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Follow the Rabbit
Last month I made progress on HJ7, Paging Dr. Jones, Swap, and The Monster That Became a Child. I also added Trapped in the Bathroom, Ket Eras, Death, Non-Optional Employment, and SnowRPG content to the list of things what need writing.
The List of Things What Need Writing:
- Vampire Drugs
- Swap Epilogue
- Magic ‘Taken’
- Swap II: Cursed
- The Woods
- Something About a House
- And Then There Were Zombies
- Where She’ll/He’ll Never Be Found
- Paging Dr. Jones
- The Monster That Became a Child
- Strapped to a Bomb
- Trapped in the Bathroom
- Ket Eras
- Non-Optional Employment
- SnowRPG content
Feel free to encourage me to work on something in particular, if a something in particular strikes your fancy.
“You’re gonna have questions,” the ket said, which was an understatement. They crouched well out of Katters’ reach, bouncing a little on the balls of their feet, ready to bolt if it looked like Katters was going to attack them.
“I’ve got a few things,” Katters said. “Questions are among them. What the fuck?”
The ket barked and Katters supposed it was a laugh. Their mouth was split into a toothy grin, wide and sharp, and their eyes were bright in a way that couldn’t be solely attributed to their yellow colour. But their orange ears twitched and cocked at odd angles — Katters did not have the ket’s full attention. Their mind was elsewhere.
The rain came down hard that Christmas Eve, rattling against the roof of The Katters’ and Zebra’s Inconspicuous Meat Pie Shop and Tonsorial Parlour. Inside, Katters and Zebra were curled up at opposite ends of the couch in the living room, sharing an obscenely large, blue comforter. Both had festive and obscenely alcoholic drinks, though they were not themselves in very festive moods.
“There’s something—” Zebra’s cheap Santa hat slipped down over his eyes and he pushed it back to its proper place. “There’s something off about this time of year.”
“Yeah,” Katters said, breathing peppermint. “I know what you mean.”
“I used to love Christmas. But now it all feels so forced.”
Katters nodded. “It’s, we’re, it’s because we’re adults, now. All the magic is gone.”
“Is that it?”
“No,” Zebra said. “I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think Christmas magic is rel— releg— I don’t think it’s just for kids. Adults can get into the Christmas spirit, too.”
“But they do it for the kids, get me? You get into the Christmas spirit because you’re spreading joy for small people. We don’t have any small people to foist Santa-related lies onto, ergo we have no Christmas spirit.”
Zebra took a thoughtful drink, a minty chill spreading into his sinuses and an alcoholic burn spreading through his chest. “No,” he said again. “I still don’t think that’s it.”
“Well, what is it, then, Mr. Smart Guy?”
“No.” Zebra sat up, energised by an epiphany. “You know what it is?”
“We’re on the naughty list. We’ve been seasonally ostracised by Santa Claus. There’s nothing to look forward to come Christmas morning — that is to say, no presents.”
“I thought presents were antithesis to the true meaning of Christmas. Rudolph said so.”
“Rudolph can go fuck himself. Presents are an enormous part of Christmas and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is a fool. But more importantly, Katters, this is a problem we have with a very simple solution.”
“Does it involve moving?” Katters sunk deeper into her comforter cocoon. “Because I’d rather not.”
“If we’re missing out on Christmas spirit because we’re on some kind of blacklist, then all we have to do is take some Christmas spirit for ourselves. Be proactive. Take initiative.”
“You don’t mean—”
“I do!” Zebra said, scrambling to his feet. “Tonight, we steal Christmas!”
K. Whimsy’s Books and Et Cetera — Sor’s bookshop — was five stories tall, and topped by a tree growing from the fifth floor balcony. The store looked out of place on the quiet street, surrounded by buildings much shorter than it.
Zebra leaned Sor’s body against the wall as she searched for a key.
“Sor,” he said, bored.
She hushed him. “Keep your commentary to yourself until we get into the lab,” she said. “The last thing I need is one of my employees finding out about this.”
“Right,” he said, and straightened. “Well, while you’re rummaging through my pockets, I’ll just unlock the door, shall I?”
Sor froze. “Oh,” she said. “Right. These are your pants.”
Sor broke into the pie-shop in the middle of the night.
She had to use up a vial to do it — one of the cork-stoppered containers filled with someone else’s magic she kept on her person at all times — but there was no avoiding it. The only other option was to wait until the pie-shop was open, and she had a very good reason for not doing that, which she had known earlier (just after performing two medium-sized spells and a small one) but which escaped her memory now.
She paused just inside the door. Shit, she thought. Was this a bad idea? It was probably a bad idea.