Guild Of Grandfathers.

  Chapter 1:Quarterly Review

  Jeremy, the front desk clerk, head janitor, primary caregiver, head chef, and certified handyman, attempted to get one of his charges to calm down. This was complicated by the ominous crackling bolts of lightning peeling off the older man’s walking staff as he ranted at the cafeteria.

  Most other residents at the tables took this in stride or sitting as some were. They were more concerned about keeping a robe closed or fanciful headgear perched upon their skulls against the steady stream of wind pouring off the elderly wizard throwing a tantrum.

  The upset member of the esteemed retired community was throwing this railing diatribe of fury and judgment at his sworn enemy, hated rival, and reluctant bridge partner calmly seated across from the display. His opponent was slowly spooning a cup of chocolate pudding into his mouth, with a grim smirk showing between bites as his hair was blowing in the ominous wind.

  At a particularly potent blast of wind, he withdrew the spoon most of the way from his mouth and licked it clean, to which his antagonistic opponent let forth a well-thought-out and vehement argument,

  “By the fires of Mount Ruination, thou evil master’s tie to this realm was shattered. I shall ensure your destruction is just as swift and more terrible for this most egregious breach of our treaty. The echoes of these consequences shall come from the halls of history, a terrifying warning to all that would dare to abscond with my nectar of nourishment!”

  His hair blowing back from the wind pouring off Grand Elf the grumpy, Jeremy struggled against the force and slapped another pudding cup onto the table before the old man.

  Grand Elf was startled by the noise, losing concentration, and looked down at the noise in front of him. His face lit up, and he immediately snatched the pudding cup, ripped off the top, and dug in with a spoon that apparated with a low pop.

  Jeremy staggered fully back to his feet and glanced at the evil pudding thief. Saying,

  “You’re having your second pudding cup, Sourman. No dessert for you tomorrow night.”

  Sourman’s face drew down in disappointment and replied,

  “Now, Jeremy, let’s not be hasty. Grand elf was clearly distracted with his philosophizing and wasn’t getting to it anytime soon. It would have been forgotten in time. I was simply utilizing it to its full potential and fulfilling its purpose. You know it would have just been imprisoned back in the kitchen. I was setting it free!”

  Grand elf stopped scarfing his pudding long enough to say in a snide voice,

  “You’re a fine one to talk of freedom considering your track record before coming here, Sourman the silver-tongued. I remember when you attempted to aid the dark lord in acquiring his thing of power. It’s why I followed you here in the first place.”

  Sourman made a disgruntled face,

  “It would have worked out just fine for all of us if the armies of men had been as selfish as I thought…and those damn midgets had stayed out of it…and Shit Mouth the tricksy had been more diligent in his work ethic.”

  The two fell to quibbling back and forth over the old argument about what would have changed the outcomes of their varied struggles. From what Jeremey had understood of the pair, it had been an ongoing argument that involved the history of thousands dying while quibbling in their old world over a coworker attempting to destroy all life. Before a truce between them was reached, they had both agreed to come to Mr. Habit’s retirement Home for the grandparents of destiny, trademark pending corporate approval.

  Jeremy sighed in relief that the pair had been diverted into a more familiar and harmless topic of thwarted world domination instead of who stole who’s pudding.

  He started clearing the tables of the empty trays the other tenants in his charge had abandoned and placing them into the busing tub. He also had to collect even more of those damn telepathic marketing pamphlets that kept appearing in random spots throughout the retirement center. Wiping down the tables as he went, he saw a flash of movement in the corner of his eye.

  Abandoning his washcloth, he snatched a dirty tray from the tub, diving under the table while holding it in the direction he had glimpsed the movement. A solid sound echoed from under the table he had dived under as a steak knife thunked into the tray, accompanied by the cackling laughter of one of the other less stable tenants. Jeremy muttered to himself,

  “Damn it, Glint. Every meal?”

  Not staying prone under the table to be a non-moving target, he discarded the tray with the still-quivering knife sticking out of it. Rolling out from under the table, he dashed in a crouching run towards an exit, various flatware thunking into the floor just behind his heels. It was particularly unnerving that the spoons were sticking just as well as the knives and forks. Jeremy was terribly certain spoons shouldn’t cut into the linoleum that well.

  At the last second, before he reached the exit, Jeremey pivoted sharply and snatched an I.R.E. extinguisher off the wall near the door. Rushing towards where the implements of diner death had been hurled, he performed a beautiful slide past a column and started blasting with the I.R.E. extinguisher into the face of Bozo Glint. Glint started coughing and spluttering, sending the clutches of sharpened flatware scattering across the ground.

