Pleeeease!

She gently pressed her fingers to her breast pocket, where a corner of pink cardstock poked out. She worried a corner of her lip with her teeth. Perfect, straight white teeth, and plump, umber lip that Peter allowed himself the fantasy of brushing his tongue along in a fevered kiss.

Let it go, dude, it ain’t gonna happen, yet one more voice in his head helpfully pointed out.

Then The Queen sighed and shrugged. “I guess it’s safe for you to get a second hit.”

Peter sat up from The Queen’s lap, bouncing in his seat and clapping his hands -- careful to not break the glass -- as The Queen pulled the snowflake out of her pocket. She held it out to him, but when Peter reached for it, The Queen snatched it back.

“But first, you’ll need to do some things for me.”

The color of Peter’s face changed under his bunny mask as his imagination swung into crime-movie extremes, from a chilling pale as he wondered if she’d request him to kill someone, to a fiery red as he wondered if maybe, just maybe, she wanted to switched teams for tonight, just tonight, for a fun night of kinks (Not. Gonna. Happen, again the voice helpfully reminded him). “And that would be...?” he prompted in a soft, awed voice.

The Queen smirked. “First off: I want you to dance for me.”

“...Really?”

“Yup.” The Queen nodded her head forward, to the space in front of the sofa. She and Peter locked eyes, hers glinting with mischief and mirth and yet total, complete seriousness.

Peter smiled.

Rising from the sofa and setting the glass on the floor, Peter stepped off the dais and tugged on his mask to secure it to his face. The Queen leaned back in the sofa cushion, stretched out an arm along the curved back of the sofa, tapping the snowflake on the leather to remind him what he’s working for.

The club was still in the middle of the current song. He wanted to explode into movement right then, to lose himself in the music and the gin and champagne, but it’s common knowledge that the best performances start slow. Everything, from dance to secrets to orgasm to the end of the world, needs a build-up.

So he hooked an arm behind his head, running his opposite hand up and down his thigh as he swirled up and down. A little stir of his hips, a little pout of his lips, a swing of his arm -- he did this so many times in front of his computer camera it came naturally, like muscle memory. Then the song hit its second chorus and he amped it up. The room moved around him as he bounced and spun and thrust, throwing his head back and his ass out. He kept the momentum going, slowing down in the transition to the next song for the second explosion, finding The Queen doing her own little dance in her seat and spilling drops of her cocktail on the leather cushion.

The third song came on, a smoother pop mix. Blue-balled as he was at that point, Peter still did a hop spin back onto the dais. He tossed his hair, bent in front of The Queen, and jiggled his ass, sticking his tongue out over his shoulder.

“That’s what I’m talking ‘bout!” The Queen sang, waving the Wonderland snowflake in the air with a laugh.

By the fourth song, every part of Peter’s body was on fire. Sweat dripped from underneath his mask, making the leather accessory slippery on his face; dark circles formed in his shirt’s armpits; his collar was drenched and strands of his hair clung to his cheeks and lips. Turning to The Queen during interludes, Peter could see the heat affecting her, too, with tiny beads of moisture cropping up on her laughing and flushed face. And maybe she was enjoying being on fire, when she pulled at Peter until he was straddling her thighs. And maybe he was addicted to the heat, too, when he started grinding and bobbing against her.

The Queen cupped his chin and gently coaxed his mouth open. She pressed her fingers on his tongue. The burst of cotton candy mint had Peter’s eyes rolling back. He closed his lips and sucked, giving a soft moan around her fingers. She eased her fingers out of his mouth and giggled at the low pop. Peter felt his own saliva smear on his face when she patted his cheek.

“You’re such a hot mess,” she cooed.

She shifted Peter around on his lap until he faced the window and kept her arms wrapped around his waist. He leaned back into her, feeling her rest her chin on his shoulder, and feeling her cool breath on his neck. The stage workers were busy switching out dancers. On the outer rings of the crowd, Peter could see couples or groups branching off from the main tides, scurrying into dark places to have their own parties. He wondered if this is what The Queen felt every night, to be a deity of good times, the source of the best comfort and escape from a harsh world.

