Fashionably Dead Down Under Read Online Free

had a beard . . . Then there was the very angry
therapist, who if she had a name I was not made aware of it. Again,
fine by me. She was creepy and she smelled strange. I sat back in
my corner and watched Hell’s version of The Jerry Springer Show
unfold.
    The tension in the room was palpable. I
scanned Dixie’s living room for exits just in case this wonky
little party of weird got out of hand. Carl, the Strong Man, rubbed
his bald head the same way I rubbed my calf when it fell asleep. He
rubbed so hard and fast, I was sure the skin was going to come off
and his brain would fall out. I waited in anticipation and fear to
hear what he had to say. I hadn’t heard him speak yet. He did a few
bizarre dance moves when I’d asked him a question earlier. I’d bit
down hard on the inside of my cheek so I didn’t laugh at him and I
backed off. Janet, his bearded girlfriend, interpreted for him but
no more. The therapist, sporting a bad attitude and a thin reedy
voice, was very clear. Carl had to speak for himself.
    I wondered if this wrinkle would cause a
violent episode. I kind of hoped it would. A small zap of something
warm shot through my body at my destructive little thought. I
dismissed it and continued to watch the scene play out. Janet
squeezed Carl’s hand and smiled.
    “I enjoy uthing my metal detector at family
functionth. Preferably not my family. I made forty-nine dollarth
and theventy-two thenth in jutht under nine hourth at a family
reunion latht Augutht.” Carl smiled. He actually had beautiful
teeth and cute dimples, but the lisp . . . Hoo baby, now I knew why
he preferred to communicate through interpretive dance. On Earth he
could have had speech therapy, but in Hell I’m sure he got the crap
beat out of him.
    “All right then, Carl,” the therapist
snapped, “have you ever considered just stealing the money from the
purses and wallets of the party guests? Or perhaps holding them at
gunpoint and demanding their money and jewelry?”
    “Um . . . no,” Carl muttered, “I can’t thay
that hath ever occurred to me.” He scratched his bald head in
confusion.
    As far I could sense, Carl didn’t have magic
or power. Hmmm.
    I watched the therapist jot down notes and
make disapproving tsking sounds. She avoided looking at me at all.
Acted as if I didn’t exist. Interesting. She clearly didn’t want me
here. Maybe she was the one to bribe . . .
    “Janet,” the therapist smiled nastily through
her bandages, “you have a waxing and electrolysis appointment after
this session.”
    “But I like my hair,” Janet stammered. Her
stubby little fingers instinctively went to her face to protect her
beard and stache. Was she going to cry?
    “Yes, but you’ve had over three hundred years
to become evil and you have not succeeded. Your hair,” the smelly,
bitchy counselor sneered in disgust, “seems to be your most prized
possession, so it will be taken from you.” She smiled. She really
was a bitch.
    “Forever?” Janet whispered. Her little body
trembled and Carl draped a big muscley arm around her, pulling her
close.
    “Forever,” the therapist wasped.
    “I am so glad I busted your ass with the
coffee table,” Myrtle muttered under her breath.
    “What was that, Myrtle?” the therapist
hissed.
    “Nothing.” Myrtle smiled and gave me a covert
thumbs up. Again I had to chomp down on my cheek to keep from
laughing.
    I found myself happy that Myrtle had nailed
the therapist with a coffee table of all things. Myrtle was my kind
of girl. My guess was that it had been quite an entertaining show.
A burst of magic rushed through my body as the violent thought
manifested itself in my brain.
    Glancing down at my fingers I noticed a black
glitter coating them. WTF? Was this Demon voodoo magic? I quickly
rubbed it off and tried to focus on the meeting. Satan had sent me
with Dixie for a reason. There must be something in all this
strangeness I was supposed to learn . . .
    “Soooo, Janet,” the nasty shrink