  Regaining his feet, Jeremy kept spraying Glint with the Incident Reduction Equipment until the grizzled old assassin was lying in a stupor with a silly grin on his face. His grin widened at the panting form of Jeremey before he slurred,

  “Nearly had you that time, boy. I’ll train you properly. You’ll see.”

  Jeremy’s shoulders slumped a little as he sighed heavily,

  “Mr. Glint, I’m not your apprentice. I’m no one's apprentice here. Or grandson, or ward, or chosen one. I’m your caretaker in this retirement community.

  My job, for now, is to make sure you all enjoy yourselves here without kicking off an epic adventure upsetting the balance of the world. You know this. It’s why you’re all still alive instead of being eradicated in your home world by the council of preventable endings. You agreed to this. Please, stop trying to stab me at a distance or in close quarters.”

  Glint looked confused behind his genially drugged smile for a moment before realization crossed his features. He laid a finger along his nose in a sly gesture of secrecy while lying flat on his back with a goofy expression and a wink,

  “Oh, yes. Of course, how could I forget? We all need to work with C.O.P.E., but I won’t forget you are angling for that promotion, boy. I’ll try to remember to help you in the future to maintain…situational awareness…See you at breakfast.”

  Jeremy shook his head in recognition that his ‘Training’ would continue tomorrow morning and helped the old, deadly, and forgetful man to the backgammon tables before Placing the I.R.E. extinguisher in the bin by the stockroom for later recharging.

  Checking on the room to make sure no one was setting something on fire to make a rousing speech in front of, he snagged the busing bin and headed into the kitchen. He set it on the counter next to the dishwashing station and started processing the trays for cleaning. These were the last he needed to do before he started his rounds of other custodial duties.

  Grumbling in annoyance, he ignored the psychic messages from yet more telepathic marketing pamphlets on the island of the kitchen. He threw them away in the incinerator chute. How did those keep getting in?

  He had about two hours before lights out, and he needed to set up some of the traps to prevent the night's foreseen shenanigans from getting out of hand. Thankfully, a little variety in the setting of the preventive measures ensured most of his residents wouldn’t kick off an epic war by attempting to divert fate or “Change what is coming.”

  He was all for change coming for things that needed changing, but Mr. Habit paid him well enough to avoid the temptation of becoming a chosen one. Those generally had a bad time of it while the adventure was ongoing; his wife wouldn’t put up with that nonsense spilling into their world, and he still needed that promotion.

  Jeremy finished cleaning the trays, cups, plates, and uncomfortably sharpened flatware he had collected from the dining section of the main common area. Drying, then putting away the dining sets, he fetched a broom and mop from the custodial closet and started sweeping then mopping hallways.

  Every few feet down the halls, he would peel off a blackened sigil held in place with good old Elmer's glue. The charred paper would crumble easily as it was removed, but the glue was more stubborn, so a putty knife was necessary. He would scrape the residue from the wall, sweep up the crumbly bits along with that section of hallway, then apply a new paper sigil in its place, mop, and move down to the next.

  Progressing down the tastefully decorated hallway, he poked his head into the rooms after cautiously announcing himself. There was no need to catch a lightning bolt to the face or be turned into a frog again. That incident report had been murder typing up with his little froggy limbs until he got better.

  That resident swamp witch and her coven had been most upset that he had interrupted their stories, so he supposed it had been his fault. Her son Bubba, visiting on an unexpected day, had convinced Miss Yaga to turn Jeremy back later that day, but the inconvenience was horrible.

  Jeremy knocked with a soft rap to announce himself on that particular door frame and waited, pondering the extra hazard pay he had received for that incident. It wasn’t that bad an event, he supposed.

  “Come in deary,”

  Jeremy entered the room cautiously,

  “Can I get you anything, Miss Yaga? You missed dinner with the rest of our merry bunch again. I wanted to make sure your blood sugar didn’t make you cranky before bedtime.”

  A wizened figure garbed in black robes cackled from a rather threadbare and patchwork armchair in front of an old Dyanora television set. Her crooked teeth peaked out from her hideous glee at her reply,

  “Can’t be having me cranky after the last time, you mean? Well, at least you have better manners than you used to. I have some snacks my son left me, deary. A good hand's worth of jerky, homemade. Would you like some?”

