Even the leader of the witches, the illustrious and questionably dressed, Baba Yaga, aka Baba Yostuckintheeighties, had planted roots in the lovely town of Assjacket.
Of course, Baba Yaga was having relations with Zelda’s warlock father, but that’s another story for another time.
Back to this one…
Time after time and battle after battle, the Assjackians were torn to pieces—mostly metaphorically speaking—but always managed to put themselves back together with loving care for each other.
The magic was very real as was the love.
But in any good story, there is always a twist—usually dastardly, and in Assjacket’s case, always slightly profane.
For you see, the enchanted Assjacket was held together by an ancient secret—a mystical, magical secret… a circular-ish kind of oval-ish magical secret. A secret so old it had been forgotten. It didn’t help that the Assjacket historian had run out of toilet paper and had used the important documents for his own personal hygiene hundreds of years ago. The idiot who went by the name of Goober was run out of town never to be heard from again. Thankfully, that’s another story. And trust me, you don’t want to hear that one. It’s rather smelly.
Pardon my odoriferous digression.
As the saying goes, if history is forgotten or used to wipe one’s ass, it’s bound to cause a shitshow—pun sadly intended. Actually, that’s not the saying at all, but it is what happened in the enchanted town of Assjacket when an important piece of the magical historical puzzle went missing.
Magicals live a very private existence in public.
It’s the way it always has been and the way it must remain.
If the talisman disappears, the magic will follow. Somewhat like the circle of life… no wait, not the circle of life at all… more like if something circular-ish goes missing, chaos ensues.
The lines of safety for those who wield magic will blur and the danger shall grow dark and deadly.
It will take some very brave heroes to save the day.
If the day doesn’t get saved…
It will be the end of magic as we know it.
And that would suck.
xoxo The Goddess
Chapter One
Making my way into the kitchen and plopping my shapely, furry backside down on the kitchen table, I eyed the cheesecake perched on a plate ten inches away from me with lust. Cheesecake was sexy. Zelda would probably notice a paw print if I swiped a taste, so I sat on my paws and refrained. I was already in trouble. Actually, I was always in some kind of trouble. Trouble was my specialty.
I decided to wait until she’d turned her back then hide it under the table. A missing cheesecake was easier to explain than one with cat hair all over it.
“Don’t even think about it, Fat Bastard,” Zelda said, with her back to me.
The witch was good—very good.
“No worries, hot pants,” I lied. “Dat oral bacteria in cheese don’t agree with my flatus.”
Zelda rolled her eyes and tried extremely hard not to ask me what I meant. She failed. “I will so regret this,” she muttered, sitting down at the table and putting some distance between me and the cheesecake. “What the hell does flatus mean?”
“Kinda like a sphincter,” I explained as she wrinkled her nose. “It’s dat reflex dat expels intestinal gas through the butthole.”
Zelda let her head drop to the table with a thud. “I have got to stop asking questions that I don’t want the answers to.”
“Anyhoos, weese have an outstandin’ idea, dollface,” I told my witch, making a last minute, split decision not to lick my nards. I’d already pressed my luck with the fart talk.
I’d come to the realization lately that cleansing my gangoolies during serious conversations didn’t end well. Of course, refraining from my harmless habit was ridiculous since ball-licking was a way of life for me and my boys. As cats and familiars to the second craziest and most powerful witch in existence, we had to look sharp. Shiny giblets were a top priority. Not to mention, glistening cojones appealed to the dames.
“Those words terrify me,” Zelda said, eyeing me warily. “The last outstanding idea you idiots had ended in my digging your three fat furry asses out of a hole. Literally.”
I shrugged my kitty shoulders and chuckled. “Dat was just a little misunderstandin’.”
Zelda scrubbed her hands over her mouth. I knew my witch was doing her best not to laugh. Made me love the red-headed, gorgeous, insane broad even more.
“You think that getting a visiting group of six violent groundhog Shifters wasted then shaving them and dying what was left of their fur to look like they were diseased skunks was a little misunderstanding?” she inquired. “Not to mention, they buried you asshats fifty feet underground for the little misunderstanding.”
“Dem groundhogs is buttdongs—tried to steal everything in Assjacket dat wasn’t nailed down. Weese did youse a favor,” I reminded her, trying to reason my way into forgiveness. Getting buried alive wasn’t what I’d call a good time, but we had a few plans to get the rat-bastard rodents back.
“Yes, the groundhogs are sticky-fingered buttdongs, and because of that, they’re christening the brand spanking new Assjacket pokey for the next month,” Zelda shot back with a laugh. “But you can’t shave Shifters when they’re passed out. It’s wrong.”
“So youse is sayin’ weese shoulda shaved dem when they was sober?” I asked, scooting a little closer to the cheesecake. “Dats an interesting thought, and weese will take it under consideration for next time.”
“Nope,” Zelda huffed, exasperated. “There will be no next time. Your shaving drunk-Shifter days are over. You feel me, Fat Bastard?”
“I hear your words, yet I don’t knows what they mean,” I replied, using one of the techniques my felonious comrade, Boba Fett, swore by. I batted my eyelashes at my witch then went for my