He patted The Queen’s hand laying on his stomach. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure, love,” The Queen murmured with Wonderland dreaminess.

A moment of silence passed as they watched the next round of dancers move with their restraints. Peter rubbed The Queen’s hand. “You know, you didn’t have to bring me up here. You didn’t have to prove anything to me”

“Yeah, that’s true,” The Queen replied. Then, to answer the question that was coming up, she added, “But I like bragging, I guess. Or maybe I like taking in broken and kicked puppies and nursing them back to health.”

“Oooooh! Oh, so now I’m a kicked puppy?!” Peter leaned to the side to see The Queen’s face, a beautifully masculine face glowing in a ring of soft white, and give her a sour, playful scowl.

“Don’t get your panties twisted,” The Queen snorted. “That could be a compliment. Puppies are cute and everyone loves them.”

“You find me cute?�� Peter settled back into place, looking off into the distance. “Huh. Okay, I will take that as a compliment, especially coming from a lesbian.”

The Queen huffed. “What does my clit eating have to do with it? You know gays can appreciate a different gender’s looks aesthetically, right? But yes, I find you cute. You’re probably attractive to the right people. You know...” She touched a finger to the fading bruise on Peter’s eye. “Once you start talking less.”

Again, Peter leaned back, gaping at this woman who knew him for a grand total of less than two hours. She gazed back at him, her eyes glinting with did I stutter?

“Wow, thank you for your valuable input.” Peter rolled his eyes and moved about on The Queen’s lap to curl up on her, keeping his feet off the couch and resting his head on her shoulder. He slid his arm behind her neck and started combing her hair with his fingers. “Oh! What about that other thing you wanted me to do?”

“Right.” The Queen reached into her pocket and dug out another piece of cardstock. But instead of the snowflake adhered to its face, there was a red heart stamped in its center, surrounded by formal, regal script.

Would You Like To Come To Wonderland With Me?

In the center of the heart was even tinier, swooping script

Van J, Queen of Hearts

“Van...” Peter murmured. He scratched the stamp ink with the edge of his thumbnail and peeked at The Queen from beneath his lashes.

“The one and only!” Van replied with a crooked grin and a pat on her chest.

Peter chuckled softly. “My name’s Pete.” He looked back down to the card in his hand. “What’s this for?”

“That, my wandering friend, is a ticket down the rabbit hole.”

Oh, enough with the Alice in Wonderland,��a long-suffering voice said in his head, one that Peter was relieved to find was his own.

Van continued, “I think you’ve proven yourself worthy enough to join my kingdom. You certainly have the energy and charm for it. But I’ll have to start you off small, maybe my little White Rabbit.” She tugged at the leather ears on Peter’s head.

“White Rabbit...?”

“A guide for newcomers to come to this new, magical place. More people are getting curious about Wonderland, so I need help spreading the keys.”

Peter frowned. “So... less rabbit, more mule?”

Van started to shake her head, but paused, then shrugged. She rubbed Peter’s knee. “Eventually, if I ever need you to make runs outside the city. But you’ll mostly stick to people coming into this club, and maybe a few of my contacts in this neighborhood and the next one if you’re good enough.”

“Wow. This is... Wow...” Peter stared at the card in his hand and bit into his bottom lip. Anxiety started to consume him from within, sinking its teeth into the mellow high of Wonderland. All those years of being bombarded with scared-straight messages to dissuade kids from drugs, thus far having been dormant and absolutely useless, reared its head and came roaring. Yet something sparked in that same place the anxiety occupied, snapping at the childhood fears of drugs that pearl clutchers tried to plant in him. It tingled, almost in the same way that sitting in Van’s lap and nestled against her chest did. He exhaled and shivered all over.

Exhilaration.

“Don’t give me an answer just yet,” Van said, possibly misreading Peter. “Think it over for a while, so you’d absolutely know what you’d be getting into.”

