Curses!

by J.A. Kazimer

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Mashups; Humorous Fantasy

Synopsis

Definitely not for baby's bedtime reading, this hilarious and irreverent take on classic fairytales - think Shrek for grownups - combines humor, mystery, and characters only a fairy godmother could love... When Cinderella is run over by a New Never City bus, her not-so-ugly stepsister, Asia, suspects murder. So she hires RJ, a private eye, to investigate. Little does she know RJ is actually a villain on mental health leave from the Villain's Union. Cursed with an inability to say no to damsels in distress, RJ travels to the Kingdom of Maldetto, meets the rest of Cinderella's family--including her fianc, the flamboyant Prince Charming, Cinderella's crazy stepmother, and a seriously twisted version of Hansel and Gretel--and dodges bullets, explosions, fires, and his own ex-wife to slip his own version of glass handcuffs on the wrists that fit. All while falling for Asia, who has a curse of her own to deal with...

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 320

Sample

A delivery kid stood in front of me in the pastel hallway of my four-story walk-up on the edge of the Easter Village. His hands juggled a grease-stained bag. My own arms juggled a week’s worth of junk mail. I shoved an official-looking paper toward the kid. “This is bollocks.”

The kid shrugged.

I waved the paper under his nose. “The union thinks I need a vacation. That I’m suffering from some kind of post-villainous-related stress.” My eyes bulged and spit flew from my lips. “What kind of crap is that?”

“Whatever,” the delivery kid said. His spiked green hair and facial piercings gave him a clownish appeal. The aroma of red curry noodles from Villainous Van’s Corner Bistro wafted in the air between us.

“What are they thinking?” I shook my head, counted to ten, and ran a hand through my already rumpled black hair. “Mandatory mental health leave? Are they afraid I’ll go postal or something?” This made little sense since I didn’t even work at the post office. “Come on. I’ve suffered greater defeats and managed to pull through.”

“Listen, Mac,” the teen said to me. My name wasn’t Mac, or anything that resembled Mac. Some people called me RJ, at least to my face.

“The total’s ten bucks,” the kid said. “Either pay me or I’ll feed your dinner to the rats.” The kid motioned from my dinner to the furry creatures dressed in tiny felt hats that roamed my darkened hallway like a demented version of Dancing with the Villains rejects. I rolled my eyes, muttered something about kids today, and dug into my jeans for some cash.

“Don’t forget my tip,” the kid added.

I’ll give the little shit a tip. I smashed two fives into his palm and snatched the bag from his hand. My boot kicked the door closed with a loud bang. The kid yelped, sending me into a fit of villainous laughter.

A few seconds later, the kid said, “Thanks, mister.”

He sounded happy, which made me unhappy.

Shit.

Yanking a wad of bills from my pocket, a wad considerably smaller than it had been a minute ago, I pulled open the door and watched the teen practically tap-dance down the hallway, a hundred-dollar bill clutched in his hands.

My crisp hundred-dollar bill.

“Darn it,” I yelled, booting the door closed again. “I can’t take much more.” I’d been out of work, suspended without pay, for six days. Six long days. Six days of fluffy bunnies and happy thoughts. All due to one little slipup and the union’s subsequent curse. The worst part was, now, no matter what I did, it turned out ... good ... nice.

Take yesterday, for example. I’m walking down the avenue, minding my own business, when a little old lady calls out, “Son, would you mind helping me carry this package? It’s a basket of cookies for my granddaughter. She’s five... .”

On and on she went.

Rather than telling her to shut up and snatching her cookie basket, I found myself lugging twenty pounds of pastries four blocks up Avenue XYZ while exchanging recipes with the demented old dame.

What kind of villain does that?

I hated being nice, even more than I hated helping people. And I hated that more than curds and whey. But the union had voted, and I would remain cursed, forced to be nice to any idiot around, until they deemed me mentally stable enough for bad-guy duty.

