This was originally posted up at Thea Atkinson's blog, GonzoInk, after she talked me into trying a humour piece. I think the result surprised both of us.
======================================================================
======================================================================
Paris Hilton gets a fairy
I looked around the room full of funeral attendees, chatting away in animated groups. All of us, the fairies of the world, gathered to mourn the passing of one of our own.
Atkins and Cabbage Soup were chattering at each other in the corner, carefully avoided by everyone else in the room. Allie Oops stood some distance away, an expression of utter dismay slowly creeping over her face.
I shook my head. Diet pill manufacturers have a lot to answer for. By the looks of things, having a fairy shit herself at a funeral had just been added to the list.
Paranoia was gabbling away at Conspiracy Theory, then tried to grab his tinfoil hat. Conspiracy shrieked and burst into tears. I turned away to signal the trolls I’d hired as bouncers – and saw her.
Her.
Paris Hilton.
Mincing into the room on a pair of Jimmy Choo’s and wearing the shortest little black dress possible. She stopped to tickle one of the trolls under his chin and coo as he flexed his abs.
Paparazzi whistled and took a series of pictures, then let Paris head for the buffet.
I grabbed his arm. “What is the human doing here?”
He shrugged, wings flickered in a quick burst of strobe. “It was her fairy that died,” he shrugged. “Besides, I told her it was a photo op.”
“Are you insane?” I hissed. “You can’t bring a human into our world!”
He looked at me, black shades firmly in place. “I thought you’d want to meet the woman who killed one of us,” he said, and nodded at the portrait on the stand in the centre of the buffet. “Took her awhile,” he added. “But I reckon it was her, sure enough. Common Sense just never stood a chance.”
He started towards the table, then turned back. “You know, you’re probably the most powerful one in this room. Think about that.”
I thought it about all afternoon, watching the socialite flutter from diet fairy to drug fairy to sex tape fairy. She said “Like” a lot, and a few other things that made my wings itch.
She avoided Decency as though the fairy carried an STD, which was strange since she’d hugged both Syphillis and Gonoreahea repeatedly, and gave Chlamidia an impromptu lap dance at some point after finishing most of a bottle of funeral wine.
I thought about it in the bathroom, carefully adjusting my spanx. I influence and affect millions throughout the world.
Do what you want, unless the liposuction fairy smiles at you, once I’m there, I play for keeps. You will hate me until the day you leave this world.
I re-entered the room, caught Paparazzi’s eye, and nodded. Then I marched over to Paris, who had her face buried in Cocaine’s hair, and pulled her away from the party.
“Like, who are you?” she said, pulling away.
I beamed at her. I’m good at that kind of smile. Sugar and sweetness with no hint of the bitterness to come. “I’m your new fairy,” I said.
“Like, cool. But where are we going?”
I pulled out her schedule. “You have a nightclub booking in an hour. Let’s get you ready, shall we?”
“Cool.”
And as we left the funeral, I heard one of the trolls speak to Paparazzi, following close behind us.
“Who’d the human get assigned to?”
“One of the big guns,” Paparazzi whispered back. “That’s the Muffin Top fairy."
***************************************************
J H Sked is the author of WolfSong & Basement Blues.
You can find WolfSong on Amazon, Sony e-bookstore, Nook and Smashwords. Basement Blues is on Amazon and Smashwords
You can find WolfSong on Amazon, Sony e-bookstore, Nook and Smashwords. Basement Blues is on Amazon and Smashwords
