Friday, October 4, 2013

Start your weekend with a dirty (dead) girl...

With DEAD: Reborn out for the peeps and Zomblog: Snoe's Journey in final edits, you would think it was a chance to slow down and breathe. Nope...Hard at work on the upcoming That Ghoul Ava Kicks Some Faerie A** for release in late November.   Here is a nibble to enjoy over the weekend.

In the Air Tonight

“Your team!” Lisa said quietly as we walked through the food court of Clackamas Town Center Mall.
“You suck,” I muttered, trying not to move my lips.
The ‘Your Team’ game…is about as politically incorrect as you can get. I am pretty sure that just about everybody will hate me after revealing this…but here goes. The rules to the game are simple…you see a freaky person of outlandish proportion and you say “Your team” to the person you are walking with.
Now, to clarify…we are not talking about somebody sporting a few extra pounds. These are the people that are well beyond the three hundred pound range on most instances but often feel the urge to wear Spandex that would squeeze the bony butt of Calista Flockhart and finish the look with a bare midriff top.
Now, let me be clear, if you are not walking around at the ridiculous “ideal” weight that some group of demented doctors decided upon…I am right there with you. I am certainly not skinny. I have what I consider a ‘Rockin’ 80s’ sort of bod. In other words, if you go back to your old movie collection and get a good look at say a Helen Hunt in Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, or even the first few seasons of Mad About You and you get a good idea of what I mean. Look at her now…scary. She is all lipo-skinny and unnatural looking. And if you are one of those BBW (or BBM) types…you just get on with your big, beautiful self. But if you are barely five feet tall and tip the scales at over three hundred…please step away from the halter top.
This particular—I think it is a woman—person is wearing hot pink short shorts that look like a bikini and a shiny, purple polyester top that did not start off as a half shirt. The finishing touch is the ‘outie’ belly button that would put a few of my ex-boyfriends to shame. And yes…it is pierced.
I was trying not to stare, not that I think my newest team member would care, as we took a seat on the bench at the outer edge of the food court. Lisa and I watched the person stop in front of Cinnabon, purchase a box of six, and then find a table. After the third sticky treat was gone and number four was about to face the gullet gallows, we decided to get on with the real business at hand.
“You are sure that she said this was the place?” I asked for perhaps the hundredth time.
“I was just as surprised as you,” Lisa said with a shrug.
“Morgan and a mall…two things that go together like vinegar and oil.”
“Or you and Belinda!” Lisa didn’t even try to stifle her laugh.
I stopped at one of the courtyard kiosks that sold useless crap you don’t need but buy anyway. This one was umbrellas. There were ladybugs and skulls and a smiling sunshine. Seriously, the only people in Oregon that carry umbrellas are tourists and the freaking California transplants. Big bunch of sissies.
I picked up one of the baton-shaped wastes of money and turned it over in my hands. This particular version would become a multi-colored rainbow with a white, puffy, smiling cloud on one side and a scowling, droopy, gray one on the other.
“I did not take you for a rainbow sort of woman,” a voice whispered in my ear.
Morgan is the region psychic. She is not the fortune teller type. She is more like the mystical “Charlie” from Charlie’s Angels. She knows every supernatural being in her district and can sometimes offer a job to a ghoul like me. Who knew all that crap you walk by in your bookstore’s Urban Fiction section is mostly based on truth?
As a ghoul, I guess I am like the go-fer or clean-up crew. The thing is, almost six months after I became a ghoul, I still am not that much closer to knowing what my purpose is in this world than when I was a divorced waitress barely making enough money to pay rent in my sleazy Southeast Portland apartment and keep my beat up Ford Escort insured. Now I drive a brand new Corvette and have a house in a very well-to-do neighborhood complete with titanium blinds that keep out the sunlight and a sound proof basement.
“A bit of a public location to meet, isn’t it?” I asked, trying my best not to let on that Morgan had completely surprised me with her arrival.
“Not my first choice,” Morgan admitted. “However, you needed to see this for yourself to really understand.”

Great, it was time to make Ava feel stupid. I am pretty sure that is one of Morgan’s favorite games.

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