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Random tea.

Random tea. published on

Ginger tea hurts. I don’t recommend it.

The Magician, sitting at the table with a book on coin tricks, happened to be looking up when they passed the door. She laid it down and tapped on the tabletop. “My, my.”

The Goon grunted something interrogative. She and Pat were trying to nap on the couches; Pat had taken the blanket, and the Goon had the pillows, one behind her head, the other in her fist in case she needed to throw something.

“Did you see that man with the nasty little mustache? That was Enzi Hant, the Prime Minister of Utsekin. He is an evil dictator.”

Pat looked up with drowsy interest. “Seriously? What’s he done?”

“Assassination of political opponents, sponsoring terrorists in the little republic next door, genocide of tiny peoples whom anthropologists haven’t lived with. Some little chemical weapons projects. The population of Utsekin is under twenty thousand, his talents aren’t exactly stretched. I assumed he was low on everyone’s lists; I wonder why he’d need to come here now?”

Pat asked, “How come you know this shit?”

The Magician smiled and stroked a picture of a coin in her book. “I like to know about little kings. It makes me feel secure.” The Goon pulled the second pillow over her head.

The Internet, the Magician, and the Goon

The Internet, the Magician, and the Goon published on

Her boyfriend had schizophrenia and had some sort of evil, twisted personality that would come out often — she could tell when this happened because he changed his font color.

-someone on GAFF

“And so,” said the Magician, “Begins the requiem for Prime Minister Haz. Such an *inspiring* sound.”

She paused, and added gently, “You’re supposed to say, “I don’t hear nothin’.””

The Goon said, “Don’t start with me today.” She looked carefully in both mirrors and over her shoulder as she switched lanes – hoping to provide a salutary example for her colleague, maybe, Jessica thought. The cars moving past seemed unusually loud and fast, and Jessica’s head hurt.

The Magician, stretching out in the back seat, looked smug and comfortable – she had probably had a bad day once or twice in her life, but preferred not to let it get around. “Oh, come now, humor me. Do you not know what a requiem is, is that it? Do you think it has to do with goths?”

“I said don’t.”