strands of brightly colored beads for good measure. Turning off Bourbon, the street musicians made their way south. A short way down the block, Ziggy spotted a house of voodoo. Swinging his head back and forth between the retreating boys and the voodoo palace, he knew had to make a decision. Ziggy banged his way up the steps of the mysterious shop. Suddenly, a familiar face came into view.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Ziggy,” Mae Mae said with a gleaming smile. “You look a little out of sorts, skinny fella.”
“Squeak, squeak.”
“I see. You know that stuff isn’t good for you. Twists your mind up like a pretzel.”
“Squeak,” Ziggy replied bashfully. “Squeak, squeak.”
“Oh, let’s just call it professional courtesy. But the truth is I like to check in on the competition from time to time to see how business is doing. What brings you down here?” Ziggy shrugged his narrow shoulders in reply before rubbing his ears with balled-up fists. “You and your obnoxious partner still chasing after those nasty chupacabras?” Ziggy nodded. “Well, you’re looking in the wrong place. Now, you might run into a vampire or a zombie here in New Orleans, but to find those demon dogs, Mexico is your best bet.”
“Squeak.”
“Honey, you should be getting on home. In your condition, you need some good old-fashioned shuteye. Here, take this,” she said as she pulled out a small purple bag made of cloth and closed with a gold string at the top. “Take this and put it under your pillow. It’ll help you rest.” Ziggy snatched the bag and licked it before shoving it into one of his cargo pockets. “Take these also,” Mae Mae instructed as she handed him a set of tarot cards. “They can come in pretty handy when you don’t know what to do. Now, you know how to get back to your hotel, right?” Ziggy shook his head. “Let me see your hand.” Mae Mae took Ziggy’s hand and traced an intricate design on his palm with the nail of her pinky finger. “That should do the trick. Now get going, and stay out of trouble. Nobody likes a naughty ferret.”
“Squeak, squeak,” Ziggy replied as he half crawled to the door.
“And quit wasting time on your adventure. The signs still point to a spawning,” Mae Mae said as she waved goodbye to the freaky little man.
Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Avery continued his correspondence.
To: Speaker of the House
Texas House of Representatives
Dear Speaker Kimball:
I’m writing you today to express my outrage at the recent suggestion by the “so-called” mayor of Austin, Texas — let’s just refer to her from now on as “Ms. Evil,” as the sound of her name makes me want to drink lighter fluid, swallow a match, and put my head in a BLAST FURNACE! She makes me want to…God that hurts! I think I just broke my hand. Bastard! Wait a minute…I can still type. Well, maybe it’s just a sprain…
Anyway…I’m better now…calm blue ocean…calm blue ocean…my therapist suggests this helps…calm blue ocean…my therapist is insane…he doesn’t know it…calm blue ocean…he’s in denial…
What time is it? Sorry, back to business. Her suggestion that sales of soda products in excess of sixteen ounces should be prohibited has me just the slightest bit concerned. How concerned, you might ask? WHERE DO I F***ING START? ARE YOU COMPLETELY DAFT? GOOD GOD, MAN! FREEDOM IS AT STAKE! Sorry…sorry, I’m really sorry. I don’t feel well. Not well at all. I’m going to take a minute…I think I need a Mountain Dew…or two…
Okay, I’m back now. Jesus, that was close. Where was I? Oh, yes, the bitch. I mean, “Ms. Evil,” as she will be known until a house falls out of the sky and lands on her, at which time she will be known as “Flat Ms. Evil.” Soft drink bans, seriously? We’re not talking about clubbing baby seals to death here. We’re talking about soda pop. Mister Speaker, may I ask you a question? Thank you. What bans have worked in the past? Prohibition? I think not. Are we really prepared for an overwhelming wave of mafia hoodlums running thirty-two-ounce soda speakeasies out of church basements? You want shark fins? I can get them. Foie gras? I got a guy in California, which makes it twice as naughty. How about monkey paws? A store right here in Austin sells them. Of course, the owner is a useful compatriot, so I won’t compromise him. However, he does sell smoking paraphernalia in his shop, close to the university, I might add, but God forbid he offers a sixty-four-ounce cup of soda! In one trip to the market, I can buy five cartons of cigarettes, ten cases of vodka, and twenty pounds of bacon, but only one cup of pop. This isn’t just fascist, it’s criminal. Buying in bulk is a cornerstone of this country. Warehouse stores are located in warehouses for a reason. People want discounts for buying in bulk. That’s what you get in plastic cups that take two hands to carry. A bulk discount! Not to mention a wicked buzz. Is “Miss Evil” attempting to artificially drive up the price of soda? Does her family have major holdings in the soft drink industry? Do you? Maybe she has ties to the bottled water cartels. This conspiracy might run deeper than I thought. I’m going to need to do some more research. Please do not take this matter lightly, as I have a serious medical condition for which my team of personal physicians has prescribed a specific mix of caffeine and sugar. It can only be found in large-format bottles of soda. Just like with fine wine, the larger the container, the better preserved the beverage is. It’s a simple matter of less air in the bottle per volume of liquid. If I could buy Mountain Dew by the Nebuchadnezzar, I would. We’re talking about my medicine. This is a matter of public health. If this ban is imposed, I promise I will make the creation of large-format medical soda dispensaries front-page news. The concept seems to be working quite effectively for marijuana users. In the meantime, if you see “Miss Evil,” kick her in the stomach for me.
After checking on the American League standings and feeling relieved as the New York Yankees still maintained a four-and-a-half-game lead over their division rivals, Avery shut down his computer. Suddenly, Ziggy came bursting through the door.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
“Squeak.”
“Jesus, not again,” Avery said as he scowled at Ziggy and shook his head. “For God’s sake, man, take a cold shower and sober up.” Ziggy crashed on his sack of clothes and pushed Mae Mae’s charm bag underneath it. Not long after, he was peacefully asleep.
The next morning, Avery kicked at the snoring little man.
“Ouch, man,” Ziggy said as he pulled himself upright. “Like, my head, dude.”
“I didn’t kick your head.”
“Like, I know, man, it just hurts. Really bad.”
“How bad?”
“Really bad.”
“Like you were eaten by a coyote and shit over a cliff?”
“Exactly,” Ziggy said as he looked at Avery in amazement. “Like, how’d you know?”
“That’s lysergic acid diethylamide for you, a particularly nasty member of the ergoline family when it comes to hangovers. I sure hope you cleaned your bathtub before manufacturing your last batch. Anyway, there’s only one thing we can do now.”
“Like, what, man?”
“Quickly, we need to find you sixteen ounces of green tea, two grams of gunpowder, and a Slim Jim, original flavor.”
“What?”
“You lick the gunpowder, slam the tea, and gag yourself with the Slim Jim until you puke. Bruce Lee used to do it before all his fight scenes.”
“No, I’m going to just lie here and, like, die.” Ziggy slumped over with a painful groan.
“Shut up. Grab your things — we’re heading home.”
“Like, already, dude?”