“Right, right...” Peter pursed his lips to hide the excitement and turned the card over in his hand. He furrowed his brow. “So, how do I contact you if I make up my mind?”

“With the card. Show Quinn, the bouncer up front, this, and he and The Mad Hatta will take you out back and get you set up.”

Nodding, Peter still frowned at the card. “Why is everything done through backdoors around here?”

Van giggled, sliding a hand down Peter’s back. “Don’t you know, Pete? The backdoor is much more fun?”

Peter narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Wha --Omygod!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, the other flying out to steady himself from falling over. His eyes popped open as his mind processed that that was indeed Van’s finger jabbing him through his pants.

They stared at each other.

Peter felt a twitch in his chest, something bubbling from within his ribcage. “...Pfffft!”

And their laughing selves fell into each other.

#life thus far ( story )#droid noodles ( writing )#ain't safe for lookin'#down the rabbit hole

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mamamermaidreads · 7 years ago

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Estes Park, Colorado: picturesque mountains, charming shops, delightful bakeries, a cozy bookstore… and murder.

Winifred Page and her corgi, Watson, move to Estes Park to hit the reset button on life. Fred is about to open her dream bookshop, and the only challenges she anticipates are adjusting to small town life, tourists, and living close to her loveable mother, Phyllis, and hippy stepfather, Barry.

When Fred steps into her soon-to-be-bookshop for the first time, she expects dust bunnies and spiders… not the dead body in the upstairs kitchen. The local police have an easy suspect—Barry.

Determined to prove quirky Barry innocent of murder, Fred puts on her detective hat, and with Watson by her side, she explores her new town and gets acquainted with her fellow shopkeepers. Could one of her friendly neighbors be the real culprit? And what would be the motive for killing the owner of the Sinful Bites candy store? The secrets Fred discover put her at odds with the local police sergeant and threaten her cozy future in Estes.

With snow falling outside, all Fred wants to do is curl up by the fire with a good book and Watson snuggled at her feet. But before she can begin her new life and put her plans for her bookshop into action, Fred and Watson have a mystery to solve…

GET A CLOSER LOOK AND READ A CHAPTER HERE

“Oh, Watson, what have I gotten us into?” I stared at the shop through the safety of my car window. It was smaller than I remembered. I leaned forward, bumping my forehead on the glass. Fairly tall, though, at least two storeys. With the dark-stained log siding and forest-green trim and shutters, it looked like a log cabin had been sandwiched between the other stores of Estes Park.

And it was mine.

The thought ushered in a wave of excitement. A tingle of nausea too, but more excitement than anything. At least that was what I told myself.

The death grip I had on the steering wheel of my Mini Cooper said otherwise. I tore my gaze away and turned a forced smile toward the passenger seat. I needed to be brave for Watson.

He arched a brow lazily at me, not bothering to lift his head from his curled-up position. Managing to pull one of my hands free from the steering wheel, I slipped the car into Park, then scratched behind his pointed fox-like ears.

“We’re here. It’s been a long day, and you’ve been a great copilot.” A grumpy copilot, but that was normal for Watson. A quality that probably wouldn’t be as endearing if he wasn’t so stinking cute. “I’d say you deserve a treat. What do you think?”

At what was unquestionably his favorite word, Watson bounded to a standing position and began bouncing on his two front legs. His stubby corgi legs didn’t make him that much taller, though the bouncing helped.

“And this is why we work, you and me. Food is king, behind books, of course.” I snagged a dog bone out of the glove compartment, started to request for Watson to sit first—demands never worked—then decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and held it out to him. Despite his voracious appetite, which even a shark would envy, Watson avoided removing my fingers and made short work of the snack.

After a couple of minutes, Watson cocked that judgmental brow of his once more. His thoughts were clear: The prolonged staring is creepy, lady. But I’ll forgive you for another treat.

He had a point. I was putting off the inevitable. Which was silly. I was excited, happy. Time to launch into an adventure.