  She held out a strange leather pouch Jeremy didn’t look too close at and gave it a gentle shake.

  “No, thank you Miss Yaga. I’ll have to remind you that any outside food or drink must be screened before being given to any of our residents. Bubba can bring you whatever you require or want, and we don’t place restrictions there if Mr. Habit screens it.

  But outside magical ingredients can unbalance the environment of neutrality we try to maintain between all of our residents. Do you remember when Alice brought those scones for Mr. Cheshire? We couldn’t get the air conditioning to cooperate without bribes for a week.”

  Miss Yaga patted the air in a dismissive gesture,

  “Oh, don’t worry, deary. I took him down to the dispensary and had it checked before I let him give it to me. I’ll not break one of the council’s silly edicts if it means I’ll be put out. That last village was very determined to burn me, after all. See to your rounds. I’ll be no trouble…tonight.”

  Jeremy sighed at the ominous statements his residents were so fond of spouting but gave a polite nod to Ms. Yaga. He backed out of the room, keeping an eye on her even if she appeared to go back to watching her show, Nights of Our Deaths, on that ancient television.

  Mr. Habit, his boss and the creator of the guild of Grandparents of Destiny Retirement Home, was fond of ominous bits of advice and the sayings some of the residents all paraphrased as mentors of their respective chosen ones. One of his favorites was,

  “Keep an eye out when you don’t think you need to, and they shouldn’t surprise you too badly.”

  Jeremy continued his rounds of replacing sigils, sweeping, and covertly stashing vials of holy water laced with silver in strategic positions. Fur-fang, the abomination, had undead fleas again and was very cranky as of late.

  Jeremy wondered if the fleas had come in with that lite or the half-giant games keeper, then decided it didn’t matter. His place was not to judge the residents or their past deeds. Rationing pudding appropriately and extinguishing current metaphorical and literal magical fires were his lot for this rotation of shifts.

  If he could make it to the end of the month without the place burning down or having too many deaths of the less valued residents, his quarterly review might get him that promotion to scheduling.

  With that in mind, Jeremy finished his preparations for the night’s usual activities by double-checking the safe rooms for his refuge if things got too out of hand. He moved the last few stacks of pallets for dramatic desperation stalling tactics that worked, for some reason, against some of his ‘Evil’ residents and hid a few rubber chickens amongst the potted plants near the vials of holy water.

  If play worked instead of punishment on Fur-fang, Jeremey would take it. He hated the pitiful yelping of a vampiric werewolf. He loved dogs. Jeremy suspected Fur-fang was more lonely than anything else and just needed some attention from someone who wouldn’t judge him. Drakul had been an insufferable snob towards the poor beast on his arrival.

  Steeling himself for his most dangerous resident, as she was there involuntarily, Jeremy turned his uniform coat inside out. He filled his pockets with iron hobnails from the jar in the storage closet. Stopping at the dispensary, he got a ration of the true sight unguent from the pharmeologothian, Carl, and applied it under his eyes as directed under Carl’s careful oversight. Mr. Habit only came on Tuesdays and Thursdays for supervisory checkups.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He picked up a small silver bell from his cart. Ringing it three times caused any residents within earshot to scatter for safety. Mighty wizards or witches had nothing on this resident.

  Retrieving his ash-handled mop from his cart, he placed the mirror attachment on top. He swept the hallway leading to his destination and then returned for the mop. Mopping carefully backward down the hall, he was careful to leave no sign of a scuff or imperfection along his path to the iron-bound oak door near the entrance of the retirement home. Keeping the door in sight in the small mirror as he approached was just as challenging as it had been the first time.

  This was not a task that got easier with practice, though he didn’t find it strange that his bouts of near death with Mr. Blint had helped his confidence in dealing with the danger of this resident.

  Maybe those training sessions aren’t a bad idea after all.

  Wait, no. That’s how they get you roped into being a chosen one. It’s not that bad you are supposed to realize, then it is. The former chosen one bites your fingers off in a volcano. No matter who’s chosen one it was, tragedy happens to heroes more often.

  Jeremy disregarded the follow-up thought that heroes also got some pretty good rewards for that suffering with a studious shake of his head. No, a decent 401k with up to 15% of his pay contributions matched and fantastic health benefits were better.

  He needed to get that promotion. That next tier of perks was why he had accepted this position anyway. He rejected the call to adventure and focused back on his work.

