After eating, drinking and making more of themselves, Raccoons live to roller derby. It comes naturally. You don’t need to use magick to make them like it. Just bring a pack of Raccoons to a roller derby track, supply a generous heaping of beer and snacks, place Rachel Welch’s brilliant Kansas City Bomber on the dvd and the critters know immediately what to do without spell casting or even training.
Your basic Raccoon is a natural sporting soul who greatly enjoys slapping the crap out of her brothers and sisters in high chase pursuit. But they won’t do it for free; to quote The Godfather’s Don Barzini “After all, we are not communists.” That means keeping the beer and salty snacks on hand, always.
The Superstar of the Raccoon Roller Derby world resides, trains, and competes at Andy’s Roller Derby and Wiccan Waze Pavilion at Other Earth. Her name is Sinsational Sue.
The Pavilion is constructed of fossilized gingerbread. It’s located on the (former) site of an alleged (confirmed) Mafia burial ground. It is thirteen acres that contains thirteen ghosts protected by thirteen magick incantations. It is owned by a thirteenth-level Master Witch named Hope, who is assisted by her thirteenth-level Wiccan Apprentice, Charity (who is technically Hope’s mother, even though she is twenty-nine centuries younger than her child), and a first generation Warlock Tabby Cat named Andy Hisster. Everyone involved is quite proud of themselves, Sue and all their Minions. Moreover the Witches are grateful that Sue’s shining achievements are good at concealing whispered rumours of Witchery associated with the land the pavilion is located.
For innocents not familiar with roller derby, imagine professional wrestling on skates. There are rules, but, mainly, those exist to frame the violence. Two teams compete on an oval track, and in Raccoon roller derby the teams play until one side gets extremely drunk and wanders off to tip trash cans–not for food, but for the annoyance factor. Sue is the only Raccoon to understand this phenomenon, so her teams never lose because she is always the last participant to leave to tip cans (which she does, ain’t nobody sayin’ she don’t). Some people call roller derby “sports entertainment”; fools disparage it as a “pseudo-sport.” Mouthy fools get laid out, with a swirl of stars over their heads, if they voice their ignorance anywhere near Sinsational Sue.
Admittedly, roller derby is not a sport of intricate strategy; its beauty is its simplicity. But working it so that the event always winds up in a state of drunken mayhem is genius. The idea of the game is for a selected runner (Sue is a runner, although her footspeed is a tad lacking) to navigate her way through a hostile throng of elbow jabbers and knee extenders and just plain grabbers, to complete a lap that gives the runner’s team points. Although Raccoons cannot count, they understand the concept of “more”–therefore they are able to process who has most–as in completed laps. Like all four-legged creatures, Raccoons possess neither quite elbows nor precisely knees, but they have clever hand-like paws that grab like nobody’s business. At nearly forty pounds there is a whole lotta Sinsational Sue to grab, but considering the stunning power of her double back-paw slap, few competitors try it, and those who do fail to come back for seconds.
Andy Hisster, the Warlock Tabby mentioned earlier, runs the Raccoon roller derby operation at the Wiccan Waze Pavilion; he is assisted by a Raccoon interpreter named Ellvis (yes, with two l’s). As referred to earlier, reckless individuals might say that the roller derby is merely a front for Witchy activities undertaken by Hope and Charity. But stating such a base canard is even more ill-thought than grabbing Sue by the tail and thinking you will remain undrubbed.
The operation takes place in a sister realm of Saragun Springs called Other Earth. Recently, an accord was struck between Witches Mistress Hope and her apprentice, Charity, both of Other Earth, and the Master Witch of the Springs, The Great and Powerful HeXopatha, aided by her second, Eira Winter Snow. (It might be interesting to know that Eira changes her surname daily. Charity was smart enough just to go by her first name when “joining the dark side”–but newcomers, like Eira, who want a surname are required to change it on every new moon of their apprenticeship. It is an old rule and no one understands why it exists enough to provide a detailed explanation–save for the possibility that there has never been such a rule and that it is something HeXopatha made up just to be a bitch.)
I, Leila Allison, the Chief Penname of Saragun Springs (thus the reluctant leader, and perhaps the only Penname ever created by someone who understood she had lost control over her creations and required an alias to do the heavy lifting), am always curious as to what is going on at Other Earth. And although a long ago treaty prevents me from going there in person, I occasionally *ask HeXopatha to send a couple of her minions over now and again just to keep the flow of information intact (consider that fodder for my paranoid lack of self esteem).
(*Bribe over ask is closer to the truth. I pay her with shares of asteroid 16 Psyche, which is worth bazillions in precious metals. Saragun Springs is the only realm or reality smart enough to put a claim on it–our sober aim there is getting a ten percent share. We have equally divided it amongst our two-hundred-fifty odd residents. HeXopatha, a smart cookie, has been increasing her slice of 16 Psyche with every half chance she can convert, usually via “requests” made by Yours Truly.)