I turned toward the shop again, took a breath, and opened the car door. Here goes nothing.

My knees popped as I stepped onto the sidewalk, and I sucked in a breath at the tweak in my back. I supposed a drive halfway across the country was a reasonable excuse, even if I was still two years away from forty. I glanced back at Watson, who had curled back into a ball. “Seriously? The ten-hour nap wasn’t enough?”

After a few more seconds of glaring, Watson acquiesced, stood, and stretched. He raised his knobbed-tail of a butt in the air, just letting me know he was still in charge, and then leisurely crossed the console and hopped out beside me.

“Thanks for joining me, your highness.” I shut the car door and looked up at the shop. It seemed a little larger once I stood in front of it. It would be charming. My gaze flicked to the sign above the door that read Heads and Tails. Would being the operative word. Who knew what horrors lay behind the papered-over windows. I’d never envisioned a behind-the-scenes look at a taxidermy business, but it seemed I hadn’t been aware of a lot about my future. Well, whatever. If it was too horrible, I’d just pay one of those junk companies to come in and haul everything away.

That thought brought a sense of relief, but then another swept it away. I was thinking like a city girl. I doubted a town the size of Estes Park had a junk-removal business.

And again, I decided, whatever.

I had a feeling I was going to be saying that a lot.

Movement caught my eye from the store window to the left of my shop. Before I could make out a figure, I was captured by the crimson script over the glass, Sinful Bites.

Perfect. Some fortification would be needed in the very likely chance I was getting ready to walk into a store filled with petrified dead animals. I veered off to the left, giving a quick pat to my thigh. “Come on, Watson. Mama deserves a—” I almost said treat. “—reward too.”

A pleasant chime sounded as I opened the door to Sinful Bites and allowed Watson to waddle through. I cast a quick glance around. The store was done in my favorite colors—the walls, cabinets, and displays all in various shades of rich earth tones. It felt homey, comfortable. Exactly what I would be going for when I redid the god-awful taxidermy shop. That boded well for my relationship with my neighbor.

A woman with short, spiraling brunette hair looked up in surprise from behind the cash register. Her brown gaze glanced at me in confusion, then moved to the front door, and back.

I offered a hesitant smile, feeling like I’d messed up somehow. “Everything okay?”

“Yes!” The woman smiled back, wide and bright. “I’m so sorry. We just closed. I could’ve sworn I locked the door,” she said, her tone apologetic.

“Oh. Well, I can come back another time.” Despite myself, I couldn’t keep my gaze from traveling over the gleaming cases filled with candy.

“Not at all! My fault for not locking the door, and I haven’t started putting things away yet, so I insist.” Another smile.

“Thank you. I promise I’ll be quick.” I moved closer to the cases, unsure if I would be able to keep that promise. Though slightly picked over, the display was magnificent. Gleaming fruit tarts in golden brown crusts, hand-size brownies filled with nuts, caramel, and chunks of candy. Fudge of every flavor, truffles of various shapes and colors, and chocolate. So much chocolate that I was suddenly aware I’d smelled it since I walked in the door. No wonder I felt at home. Chocolates done in nearly every imaginable way—almond bark and turtles, covering pretzels, marzipan and nougat.

Heaven, I decided. I’d died and gone to heaven. I managed to tear my gaze away from the smorgasbord of delights and look at the woman. “I think I’m in love.”

The woman chuckled good-naturedly and held out her hand. “I’m Katie. Always nice to meet someone who appreciates dessert more than cardio.”

I stiffened for a heartbeat, wondering if I should be insulted. But at the twinkling of Katie’s eyes, I couldn’t help but laugh. I felt an instant kinship with the woman. “Yes, I’ll take dessert any day over fitting into a size eight. Though my real weakness is carbs, not candy. Give me a hot loaf of fresh bread and I can die a happy woman.” I took Katie’s hand.

“Me too, actually. I might work in a candy shop, but bread is what I do best.”