  Arriving at the door, Jeremy placed the mop on one side of the door with care. He pulled a heavy ring of keys from his belt. Using one of the old iron keys placed there, he quickly turned the key back and forth while tapping out a rhythm on the lock plate. A hiss of mist escaped from the edges of the door as a tinkling laugh came from the room within.

  Jeremy eased the door open slowly,

  “Good evening, Miss Glinda. What would you like for dinner? I will see if the kitchen can accommodate your request.”

  A small woman in a divine sparkle of a white dress and a disturbing set of glimmering, crimson red shoes sat calmly on a multicolored cushioned bench along the room’s far wall. She was still one of the most beautiful creatures Jeremey had ever seen. She even gave Venus a run for her money when she briefly stayed last year.

  The room was divided neatly in half by a wall of pure crystal reaching from ceiling to floor. The bare slate stone from the entrance to the wall brought an ugly contrast to the rest of the room, richly decorated with a comfortable-looking bed. A vanity was placed near the edge of the crystal in the furnished room, and a snobbily posh-looking love seat was facing the entrance.

  Jeremy glanced to the side of the iron-bound door as he entered to verify the wand was still in its case mounted on the wall. He sighed softly at seeing it was still encased in the leaded crystal box framed with more cold iron.

  “Such a mundane question from such an extraordinary young man. How long have you been a caretaker here…what was your name again, dear?”

  Jeremy almost let out his name at the not-so-innocent question. He bit back the instinctive reply, considering who she was, but he answered the other half of her question.

  “I will be coming up on my second anniversary under the current C.O.P.E administration. Mr. Habit generously continues to extend his hospitality to you. If you cannot decide presently on the question of dinner, I can provide a list of what has been served to our other residents this evening.”

  Glinda’s face soured at the brusque reply, dismissing her more important question. Changing tacks would be her next move.

  “Now, now, young…man. No need to be so formal in this situation. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to address you? Help you see to my…needs, if I knew what to call you?”

  This was said in what some would call a seductive tone, but to Jeremy, it felt like a cat asking the mouse for its name before dining. Falling back on his emergency protocol, he pulled a series of index cards from a breast pocket and began to read them.

  “Miss Glinda, I am your warden during your incarceration. We are not to address each other in familiar terms. I will provide no personal identification or details you may be able to use to aid in your personal glamours or to assist in your escape or the subversion of our other voluntary residents here at Mr. Habit’s retirement Home for the grandparents of destiny. “

  Jeremy flipped to the next card,

  “Our relationship will remain cordial and professional in all ways. You will not be abused or mistreated in accordance with the administration's definitions of said behavior. Your freedom, if granted, will not occur before an agreement between the aggrieved parties, the C.O.P.E administration, and yourself has been reached.”

  Jeremy flipped to the next-to-last card,

  “Final punishment for the crimes you have committed will not be administered until all appeals have been heard by the celestial court and dismissed or approved. Thrice I ask and done,

  What would you like for dinner?”

  Glinda’s expression became something that almost diminished her beauty,

  “Roasted Chicken with wild rice pilaf, steamed honey carrots, a glass of white Zinfandel, and three candied roses with a progression of petals removed for each one. What crimes?”

  Jeremy flipped to the last card. Taking a deep breath before replying,

  “The crimes brought before the Celestial court were, in order of severity, the knowing sororicide of your sister, the witch of the east, manipulation of a mortal into the deed of Homicide of your professional rival Elphaba witch of the west in collusion with another mortal the ‘wonderful’ Wizard of Oz, false advertising of services rendered to mortals in the wake of these events in regards to unauthorized enslavement of magical beasts, rigging seventeen dog races, and punching a baby.

  Evidence was provided for the conviction on all counts by the investigative branch of Father Time’s office and has been verified to be true and accurate by Father Time, who has attached a personal message to this reading of your crimes. ‘My despised sister, I told you not to mess with our sister, Glinda. Mom gave her those shoes. You should have been happy with the wand.’”

  Jeremy took another breath,

  “What type of chicken, home-grown or store-bought carrots, what year of Zinfandel, and how many petals should be removed from the candied roses?”

  Glinda stormed to the crystal wall, slapping it in her anger. The crystal rang loud in alarm but withstood the blow. Jeremey stepped back in fear at the advance, not fleeing but startled. This was the first time she acted violently in response to the charges being read.

  “A half chicken, bone-in, with rosemary and orange citrus zest! Home-grown carrots! 2001! A progressive prime triplet separated by two! And that baby had it coming! You tell Chronos I’ll be out of here on the next appeal, and then I’m coming for him!”

