The Wayfayre Bitches part 1
Concept begun early 2005 and first pages realized on this day February 15, 2005… so I go unto this good day.
Part 1
In Which Harrold Smokes with Marli the Witch.
As it was turning out, Marli was a very powerful witch who came from 13 unbroken generations of witches, or so she said. Harrold, (pronounced Hah-rolled, see2∞) the witch with the ampliphied boosum handed the hair filled pipe to the pastey fleshed man in the searsucker suit. The man, who’s name quite inconsequencially was Harrold, received the pipe as if she had just pulled it out of her butt and said it was a rose. He had come too far. He knew this. He was going to end up gagging for air in this sooty excuse for a “parlor.” Parlor? It was more like a shed tacked onto a rambler that was two steps from having been a trailer. ‘She shoulda held out for the wheels. Then at least she coulda driven this hovel off a cliff when reality finally hit her,’ which he doubted it would. She was the kind of woman that he always seemed to get pinched by. He never saw them coming. They always seemed so comforting and well intentioned, until they did things like cornering him in an crusty old rambler with a pipe stuffed with hair. Hair of his enemy, he reminded himself. Hair of mike.
He had to admit that she played a good game. He liked that, which he supposed was why he had gone along with things this long. That, and he wanted to get laid. She was an old saggy bag of loose parts that somehow did not completely disturb him, as long as he got her personality out of his mind, and he kept himself thinking of Rachel. Rachel was by far the greatest lay of his life, and the ugliest woman he had ever met. She was all he ever longed for. Perfect, except for his fear of being seen with her in public, and yet he was far too weak to have admitted that when it could have helped. Now she was gone, and married to a blissfully happy Zambabian immigrant bank clerk who writes her ballads about her “golden-golden-golden hair.” In his opinion, Rachel’s hair was better described as “brown-brown-brown,” but anyone who new anything about it had long ago lost interest in his opinion about anything. So, now here he was. ‘What would Jesus do?’ he asked himself as he gripped a pipe filled with “his enemy’s hair,” and various other types of vegetable matter. How badly did he want to get laid?
“So, um, this will defeat my enemies?” he said sniffilly.
“No. This will defeat him. He who seeks to bind you. You know. The skinny guy who sits in the cubicle next to you. He will be defeated.” She said this like a high school drama coach trying to imbue her own personal sensibility of dramatic interpretation into the forehead of a fourteen year old life long thespian. It was unnerving at best.
‘Pussy, pussy, pussy,’ thought Harrold(?). “So where’s the lighter for this thinger?” he chimed hoping a tinkly tone might improve the ambiance a little.
“One must draw the flame from out the mothers womb.”
Harrold did not find this the most comprehensible instruction he had ever been given. “Ummmmm,” was the best response he could muster.
“Grab a burning stick from beneath the Caldron,” she condescended.
“oh! Duh. Huh. Yep. Um, a burning stick. Oh! I see. Um… darned thing’s hot. Ah! Ouch! That’s smarts!” Went his narration of every movement he made involving attempting to pick a burning stick out of the strange bramble of kindlery she had some how set on fire w/o setting the rest of the house on fire… yet.
“Oh, let me, silly!” she entuned, grasping a burning stick out of the fire. Both ends were burning. Including the one that she was holding. Harrold did a double take and realized she wasn’t screaming. She was holding a burning stick… a burning stick that was on fire! And she was… smiling. “Here!” She said jutting it his way. For the first time in a long time Harrold realized the depth of his stupidity. Fear makes me this way, he curnundrummed as he bent forward with his pipe to his lips and drew the flame into the bowl. It sizzled… and for a moment, it tasted sweet… then it tasted like gasified moldy socks. That’s when all the black stuff came out his nose.
“Impurities! Impurities are exiting your body! Oh this is good! Tila! Posi! Come quickly! Harold is detoxing!” She huffed and yelped. Her flops of flesh did what flops of flesh do when small ladies made of flops of flesh bounce, huff, and yelp. If Harrold hadn’t been detoxing black guck out his nose, he might have been mildly turned on. This was when things began to get really strange.
In waltzed, literally, a gankilly nubile woman of obvious lineage to Marni. She donned nothing but worn Italian silk pajama bottoms and two crystal wine floots… each attatched to its own titty. There is no better way to describe this.
Following Tila came Posi. A black slug of a dog that had some strange bone disorder that made it walk like a boneless beaver. The family had assembled to see Harrold spew “toxins” out his nose. What he was really spewing was a medical miracle. Science is still two decades behind traditional methods of melting specific regions of the brain, which is why good zombies are so hard to come by. There will always be a massive gap between the medical knowledge of the moral and the medical knowledge of the immoral. And with witches, the rule is the same. Good and bad are all relative terms of course. More precisely one should consider the terms, “effective and ineffective.” Look at our own meager cultural perspectives. Joan Jet and Joan Rivers, two very different entertainers in our world, but in 2000 years, will they become one image glossed over by miles of laminations and greasy foot prints? Two impossibly different women, yet from a distance, they were just effective enough to be rememberable. Marli, Tila, and Posi aren’t that effective, but they are effective enough to trap a man into complete servitude for eternity… or at least a week or two. We shall now see. Will Harrold break free of a life time of zombification? Or will his brain stay partially-melted? Return next week and find out in…
The Adventures of a Witch’s Zombie
-or-
Harrold tries to get laid
-or-
Marli, Tila, and Posi the Wayfayre Bitches... and their zombie Harrold.