“Then I am definitely glad to meet you, Katie.” I released her grip and gestured down to Watson, who stared up at me, salivating. “My little corgi friend is Watson, and I’m—”

“I’m telling you, Lois, if you would just use actual sugar in your baking instead of all the stupid substitutions—” Two elderly women walked through the back door of the shop, cutting me off. They both halted at the sight of Watson and me. The blonde cast a quick glare at Katie. “I thought we closed.”

Katie flushed. “I apparently didn’t lock the door. Sorry. But I believe—” It seemed she was searching for my name. “—our friend here is in need of some chocolate.”

The blonde looked at me and cast another glare down at Watson, but by the time she met my gaze once more, her smile was wide, even if it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, of course! You’ve come to the right place. Sinful Bites has the best chocolate in town.”

The other woman’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything.

Katie cleared her throat, cutting the brief tension that had filled the place. “Do you know what you’d like? If you’re not sure, I can get you a sample.”

Getting-to-know-you time was most definitely over. Which was doubly sad, as at any other time I would’ve taken Katie up on the offer of samples. Under the inspection of the blonde, however, I didn’t dare. “You know, I just drove into town, and I really should get home. Why don’t you give me an assortment of the ones you like best.” Chances were high such a thing would end up being more expensive than I’d intended to spend on candy, but since I was going to be neighbors with the shop, it was clear I needed to put my best foot forward as quickly as possible.

“Home?” The third woman finally spoke. “Do you live here? You must be new in town. I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

“I just moved in. Quite literally, in fact.” I smiled at the woman, who seemed nicer than the blonde. “I’ve visited several times. I have family who live here.” I nodded at Katie as I spoke, trying to include her again and continue the introductions. “I’m Fred, and this is Watson. We just made the long drive from Kansas City to Colorado. This was our first stop in town.”

The woman gave a chuckle. “Fred? I don’t believe I’ve ever met a woman named Fred.” She gestured to herself and the blonde. “I’m Lois Garble, and this is my sister, Opal. Opal owns this candy shop, and I own the one two doors down, Healthy Delights.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Sisters? The two women definitely didn’t look like sisters. Although, now that I thought about it, they had the same features. It was only everything else that was different. Lois had naturally graying hair, a clean and wrinkled face, and she wore a plain cotton dress. Opal had dyed, highly stylized blonde hair, copious amounts of makeup, a brightly colored dress, and tons of jewelry. “My true name is Winifred Page, but everyone calls me Fred.”

“Well, I think that is simply adorable. And it suits you.” Lois shrugged playfully. “Like I said, I’ve never met a woman named Fred, but if I could imagine one, she’d have beautiful auburn hair just like yours. I’ve always thought Opal would look ravishing in that color.” She cast a sidelong glance toward her sister’s coiffed blonde hairdo.

Opal didn’t comment about becoming a redhead. “Page? Your last name is Page, and you have family in town? I don’t remember a family with that name.”

I nodded, though for some reason I was tempted to lie. “Yes. My mother grew up here. Phyllis Oswald, though now she’s Phyllis Adams.”

Both Katie and Lois seemed to take a step back, but Opal didn’t budge, instead folding her arms over her ample bosom. Any semblance of welcome or friendliness vanished, not that there’d been much from Opal. “I thought I’d heard your name before.” If looks could kill. “So that means you’re the one taking over Sid’s taxidermy shop.”

Again, lying seemed the intelligent thing to do. “Yes. Though I won’t be doing taxidermy. I’m going to be changing it to a bookshop. It’s going to be called the Cozy—”

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed.” Opal sniffed, nostrils flared. “And for future reference, I don’t allow dogs in my business.”

I halted, unsure what to say. One of the things I’d always liked about the town was Estes Park’s dog-friendly nature. I started to glance at Katie and then thought better of it. The last thing I wanted to do was get the shopgirl in trouble. I gestured back toward the door. “Sorry for….” What was I sorry for exactly? “Watson and I will just be going.”

