Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Two of the youngest beasts, dressed in superhero costumes to a cat convention, start tearing at the black pleated skirting on the tables while another drops down onto his bottom and starts screaming. He’s maybe two, so that explains the tantrums, although all the boys up to the ages of fourteen or so aren’t behaving either. They’re flicking through the brochures, messing with Ephemeral’s books, and touching the cat toys she has in little baggies to sell to make extra money for her cat charities. She has a few racks of T-shirts and sweaters with Peach Lips’ face on them, and one of the brats is shoulder-deep in the rack, about to tip it over.
It’s when the five-year-old or so literally drops his pants and whips out his you-know-what and decides to try and practice writing his signature in yellow that I have to step in.
This is a direct threat to Ephemeral’s personal property and an affront to her honor. Wrong century to talk about honor, I know, but still.
I charge into the crowd, some of whom are muttering and pointing out the literal pissant. I go to grab the little pisser by the scruff of his shirt to guide him back to his father or guardian or whoever the hell that old fart is, who is not even paying attention to the little demon spawns he brought here, but the kid whips around right as I’m reaching for him.
He soaks my front left pantleg, momentarily stunning me even though I don’t do things like get stunned. Nothing takes me by surprise. I don’t get distracted like normal people. Yeah, fucking yeah. Clearly, there’s a first time for everything because I’m frozen.
The brat pulls up his pants in short order, laughs at me, and then stops when he sees the look on my face. He goes from hellraiser demon child to holy shit, oh my pee pants, I’ve done it this time real fast. His sense of self-preservation is stronger than I give him credit for because he reaches out to me, probably to try and cry and induce sympathy…except I was wrong. He does reach out for me, but only to quickly grab my taser, which I’ve hidden in a case that snaps shut on the side of my belt. And while I’m shocked about that because he’s probably five, he gets the thing on and points it directly at my crotch.
I’m still shocked, but it wears off fast, and a sense of self-preservation kicks in. I shoot him a it’s okay, son, hand over the weapon look with both palms up in the air. Thank god he chucks it on the floor. As I move to pick it up, he belts me straight in the nuts with both fists, giving my squirrel prizes a quick one-two and making my knees buckle and hit the ground hard.
Who is this fucking kid?
The old man starts shouting when the little shit runs off, scream-laughing at the top of his lungs, and the rest of the boys take flight. They race down the aisle, shoving people aside, knocking things down, and causing general havoc.
And me?
I’m frozen on the ground, trying not to pass out or puke.
Yes, I’ve had worse.
It’s been a long time, though.
Holy shit, what is that wetness seeping into me?
Ephemeral. She’s suddenly right there, bending down to look in my face with her black dress and all the planets and stars, though it’s actually all cats. Cat faces on Mars and Mercury and Saturn. A cat is the sun.
“Thorn?” She sounds worried. She looks worried.
Where did everyone go?
What is wrong with my head?
My vision temporarily blanks out. Silence. Wait, there’s a whimper, some whispers, and a few gasps very far removed like there’s a crowd gathered around, watching. Watching me. Because I just about passed out here on the ground after a kid disarmed me, and now I think, on top of everything, I’m lying in a puddle of piss.
My vision clears, and I realize two things. The first is that, yes, I’ve fallen straight into that little demon pisser’s puddle of yellow gold. The second is that there is indeed quite a crowd. They are muttering and pointing while I’m down here, grabbing my poor nut bag.
Peach Lips sticks her little cat face over the edge of the booth. “Mrrrow?” She sounds like a bellowing yak if bellowing yaks were also seven-hundred-year-old potato wizards.
“No!” I yelp, but it’s too late.
She launches herself off the table and lands straight on top of me. For an old, slightly stiff, hairy root vegetable, Peach Lips pulls a perfect landing. Right on top of my mangled man bits.
“Awww!” Someone in the assembled crowd gushes as I try not to puke, shrivel up, and die.
“That’s so sweet!”
“She’s the little cherry on the red hot mess tower.”