  Jeremy calmed himself and checked the wand in its case on the wall. It was vibrating, but the case was intact.

  “Yes, Miss Glinda. I will check that the chef hears your request. I will deliver what we have available before lights out at ten this evening.”

  Jeremy backed out of the room with a bow, maintaining eye contact with his most dangerous resident. Closing and locking the door with a different pattern of knocks on the key plate, he leaned against the wall beside it with a shaking breath before straightening himself. He grabbed the mop he had leaned next to the door. Stowing the implement in his cart, he returned the whole mess of equipment to the storage closet and headed to the kitchen.

  With an absent-minded hand, he swept more of the telepathic pamphlets from the island into the incinerator. He got started on Ms. Glinda’s dinner with exacting focus, careful to get every detail correct. The rosemary chicken with orange zest was easy enough to prep and place in the first of the kitchen’s fast-cook ovens. The carrots he started with a double boiler on the stove. The wine was easily accessible from the extra-dimensional cellar near the dishwashing station.

  Jeremy started to count in prime numbers as he carefully removed the petals from the candied roses, muttering to himself as he did so. He studiously emptied the tray into the incinerator between each of the prepared flowers.

  “One, two, three, fi-“

  As he was finishing the third rose, the phone near the door started to ring. Frowning at the interruption, he failed to notice one of the petals he had removed swept off his counting tray from his movement as he moved away to answer the phone. The petal drifted towards the floor in a tumbling grace that belayed the destruction its disappearance would foreshadow as it slipped under the prep station.

  Jeremy answered the phone,

  “Mr. Habit’s Retirement Home for the Grandparents of Destiny, Jeremy speaking, how can I help you?”

  Silence echoed from the receiver for a moment before a scratchy, automated voice sounded from the receiver,

  “Hello, your business has been targeted by our advertising dept as vulnerable to outside interference from the Council of Unpreventable Providence! We here at United Helheim on Earth Care want to help mitigate the damage of the C.O.U.P. today! Act now to gain insurance for when disaster will strike you and your loved ones. You should have received our pamphlets briefly attempting to reach into your mind and plant not-so-subliminal messages that will end in the destruction of all you hold dear! You have been chosen to-“

  Jeremy hung up the phone. Stupid telepath marketers. He would have to tell Mr. Habit they were getting unreasonably persistent again. That solved the mystery of the random pamphlets, though. He returned to the prep table and carefully counted the petals where he had left off.

  Three?

  Frowning at the petals he had counted, he hesitated momentarily, then smiled wryly. Leaning down, he looked under the prep table and spotted the petal that had ‘accidentally’ fallen. He scooped it up and resumed his counting.

  “Five, seven. Mr. Habit really needs to bribe his security system better next week.”

  He applied the syrup to the roses he had prepped and popped them in the second oven. He patiently waited for the meal to finish while playing Minesweeper on his phone. When the second oven dinged, he removed the chicken from the first oven and the now candied roses from the second. He plated everything carefully on the tray he had set aside at the beginning of this task.

  Placing the tray on a cart to deliver his cargo, he placed the cast iron lid with cloth-padded handles over it to keep the meal warm. He trundled through the back hallways until he reached the delivery system put in place to minimize contact with Ms. Glinda.

  Taking a spray bottle from the bottom of the cart, he sprayed the dumbwaiter door with butter-wort-infused water before opening it and placing the covered tray inside. He closed the door and pressed the deliver button next to the contraption.

  His last major dangerous task completed for the evening, Jeremy headed to the front desk to catch up on his paperwork. Just settling in at the desk, he dropped his pen as the front doors burst open to show a group of rather well-dressed Orks struggling to contain a small bearded figure between the three of them. He didn’t get a good look at what it was.

  The small figure let out a yell,

  “I’ll never give up the-“

  Before the bearded figure struggling against the Orks could finish, he slapped a big red button on his desk to address these situations. A large trap door opened beneath the lot of them and dumped them all out of sight in a satisfying, expedient manner.

  Involuntary incarceration was possible at Mr. Habit’s, but not without the proper paperwork filed ahead of time and an order from the celestial court. His boss was quite clear that this place only worked when proper superstitions were observed.

  After an hour or so, with no further disturbances, Jeremy caught up with all his paperwork and incident reports. Placing the stack of forms in the outbox, he pressed another green button, and the forms vanished to Mr. Habit’s box somewhere else.

