Carl, Myrtle and Janet . . . I dubbed them the strong man, the bizarre little one and the bearded lady. Literally. Janet had a beard . . . Then there was the very angry therapist, who if she had a name I was not made aware of it. Again, fine by me. She was creepy and she smelled strange. I sat back in my corner and watched Hell’s version of The Jerry Springer Show unfold.
The tension in the room was palpable. I scanned Dixie’s living room for exits just in case this wonky little party of weird got out of hand. Carl, the Strong Man, rubbed his bald head the same way I rubbed my calf when it fell asleep. He rubbed so hard and fast, I was sure the skin was going to come off and his brain would fall out. I waited in anticipation and fear to hear what he had to say. I hadn’t heard him speak yet. He did a few bizarre dance moves when I’d asked him a question earlier. I’d bit down hard on the inside of my cheek so I didn’t laugh at him and I backed off. Janet, his bearded girlfriend, interpreted for him but no more. The therapist, sporting a bad attitude and a thin reedy voice, was very clear. Carl had to speak for himself.
I wondered if this wrinkle would cause a violent episode. I kind of hoped it would. A small zap of something warm shot through my body at my destructive little thought. I dismissed it and continued to watch the scene play out. Janet squeezed Carl’s hand and smiled.
“I enjoy uthing my metal detector at family functionth. Preferably not my family. I made forty-nine dollarth and theventy-two thenth in jutht under nine hourth at a family reunion latht Augutht.” Carl smiled. He actually had beautiful teeth and cute dimples, but the lisp . . . Hoo baby, now I knew why he preferred to communicate through interpretive dance. On Earth he could have had speech therapy, but in Hell I’m sure he got the crap beat out of him.
“All right then, Carl,” the therapist snapped, “have you ever considered just stealing the money from the purses and wallets of the party guests? Or perhaps holding them at gunpoint and demanding their money and jewelry?”
“Um . . . no,” Carl muttered, “I can’t thay that hath ever occurred to me.” He scratched his bald head in confusion.
As far I could sense, Carl didn’t have magic or power. Hmmm.
I watched the therapist jot down notes and make disapproving tsking sounds. She avoided looking at me at all. Acted as if I didn’t exist. Interesting. She clearly didn’t want me here. Maybe she was the one to bribe . . .
“Janet,” the therapist smiled nastily through her bandages, “you have a waxing and electrolysis appointment after this session.”
“But I like my hair,” Janet stammered. Her stubby little fingers instinctively went to her face to protect her beard and stache. Was she going to cry?
“Yes, but you’ve had over three hundred years to become evil and you have not succeeded. Your hair,” the smelly, bitchy counselor sneered in disgust, “seems to be your most prized possession, so it will be taken from you.” She smiled. She really was a bitch.
“Forever?” Janet whispered. Her little body trembled and Carl draped a big muscley arm around her, pulling her close.
“Forever,” the therapist wasped.
“I am so glad I busted your ass with the coffee table,” Myrtle muttered under her breath.
“What was that, Myrtle?” the therapist hissed.
“Nothing.” Myrtle smiled and gave me a covert thumbs up. Again I had to chomp down on my cheek to keep from laughing.
I found myself happy that Myrtle had nailed the therapist with a coffee table of all things. Myrtle was my kind of girl. My guess was that it had been quite an entertaining show. A burst of magic rushed through my body as the violent thought manifested itself in my brain.
Glancing down at my fingers I noticed a black glitter coating them. WTF? Was this Demon voodoo magic? I quickly rubbed it off and tried to focus on the meeting. Satan had sent me with Dixie for a reason. There must be something in all this strangeness I was supposed to learn . . .
“Soooo, Janet,” the nasty shrink challenged, “do you have any hobbies you’d like to share?”
Janet took a deep breath, regained control of her shaky little body and got back up in the saddle. “I too enjoy taking other peoples money, but I really enjoy working in television. I spend all of my free time, plus some of the time I’m supposed to be stoking the Hell Fires, following news trucks around and appearing in the background of live news reports!”
“She’s been on TV at least forty-two times in the last three months alone,” Myrtle gushed, giving Janet a high five.
Did Hell have its own TV stations?
Janet, gaining confidence from the high five, proudly shouted, “All of the local stations have taken restraining orders out on me!”
“Interesting,” the mean ho-bag therapist droned. “Have you ever attacked a reporter or shouted obscenities on live television?”
Janet was crushed. “No. I haven’t.”
“I thought not,” Miss Meanie replied, writing in her notebook. “I’d like to point out that Muffy the Contortionist is no longer part of our group. She has graduated. She blew up a Dairy Queen on Earth last night. Apparently she felt she had been overcharged.”
“Lucifer’s Bouncing Balls, I hadn’t even noticed her absence! Was anyone hurt?” Janet gasped and pulled on her beard in distress.
“Unfortunately, no,” the icky therapist said, “but we hope she makes better choices next time.” She took a pause, giving each of the group the evil eye through her bandages while still ignoring me as if I didn’t exist. “Myrtle, you’re next.”