Casey Jones and The Bunch of Dead, Tranny Hookers (Chapter Four)
CASEY JONES AND THE THING THAT IS NOT A BERUVIAN MIRROR DEMON
I snatch up the compacts and drop them in the purse.
“I told you to stay on the ground!”
I can feel Big Mama’s meaty fist rising to punch me in the back of the head, but I know what stops her. She sees a free-floating apparition of a man, translucent and blue, with a cloud of smoke for legs, appearing out of a compact which is held by a particularly ugly man-woman-thing. The Beruvian demon shoots a beam of energy down his/her throat.
I bolt from the conversion van and onto the street, purse in hand. The roller derby team makes a quick get away, as this is probably far too odd for them. Next time they kidnap me, I’ll have to bring that up.
“Hold up, demon!”
“Wait your turn, tranny.”
“Don’t let the purse confuse you. I’m dressed like a man.”
I’ll never understand Beruvian mirror demons, because that’s what made him drop just about the ugliest woman-thing I’ve ever seen.
“I sense something on you. What do you have in the purse?”
“Seven pounds of corn beef hash. My turn. What brings a nice Beruvian mirror demon like you to a stink-hole town like this?”
“Beruvian mirror demon? That’s ridiculous. It sounds like something you just made up.”
“That’s right! I did make that up,” the blood chokes my throat. I wobble a little from my probable concussion. “Then, might I ask, what are you?”
“Did you bring the mirrors here!? Well, you’ll never get them in a circle around me, hunter!”
I don’t know what that means. What I do know is this: One - I’m about to pass out. Two - I’ve got a purse full of broken mirrors that seem to magically arrange themselves in a circle. Three - I’m facing a large, incorporeal demon-genie thing that seems to be charging at me. Four - The incorporeal demon-genie thing doesn’t want said mirrors to be arranged in a circle around him.
So, I do what any other rationally thinking person would do. I scream like a girl and throw the contents of my purse at my attacker. He screams as the circle of mirrors seems to suck him back into the seventh, unbroken mirror, held by the tranny, who regains consciousness just in time to see me save him/her.
Seeing one of these things get sucked into a mirror is about all my newly developed vertigo could take. I drop to my knees when I’m sure I don’t need to run anymore. The tranny hooker steps over the seven mirrors and cradles my wobbling frame in its arms.
“You saved my life,” the thick, musky tone of a dock worker tells me. “You deserve a freebee.”
Correction, Mamma Jamma’s hands are now the second manliest hands to go through my pants. Time to pass out.
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