  A soft blue glow started to emanate from the air in the room, and Ms. Glinda appeared in front of the desk with a dangerously pleased expression. Jeremy paled.

  She spoke calmly,

  “Oh, stop having a heart attack,”

  She waved her wand in hand. Jeremy’s heart stopped trying to escape from his chest cavity, and she continued,

  “You forgot the honey on the carrots. Overall, an admirable job for the past two years. I’ll not hold it against you for doing your tasks efficiently and well. Think of this as a successful interview with practical application of your duties showing how competent you can be.”

  Jeremy nodded politely to the terrifying figure in front of him and asked, with an obscene amount of panic ringing through his voice,

  “Is that a job offer, Ms. Glinda? I am flattered to be…chosen, but I am still under contract with Mr. Habit, Mr. Habit, Mr. Habit.”

  A sparkling red flash of displaced energies coruscated around the room as Jeremy’s boss appeared in the room a few feet from Ms. Glinda. He was a short, stocky man with a well-trimmed beard. He was impeccably dressed in a butler’s uniform with a bowler hat and ivory cane.

  He took in the situation at a glance and spoke directly to Ms. Glinda,

  “My dear resident. It appears your time with us has come to an end…prematurely. We will be sad to see you go. Can I perhaps offer you a mode of transportation to your final appeal at the celestial court? They have sent word your final hearing has been approved to meet with you at your earliest convenience. To be clear, they meant now.”

  Ms. Glinda scowled with fury,

  “Do you imply that you foresaw these events? Your employee’s incompetence was planned?”

  Mr. Habit shook his head,

  “No, my dear, a plan can be foiled. However, anticipating plans going awry can be a wonderful habit to cultivate.”

  Ms. Glinda shrieked at him in unintelligible curses that caused the linoleum floor around her to blister and peel. Jeremy was certain that if he understood even a third of the languages she used, his brain would have melted on the spot.

  After a few moments withstanding her cacophony of curses, Mr. Habit waved his cane, and Ms. Glinda’s tirade fell silent. She still gesticulated rudely at both of them and flapped her sensuous mouth in hate, but no sound issued from her. Studying her antics for a moment, Mr. Habit turned to Jeremy,

  “Two years, Mr. Thorson. Two years as a mortal of no commonly known parentage, raised as a blacksmith, born under an auspicious moon on the banks of a river once turned red with the blood of an ancient battle. You have performed admirably and not given in to the call of destiny that has begged you to choose it with enticements both grand and subtle.

  Now our most sacred of charges was a frog’s fart away from being bungled by a lack of honey. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Jeremy looked at Mr. Habit with dejection and sorrow at his soon-to-be lost income and the needed opportunity for his family seeping through his visage. With a voice of regret, he answered his boss,

  “I am sorry, Mr. Habit. I will have a summary of my tasks that need to be completed by my replacement in your inbox before I leave.”

  Mr. Habit looked at him as if Jeremy were an over-eager snail racing for the salt lick on the other side of a saltwater pond,

  “Are you fucking stupid? You start training for scheduling on Monday. I expected you to fail after a week, not two gods damned years. Congratulations on the promotion.”

  Mr. Habit smiled kindly to Jeremy.

  “You’re still under contract anyway. Did you think I would allow our legal department to give me an earful for breaching it over a single mistake covered by your contract? What C.O.U.P. tried to pull by breaching our security like that was in one of your clauses under outside interference. Get your head out of your ass and get back to work.”

  Mr. Habit, again, smiled kindly at Jeremy to take some of the sting out of his words,

  “See you Monday, kid, good job.”

  Mr. Habit turned away from his employee and tapped the still silently screaming, foul-mouthed, homicidally angry, beautiful fairy woman on the head with his cane, and they both vanished. Jeremy sat, stunned by this turn of events.

  He took out his cell and texted his wife about the promotion. His phone soon dinged repeatedly as it was was flooded with happy emojis.

  As he was inundated with notifications of her joy at his good fortune, a low growling issued forth from behind him. He turned to find Fur-fang’s gaping maw of vicious mouth knives open and dripping with drool about a foot from his face. A vicious snarl started to build in its throat.

  Jeremy calmly opened the desk drawer and retrieved a silver-dusted Kevlar rubber chicken chew toy. Squeezing it hard to make the droning bawk sound it was known for, he threw it far down the hallway leading away from the reception desk. Fur-fang’s growl cut off as he let out a yip of joy and chased the bawling toy.

  Monday should be interesting. Jeremy was glad he had chosen this job to apply to.