Lois gave a loud good-natured laugh and swatted playfully at Opal, which Opal avoided with a glare. “Please forgive my sister. It’s her intake of sugar and butter and things the good Lord never intended us to eat. It makes her cranky.” She managed to deliver the line with a cheerful air, making it sound more like an endearing quality than an insult. Lois headed around the counter and slipped a birdlike arm through mine. “You come with me. I’ll get you some sweets that are natural and nourishing, and I have homemade dog-bone biscuits.” She looked down at Watson, then back at me. “I didn’t notice. How adorable. He’s a redhead like you.” Without waiting for a response, she looked back down once more. “What do you say… Watson, was it? Do you want a treat?”

Watson bounced on his two front paws again at the word, causing Lois to chuckle. The only thing I really wanted to do at that point was get away, but Watson’s reaction settled it. Plus, how could I deny the woman without seeming rude?

I allowed myself to be led toward the front door and cast a glance back, offering a quick smile to Katie and a final apologetic grimace to Opal.

Lois led me out of the shop, around the front of Heads and Tails, then pulled out her keys to usher me into Healthy Delights. “Sorry, I already shut the place down, but I’ll get you an assortment of things from the back. Give me one second, dear.” She flicked on the lights and then headed through the back door to disappear with a small wave.

The tingle of nausea rose again. My shop sat directly between these two sisters. Lois seemed sweet enough, but Lord knew what I was getting myself into with these two. Pushing the thought away, I spared a glance at Lois’s store. It was the exact same layout as Opal’s, just flipped, but the similarities stopped there. Where Opal’s candy shop felt cozy, warm, and friendly—despite the woman herself—Lois’s was done in a garish combination of pastel colors, sickeningly sweet pinks, and yellows. My stomach gurgled.

Watson didn’t seem to notice. He chuffed and looked up at me.

“Your treat is coming. Calm down.” I shook my finger at him. “And I blame you for pulling me into this.”

He chuffed again, and this time bounded so his paws landed on my foot, clearly telling me to shut up and get on with the treat giving.

“You’re ridiculous.” As if watching a car crash, I looked back at the shop. It didn’t make any sense at all. How could the sister who owned the cozy and delicious-smelling candy shop be so irritable, while the one who designed the monstrosity that looked like Easter on speed was the kind one?

Before the color palette had a chance to permanently scar my corneas, Lois returned with a large brown bag in one hand and a massive dog bone in the other. “I’m sorry I have to rush. I’d love to get to know you and your precious pup, but Opal and I have dinner plans, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.” She thrust the bag into my grip. “For future reference, I make everything Opal does, just a healthy, all-natural version. It’s fun to mix and match.”

I forced a smile. I hadn’t been able to identify what smell seemed to linger in the air, but it wasn’t pleasant. If the desserts were edible, I’d be shocked. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness. I’m sorry if I did anything to offend—”

Lois waved me off, whipping the dog bone in the air, a large crumb flying across the room. In a rare show of speed, Watson zoomed away in pursuit. Lois didn’t seem to notice. “Never you mind. That’s just how Opal is. You see, she and I were hoping to purchase the taxidermy shop after Sid passed, but your mother wouldn’t consider selling. Said her daughter was taking it over.” Though her chipper tone didn’t fade, Lois’s smile did, a touch. “I won’t hold that against you, dear.” Another hand pat. “But if you decide you want to sell, we’d appreciate it if you would let us know.” Leaning closer, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Lots of people move to Estes Park, captured by its beauty and charm, only to discover they feel a little trapped in the mountains and constricted by small-town life. Chances are it will happen to you too. Of course, I hope not, but”—and yet another pat—“when it does, remember my sister and me.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but was utterly at a loss for words.

Words didn’t seem to be required. Lois wrapped her arm around my shoulders, which was no small feat, considering I was several inches taller than the woman, and led me toward the door. She shoved what was left of the dog bone at me. “This is made from peanut butter I ground myself, and organic grains. They are five dollars apiece, but this one’s on the house.” She opened the door for me and stood aside. “Welcome to town, Fred.”

