SLOBRINA

Enter SLOBRINA, ancient, disheveled, with ragged broom, dragging her leg behind her.
She props up her crap leg on a giant toadstool.
She addresses the Witch’s Council:

Hey, sisters. Oh, sorry. Hail, Satan. Uhhh, wow, let’s see. I know I’m supposed to give you an update on preparations for the upcoming Sahmain human sacrifices. Lot of you are asking about how many goats we’re gonna need. Who’s going to play the lute? But, just to be up front, I’ve hurt my leg quite badly, with fire. No, it wasn’t angry villagers with the torches again. It was a fire that I started. Candle magick. I was doing a simple generational curse on my neighbors who never clean up after their dogs, and let them shit all over my property. They’ve got like seventeen golden labradors. Fuck them. So I light like, five hundred black candles for the evil cursing energy, and five hundred red candles to represent their garbage bloodline. I swallow the grave dirt, but it gets caught in my throat and I have this coughing fit. Then my wolf skin robe knocked over a dozen candles, setting my frankincense and vodka-soaked legs up in flames. By the way, my familiar, Magatha the Giant Maggot, did NOTHING to protect me. I’m looking for a new familiar, so talk to me after. Anyways, that’s how I’m doing. Needless to say I haven’t really prepped much for Sahmain. I can’t even find my ceremonial blade. Oh, and get this, yesterday, I go to cast a spell on some teenagers. What were they doing? Standing there, but all teenagery, you know: young, eating chips, laughing like life’s so great; assholes. So I do my thing, then for some reason I say the wrong word. I go: Asinum ego Plaga and of course, it became a backwards curse deal. So instead of the teenagers being horribly disfigured, I get a plague of boils up and down my ass. Really nasty. And I’ve got nobody to lance the pus…(tearful) Sisters, Azazel is really gone. I read the bones and they told me, that my demon has found someone else. A voodoo priestess. I’ve seen her in the glass: she looks good. To think I used to complain about his razor sharp talons in bed, cutting open my belly in the night, catching my entrails, my intestines leaking out feces, going into septic shock. And now I could really use those sharp nails for all my boils. “He’ll come back” they said, the voices of the damned. He does have to come for my soul that I promised him, but when is that? I do have a pretty bad fever—some of the boils got infected. I just couldn’t be bothered to make a paste to seal the wounds. My herb garden is filled with weeds, and dog shit. Men are dogs. And male-identified demons are also dogs. Bad dogs. Don’t promise your soul to the first demon you meet, sisters. That’s all.

Mary Crosbie can be followed on Twitter @maRAHHHcrosbie.

Categories: Fiction

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Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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