When I heard about the mighty Raccoon Roller Derby and Sinsational Sue, I was besmirched with curiosity. But mainly, since I am big on animal rights, the whole thing sounded a bit exploitative to me, so I asked (all right, paid) HeXopatha to send a couple of her Minions to Other Earth to make sure that no Raccoon was being underpaid or was being coerced into doing anything that s/he finds objectionable. The red flags were raised even higher after I found out that a Cat Warlock was running the show. I love Cats, but everyone knows that they are evil little bastards (even the girls), and, obviously, the addition of magick powers is not likely to steer any Feline toward an altruistic course.
I suggested to HeXopatha that she send a pair of spies who would not draw suspicion. Instead she chose Penrose the Androgynous Flying Weasel and Boots the Impaler–or just plain BTI, a Magick Siamese Cat (whose expensive services alone tripled the bill that is presently lying on my desk). They are well known throughout Saragun Springs and Other Earth, therefore…
“Dammit, HeXy, that’s like volunteering Michael Jackson and Gary Glitter to chaperone the annual Osmond Pajama Party,” I said, upon receiving the bill.
We spoke via the crystal ball that connects her castle to my office. The fact that she resides in an opulent castle in a lovely Enchanted Wood as opposed to a 1940’s era film noir private (resplendent in falling plaster) detective’s office should tell you the distance between our net wealths.
“You need to learn how to relax, darling,” HeXopatha purred. “Anyway, there are no ‘secret souls’ in Saragun Springs–that Hope person and her chatty assistant Charity keep the Eye of Newt directed toward you full time. Competence is what you should seek for your money– which I believe I have delivered.”
“Shit, fuck, goddam, piss, twat and hell,” I muttered, but I knew that the conversation was not going to progress further until I paid the bill. So I signed the damn thing and presented it for her viewing in the crystal ball. She smiled and the bill vanished from my hand (this is how we transact business in Saragun Springs). I experienced the tingle of magick as the bill poofed out of my hand. (For those of you unacquainted with the feel of magick, it is actually rather nice. Sort of like the way a shot of good hootch goes down and eases back on your natural hostility for life, not all pushy like coke or heroin–a whole body feeling, which only lasts a few seconds, yet goes without leaving withdrawals.)
The crystal ball “turned off” and two sheets of paper wafted down from above and landed on my desk. These were uneven pages because they were written on foolscap, of which HeXopatha has held a gigantic supply of for centuries. But hers is an endless uncut roll, and the pages are casually sliced off by teams of four to six Rats (the amount of Rats in a team depends on their sizes) who wield extremely dangerous looking shears (no labor abuse in HeXy’s organization. Everyone is well paid; the way she bills me I figure that I lay out most of their wages).
I examined the document and recognized the paw of Penrose, a lefty whose spidery script leans greatly in that direction, as though it were being blown back by a hurricane; the words, however, were clearly those of BTI–utterly snide and flat out Feline. This made sense because Penrose enjoys working with his paws but cares little for thinking. Moreover, s/he is illiterate by choice, yet magick spells allow her/him to copy words that are dictated (again I feel it necessary to declare that Penrose refuses to declare a gender. No problem, but the old him/her thing is annoyingly clunky and I refuse to use inaccurately numbered pronouns). BTI (who, like all Saragun Springs’ Cats, magick and otherwise), was born literate, but he is also profoundly lazy except for musing and insulting human beings with every chance presented. But, to be fair, BTI’s antipathy toward the human race can be traced to the day he was neutered, even though it was extra painlessly done by magick for his benefit. Regardless, BTI is one Cat who knows how to conduct a passive/aggressive grudge with the intensity of a holy war.
The report said:
“It is to my great vexation to lower the high standards of my vocabulary so as to inform your profoundly atrophied mind to what is and what is not. There are only so many four letter words and emojis available that can penetrate the fog incarcerating thought machines first pickled then shrunken by the constant consumption of grain alcohol. Fortunately, I am wise to the degree that I will not make that degrading attempt. Perhaps, you, Miss Allison, can find someone to explain the ‘big wordy thingies’ to you.”
[ “Fuh-kew,” I mumbled, hoping that the letter contained enough residual magick to forward my retort]
“For your sake, however, the Great Mistress HeXopatha has assured myself and my competent, aerial, Stoat shemale colleague, that you will mouth the words well enough to make noises that you will recognize well enough to the degree that this will not be a complete waste of my time…”
Now, as a writer, I have a disdain for writers who rely heavily on letters and hidden diaries to move the story along. Unless absolutely necessary, due to there being no other way, I find that every bit as lazy as Sir Boots the Impaler is by his very nature. So, armed with my remaining word budget of 1200 allow me to give my interpretation of the events at Other Earth…Let’s start at the reaction I am certain “shemale” caused and move forward.
“What’s with the shemale crack, Puddy tat?” Penrose, safely aloft, asked.
The fellows were at the ornate front gate of the Witch’s Estate. Penrose rang the bell precisely on her/his utterance of ‘shemale’.
“Easy to fix one of two ways,” BTI replied. “Just declare for the sake of **Felix, or come a little closer,” the fiend added, displaying a set of razor sharp claws.
[**Cats often use famous Felines in speech the same way we use Jesus. Nobody knows if such is meant to be blasphemous, but since Cats do not compliment anyone but their own single bad selves, it figures to contain some measure of slight].