“Thank you, Lois.” I clutched the paper bag and waggled the dog bone in Watson’s direction, capturing his attention. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.” Watson tore off from where he’d been sniffing in the back corner of the shop. I nodded my thanks to Lois once more, then walked to the car. I changed my mind a few paces away from my burnt-orange Mini Cooper. Turning around, I headed back toward the front door of the taxidermy shop. I’d been so excited to see inside, to get lost in the planning of what my bookstore would look like, that I had driven straight here when we got into town.

After locking her front door, Lois crossed in front of Heads and Tails, gave a final friendly wave, and disappeared into Sinful Bites once more.

Pushing the odd sisters out of my mind, I addressed Watson as we stopped at the front door. “I’m sure you’ll love all the smells you’re going to find in there, but just remember, if we come across a dead animal and I scream, you’re forbidden from telling anyone. If you do, there won’t be any treats for a week.”

Watson gave a quick, sharp bark.

“Crap. I said treat, didn’t I?” At the repeated word, Watson resumed bouncing, his dark brown eyes wild with excitement and looking like a deranged bunny.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I lifted what was left of the dog bone. “Luckily, we have one. You can get it as soon we’re inside.”

I paused at the lockbox hanging from the door handle, then set the bag of healthy candy—what a thought that was—at my feet. Catching my reflection in the window, the paper behind the glass causing it to act nearly as effectively as a mirror, I couldn’t help but scowl. My hair was a complete mess, and a sheen of light caught the gleam from dog hair. I glanced down at my peasant blouse. Life with a corgi meant I was in constant need of a lint roller, but after the day in the car, things had gotten to a nearly ludicrous level. To make matters worse, I gave my brown broomstick skirt a flick with my wrist and sent a fresh wave of dog hair spiraling around me. Wonderful. So much for putting my best foot forward. Meeting three of my neighbors while looking like I was part corgi myself.

Well, whatever. Too late to be helped now. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d ever actually be dog-hair-free anyway. Pushing the concern away, I pulled out my cell and scrolled through text messages from my mother until I came across the lockbox code. I punched in the four digits and gave a yank. There was no click and the lock didn’t budge. Clearing it, I tried again. Same reaction. I checked the text, confirming I had the numbers right, then tried a third time. When I was still denied, I tapped my mother’s name and lifted the phone to my ear.

It rang several times, then finally clicked to a message saying my mother’s voice mail was full and could no longer accept messages. What else was new? I tried the lockbox one final time. For a moment, I considered breaking the window on the front door and reaching in. It was my shop, after all.

What a way to start a new adventure, breaking and entering. Patience had never been a virtue I fostered, but letting out a resigned huff that sounded more like a corgi than a woman, I stuffed my cell back into my pocket. “Looks like we’re thwarted at the moment, Watson.”

Retrieving the paper bag, I led us back to the car, held the door for Watson to hop in, then followed.

I’d been so ecstatic about opening the bookshop, I hadn’t even considered who my neighbors might be. Being directly between Lois and Opal was going to be…. Well, I was afraid I didn’t have a word for exactly what that was going to be. I doubted it would be all that pleasant.

Watson chuffed.

“You feel it too, don’t you, boy? Who knows what we’re going to have to face with those two. At least we have each other.”

He let out a long pitiful whine.

“Aww, look at you being all empathetic. What’s gotten into—”

I realized Watson’s frantic gaze was focused on my hand, not looking deep into my eyes and sharing a moment. “Oh, I forgot.” I handed him what remained of the all-natural dog biscuit with a sigh.

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Reading the Cozy Corgi series is pretty much all you need to know about Mildred. In real life, she’s obsessed with everything she writes about: Corgis, Books, Cozy Mountain Towns, and Baked Goods. She’s not obsessed with murder, however. At least not at her own hands (nor paid for… no contract killing here). But since childhood, starting with Nancy Drew, trying to figure out who-dun-it has played a formative role in her personality. Having Fred and Watson stroll into her mind was a touch of kismet.

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