The Witch of Tophet County: A Comedy of Horrors by J. H. Schiller

Author:J. H. Schiller [Schiller, J. H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Podium Publishing
Published: 2024-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Widow and the Devil

What’s this?”

The witch frowned at the plastic clamshell box Hank had just handed her. A riot of pink petals was smooshed against the top.

“It’s a corsage.”

The Tamagotchi vibrated at the witch’s hip. She unclipped it and looked at the screen, where Keyser Söze was clutching his midsection in paroxysms of laughter.

“We’re not going to the prom, Hank.”

“I know.” He tugged at the necktie impeccably knotted above a charcoal suit that showcased his athletic build to tasty effect. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for weeks, but you beat me to it. I just…I wanted to make it special.”

Oh no. He thought this was a godsdamned date.

The witch opened her mouth to clarify the situation, but she froze—taking in his trembling hands, his over-starched shirt, the cotton-candy flowers. If she told him the truth now, he’d be crushed. Well, an evening alone with her should cure him of any romantic interest.

“That was, uh…That was nice of you.” She opened the box and removed a ball of pink carnations and roses. A stick pin tipped with a faux pearl was jabbed through the ribbon-wrapped stem. The witch considered her outfit: a T-shirt and her second-best pair of leather pants. Nowhere to pin this heavy-ass flower bomb.

“Which witch?”

“What?” She looked up to find Hank’s eyes locked on her chest. “My face is up here, asshole.”

Hank’s cheeks flamed scarlet. “No, I wasn’t…I mean, not that I wouldn’t like to, but…” He gulped and said, “Your shirt.”

100% That Witch, one of her newer creations. (It wasn’t the first time her shirts had been misinterpreted. She’d been very proud of Fuck the Tentaclarchy, but it turned out some humans were into that sort of thing. Very into it.)

She shook her head. Deputy Eye Candy was nice to look at and probably fun to get naked with, but he was no scholar.

“It’s just a shirt.” The witch twitched her nose, and her hair wound itself into a bun. She jammed the stem of the corsage through the center and secured it with the pin. Cocking her head so Hank could see, she said, “There. How’s that?”

“You look beauti—”

“You’re looking good yourself.” She grabbed her bag and slammed the door of her apartment. “The eyebrows are growing back.”

His fingers stroked the stubbled ridges. “I just wish they weren’t growing in white.”

“I’ve got my Sharpie if you—”

“No!”

“We should get going,” the witch said, checking the time. “The play starts at seven.”

She climbed into Hank’s Spectral Forces Hummer. Next stop, Catachthonic University’s Alhazred Hall—Tophet County’s finest entertainment venue.

“They didn’t have, um…Chicken Cock,” Hank said, blushing furiously. “I got you a glass of chardonnay.”

He handed the witch a carton of popcorn and a plastic goblet of weak-ass fruit water. She turned a withering glare on the pale liquid until it darkened to a bourbony amber. Probably should’ve saved the entropine, but…chardonnay? She might as well complain to the manager and join Vera’s neighborhood watch.

Hank slid into the seat next to her, a Coors Banquet in one hand and a program in the other.

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