The door swung open and there stood smiling Charity, the Apprentice. Fortune shined on her and her Cat Andy, in her mid-twenties, with an offer of magick immortality. It was either that or a cashier’s gig at Home Depot (rarely does fortune bring anything that cannot be described as a “no-brainer”). Unlike most Witches, Charity favors pastels and the dayglo fashions of the 1980’s. She is also one of my few fictional characters whose looks are not up to the reader’s imagination. In face and form she is a dead-ringer for Shelly Duval (circa Popeye).
“Oh, how cuuuuute!” Charity said, actually it was more of a sarcastic gush. “Adorable little spies from Saragun Springs–What a handsome Siamese Cat you are, Boots the Impaler, age six, named for your unerring habit of landing all four feet on the ‘private bits’ of men upon jumping on their laps, even though it was woman who, um, let’s say, fixed you,” Charity pulled out a spritzer and gave BTI a good dose of Catsinthe, a highly potent potable illegal in every realm in the metaverse save for Saragun Springs and Other Earth. To say BTI likes Catsinthe is the all time understatement. He began purring, went to earth and began rolling on the ground.
She then turned her attention to Penrose. “And dear friend Penrose, the he-maybe-she Winged Weasel. This is a distinct pleasure. You are not as easily duped by magick as our domestic sweetheart is, but I have a banquet of Weasel chow awaiting you inside.”
Penrose pocketed the paper and quill, bowed and flew inside. One needn’t ring the dinner bell twice for any breed of Weasel. Charity gazed lovingly at BTI and snapped her fingers (she had to do it twice, the first brought a drink called a Singapore Sling–she has the makings of a powerful Witch in her, but she is still in many ways clearly an Apprentice). The second snap brought one of those infant slings you see people toting their young in at the mall. She placed BTI, who had fallen asleep but was still snore-purring, in it. A devout believer in waste not want not, Charity swallowed the Singapore Sling in one ladylike motion and entered the castle.
“Word limit warning. Currently at 2300 of the maximum 3000 words.” Goddam Anita Know, my realm’s version of Alexa, who had been elsewhere during this composition spouted, thus temporarily crushing my muse.
Shitstix, I thought. But I kept it to myself and said: “Thank you Anita–tell you what–go ahead and take a break but please let me know when we are at 2900. I truly appreciate your input.” (At the time I fomented a plot of having it end at no later than 2899 words–Anita apparently does not know or care that I have a word count meter at the corner of my screen.)
Now, as you may have already guessed, I disregarded the document the boys sent and made up what pleased me instead. Yet the rapidly approaching word limit was something I could not blow off. What to do? What to do?
Then it came to me.
And for the first time ever, I asked Anita to do something. “Anita, summon Team GOAT.”
*****
At precise word 2589, The GOAT and her sidekick PDQ Pete arrived at the castle at Other Earth. Charity had forgotten to close the door (an act that saved fifty precious words) and the Team trotted (the GOAT) and drunkenly (PDQ Pete) flew in.
They saw BTI sleeping off a Catsinthe buzz in an ornate Cat bed and Penrose attempting to break the world record for the largest cheese sandwich ever consumed by a Stoat (of which he holds the hundred top whoppers).
The GOAT, of course, is our beloved third in command, Daisy Kloverleaf, aided by Pie Eyed Peetey the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon. They like to think that they are incognito, but since their faces adorn every third child’s lunch box in Other Earth, let’s just say that their secrecy is highly unlikely. Everyone knows who they are, but it is “funner” to play along.
I saw 2724 on my word meter and a cold sweat broke out on my neck. Oh, all those wasted words of youth, I thought.
Fortunately, Daisy is a very much A to B and under three thousand words sort of person. She trotted up to Charity who was chatting with Andy and Sinsational Sue (Peetey joined Pensose at the buffet, attracted by loganberry wine).
“Oh, how adorable,” Charity said, running a finger along the GOAT’s cape–chenille?”
“No less,” the GOAT demurred. She then faced Sue. “Are you happy, eating, drinking beer and being adored by millions?” I did not know it at the time, but the GOAT is fluent in Mid-American (Other Earth and Earth, Earth) Raccoon.
Sue responded with something that sounded like “Chunk-choot chap-chap.” Which, I discovered means “Sister, what kind of fucked up question is that?”
Daisy smiled. “As the GOAT I rescue players inside stories who face an upcoming bad end. I see no such problem here–”
“2900 warning,” Anita bellowed.
“Fine. Great. Whatever. However.” I said snapping the lid of my chromebook shut. “Such is the price for caring,” I muttered, lighting a fresh smoke from the butt of the previous.
“How many words left, Anita?”
“Almost infinite,” she said. “Especially when you consider Scottish profanities and tech terms.”
It’s rough going taking sarcasm from a ghost who claims she is an AI program.
“All right smart ass, tell me what is my favorite cut from a prime rib.”
She stalled for a moment. But I knew she knew about my secret Food Page, which I update constantly.
“The end,” she sighed.
“Damn right.”
literally stories 