The little array of coffins over our guts made us look slim and trim, and we’d highlighted Sassy’s rack with lime green glitter and purple neon lights. The added touch made her hooters the star of our business. An hour ago, I figured Sassy would love it, but Zelda’s appalled reaction made me question my judgement—not that I actually had any judgement, but still.
In the end, since we had to write all the prices on the sign, we’d opted for one name—Don’t Stop Bereavin’. We played Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine the name, but when I lost, I called foul and changed it to a burping contest. Suffice it to say the leftover Canadian beer in my system made me the winner after I recited the entire first scene of Anchor Man during one outstanding and gag-worthy burp.
“Does Roger know you defaced his building with Sassy’s boobs?” Zelda asked.
“Not yet,” I replied, again doubting my wisdom. “He’s on vacation.”
She shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. “Mmkay, Assjacket doesn’t need a freakin’ funeral home,” Zelda informed me. “It’s an insult to my abilities as the Shifter Wanker. You feel me? That’s smack talking my skills of keeping clumsy-ass Shifters alive. You’re my familiars. You’re supposed to have my back.”
“Didn’t think about dat,” I admitted, feeling kind of bad. “But I’d like to point out since youse is the best fuckin’ Wanker in the Universe, weese won’t actually have to spray paint or creamface any stiffs. It’s a win-win for stayin’ on the right side of the law without actually havin’ to do nothin’.”
“Help me Goddess,” Zelda muttered, still staring at the sign. “I’m going out on a limb here and hoping like hell you meant cremate and not creamface.”
“Son of a bitch,” I screamed, glancing up in horror as I gaped at the truly disgusting faux pas we’d made. “Weese are gonna have to change all of our social media.”
“You put this shit up on social media?” Zelda choked out.
“Dat’s what legal business owners do,” I huffed with an eye roll. “Youse are the one who said weese should stay on the right side of the law.”
“My mistake,” Zelda replied with a pained laugh as she wiggled her fingers and fixed the wording on the sign. “Take down the social media. It’s a very bad idea.”
“Done,” I promised, pulling out my pilfered cell phone and deleting all fifty accounts I’d created.
Zelda sighed dramatically, walked over to Sturgill and sat down on the cement bench in front of him. My witch let her head fall to her hands and she groaned. “Did Sassy actually agree to be the face and boobs of a funeral home called Don’t Stop Bereavin?”
“Not exactly,” I told her, hoping she didn’t notice the word Seagull painted over Sturgill’s junk. “Weese was imbibin’ a bit, and I think Boba told her weese was openin’ a numeral dome for sssled steeeeeple.”
“Translate,” Zelda said.
“Funeral home for dead people,” I supplied with a grin. “He slurred a little and Sassy thought he was speakin’ Canadian.”
Zelda couldn’t bite back her answering grin even though she tried damn hard. “Goddess, this is a hot mess. However, it’s my fault. I never should have dared you.”
My brows rose in shock. “Youse takin’ it back?”
Dares were very serious business in the magical world. There was a price to pay for not taking a dare and a steeper price to pay to take a dare back.
“No way,” she said. “If I call it off, I have to accept a dare from you. Not happening. You asshats are insane.”
“Pot, kettle, black,” I shot back with a chuckle.
Our witch defined insanity and I loved her with all my kitty being. She was the perfect witch for us, and we were the perfect familiars for her. She regularly threatened the pound or setting us on fire, but that came with the territory. We were a lot to handle—literally. All three of us were on the chubby side, but I liked to think that there was simply more of us to love.
And Zelda loved us. Showing us by electrocution every now and then was just her way. Of course, we usually deserved it…
“Do you want to tell me why the bear is sporting the word Seagull where his privates used to be?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” I answered.
Turns out I didn’t have to.
“Weese named him Sturgill and named his stolen nards Big Sturgill on account of his hairy beans bein’ huge,” Jango Fett announced as he waddled out of our place of business and joined the conversation.
Boba was right on is heels.
“And Sassy, wantin’ to be Canadian, helped us out,” Boba explained.
Zelda eyed us like we’d rolled in dead bugs—which we enjoyed from time to time. “Okay. Still doesn’t explain why Seagull is painted over his junk.”
“Sassy can’t spell,” Boba said.
“Got it.” Zelda laughed. “It is sad that Sturgill’s bits got pilfered.”
“Weese are gonna get dem back,” I promised. “Dem sticky-fingered groundhogs did it. Youse don’t rip off a man’s dong pillow when he’s only got half a head to start with. It’s wrong.”
“You idiots are going to stay away from the groundhogs,” Zelda warned. “Mac is the sheriff, and he’ll take care of it. Am I clear? Apparently, they show up every couple decades or so and Mac has to run them off.”
Mac was a werewolf, Zelda’s mate and the badass King of the Shifters, but groundhogs were tricky little bastards. To get into the mind of a criminal, you needed to be a criminal. We were criminals. And we were destined to
