“Youse think dat hurt? When dem groundhogs pulled off his marble bags?” Jango asked, staring at the empty spot where the bear’s jewels used to reside.
“He’s a rock,” Boba pointed out. “But he does look kinda sad about his missin’ boulders.”
I shook my head and sighed. “Poor son of a bitch don’t even have a name. Just ain’t right to have no balls and no name.”
“Let’s name him,” Jango suggested. “Weese can spray paint his name over his missin’ junk until weese get his crotch nugs back for him.”
“Dat’s beautiful,” Boba said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Youse are a sentimental guy, Jango.”
“Thank youse,” Jango said. “I try. Hows about weese name him Sturgill?”
“His nuts or his name?” I asked, wanting to be respectful and get it right.
“Weese are namin’ his junk too?” Boba asked, confused.
Jango nodded solemnly. “I think weese should. Seems right. Hows about weese call him Sturgill and name his bits Little Sturgill?”
Nodding, I patted my comrade on the back. “I like it. Easy to remember if his nuts and his name are similar.”
“Yeah,” Boba said. “Although, Sturgill’s concrete dong pillow isn’t little. Maybe weese should name his clams, Big Sturgill. Youse know, so he doesn’t get his feelings hurt.”
“He’s a rock,” I reminded Boba.
“Rocks got feelings too,” Boba insisted.
Glancing up at the sad, magic bean-less bear, I saluted him. “Sturgill and Big Sturgill it is. Youse asshats ready to break into Roger’s office?”
“I still think it was a better plan to spray paint the word dingleberries down the middle of the road,” Boba commented.
“Bunghole,” I corrected him again.
“What did youse just call me?” Boba hissed.
Jango shook his head and gut punched Boba. They proceeded to pummel each other once more, while I pondered how easy it would be to pick the lock on Roger’s door in broad daylight.
Ignoring the smackdown, I stared at the building and grinned. Main Street was deserted. It was always deserted. The Shifters of Assjacket were fucking brilliant. The town looked like a total dump on the outside so humans would just drive right through without looking back. However, inside the ramshackle structures, everything was pure enchantment. All magical beings lived very public but private lives. If discovered, we’d all end up getting eighty-sixed by humans terrified of what they didn’t understand… which would suck.
“If youse jackholes would quit tryin’ to off each other, weese could break in and start rearrangin’ the place.”
“Weese still need to graffiti Sturgill’s meat kiwis,” Boba reminded me, taking one last swipe at Jango.
“Incoming,” Sassy shouted as she strafed our heads on her broom.
“Holy shit! Duck,” I shouted at my boys.
Landing upside down and swearing like a sailor on a bender, the witch jumped to her feet and pretended like we hadn’t just seen her pink lacy underpants.
“Sorry aboot that,” she said, yanking her dress down and brushing the gravel out of her blonde hair. “Sure glad I’m wearing underpants today. That could have been embarrassing.”
Sassy was a hot dame. The dingbat was Zelda’s BFF and a magical menace. We liked her immensely. We hadn’t started out on the right paw with the crazy broad, but we’d come to a truce. She’d waxed us not too long ago for firing her adopted chipmunk Shifter sons, Chad, Chip, Chunk, and Chutney from our underground poker parlor. That had been a bad day. We'd had to disappear for a while. As embarrassing as it had been to be hairless, it had been nice not to hack up hairballs for a few weeks.
“What did youse say?” I asked.
“I said sorry aboot that,” she replied. “It’s Canadian.”
“Boots are Canadian?” Jango asked.
Sassy nodded. “Yes, they are, eh?”
“Wait.” Boba scratched his ass and eyed her in confusion. “Did youse just ask a question or confirm dat boots was Canadian?”
“Yes, eh?” she said with an eye roll. “Canadian is a very difficult language to master. I’ve hired tutors from Toronto to come down and teach me. They’ll be arriving later today. In the meantime, I’ve been watching Strange Brew and drinking beer.”
“Beer?” I asked, my ears perking up.
“From Canada, eh?” Sassy said. “I’m not really a drinker, and it’s next to impossible for a witch to tie one on, but Bob and Doug McKenzie drink a lot of it and speak Canadian fluently.”
“Makes sense to me,” Boba said, nodding. “Youse want a beer now?”
“You have Canadian beer, eh?” she asked.
Dat I do,” Boba announced, clapping his paws together and conjuring up a cooler. “Youse want Alberta Crude, Helles Half Acre, O Canada Maple Ale, Beth’s Blackout Oyster Stout or KickSled Cream Ale?”
Sassy leaned over the cooler and peeked in. “So many choices, eh?” she mused. “I have to think aboot it.”
Jango grabbed a can and popped the tab “What do boots have to do with beer?”.
“Everything,” Sassy explained. She picked up a can of Alberta Crude and sniffed the contents. “This one smells very Canadian.”
The broad downed it in one noisy swallow. Impressive.
“I’ll have one of each,” she said, picking up a can of O Canada Maple. “A variety of Canadian beer will relax my brain and make it more open to absorbing the nuances of the language, eh?”
“Whatever youse say, Sassy,” I agreed, sampling Beth’s Blackout Oyster Stout. “Dis is nice. Havin’ a brew at noon in the middle of Assjacket with good friends.”
Thirty minutes and twelve beers apiece later…
Sassy burped and giggled. “Why are we hiding behind the half-headed bear?”
“Crap,” Boba said, wobbling on all fours. “Weese gotta paint Sturgill’s name on his nuts.”
Sassy glanced around. “Who’s Sturgill?”
“Weese named the bear,” I explained. “His name is Sturgill and his missing gangoolies are Big Sturgill. Weese are gonna spray paint his name over his missing privates so people will know what to call him.”
Sassy stood up and grabbed the can of spray paint from Boba