Feeling sorry for myself and hungry to boot, I stalked across my living room and dropped down in my favorite chair.

My favorite chair screamed in response.

“Wha—?” I jumped up and flicked on my lamp.

A redhead in tight black leather glared at me from my seat. Her vivid emerald eyes sparkled with anger, and just a hint of something else. Something not very nice, but infinitely more interesting than a basket of cookies.

“Don’t you look before you sit?” The redhead’s lips curved into a frown, which only added to her beauty. She looked like sin, the dirty kind with plenty of sweat and saliva. Long copper hair curled down her shoulders, clinging to the outline of her C-cup breasts. The rest of her body was smoking with long, toned limbs and lots of pale skin.

“Who the heck are you?” I pointed the greasy bag in her direction. Before I could stop her, she snatched it from my fingers. I watched in amazement as the interloper dove into my curry noodles with the gusto of Goldilocks during a bout of bulimia.

“Hey.” I stabbed my hand in her direction. “That’s my dinner.” I would’ve snatched the carton back, but I was afraid of losing a finger.

After a few minutes of gluttony, she paused to glance my way. “Sorry, but I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since five.”

I glanced at my watch and frowned. “That was like forty-five minutes ago.”

“Really?” She cocked her head to the side, showing off the pale skin of her throat. “It feels like an hour at least.”

“While I’d love to chat more about the relativity of time, I’d prefer you tell me exactly who you are and how you got into my apartment.” With each word, my voice grew louder and my tone grew more dangerous. While I might have lost my villainous powers, I could still make one little redhead cry.

Or not.

“Do you have any soda?” She smiled up at me. “Maybe a Diet Pepsi? All that MSG makes me thirsty.”

With an eye roll I started for the kitchen, pausing to berate my treacherous legs for obeying her command. But I couldn’t help it.

Literally.

I did whatever anyone asked, my own will completely ignored, as long as the requestor’s intent was pure. Twenty-eight years of bad luck guaranteed any request made by a knockout redhead in black leather was as pure as Sleeping Beauty. Damn it.

Reluctantly, I opened my refrigerator and popped open the last can of mead. A rush of bubbles rose to the surface, foaming over the can and dribbling down my fingers. I sucked the foamy goodness from my thumb and grinned. The mead would have to appease my uninvited dinner thief. I returned from the kitchen, sat down on the edge of my coffee table, and handed her the can.

She glanced at my saliva-soaked fingers and then at the can. “Thanks,” she said after taking a long drink. Tilting her head, she studied me for a moment. Her eyes examined every inch, from my scuffed boots to the top of my hair. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Oh, and what exactly did you expect?”

“Someone a bit shorter.” She frowned. “What are you? Six foot?”

I nodded.

“What do you weigh? Sixteen stone?”

Again, I nodded.

She shook her head. “Puny.”

“Hey—” Six foot, two hundred pounds was not puny, not by a long shot. Moreover, I was as fit as Hey Diddle Diddle’s fiddle. In my line of work, it paid to be, with all that running from angry mobs with pitchforks and such.

“No offense.” Her lips lifted into a smirk. “Maybe you could bulk up for the job? Eat more.”

Rage flashed through my bloodstream like a boiling cauldron. “Eat more?” I strangled out, my eyes burning into my nearly empty carton of curry noodles and back at the redhead with a dollop of curry on her upper lip. What I should’ve said was, “Job? What job?” But I didn’t. I blamed my dropping blood sugar for the mistake.

The redhead grinned, lifting the nearly empty carton my way. “Oh, was this your dinner? There’s an egg roll left.” As she said those words, her eyes locked onto the greasy cabbage roll, as if debating eating it.

I grabbed the egg roll, crammed it in my mouth, and spewed leafy green strands at her as I repeated my earlier question. “Who the heck are you? And why are you here?”

“My name’s Asia.” She paused, her eyes boring into mine. Don’t say it, my brain begged, but just like a woman, she said it anyway. “I need your help.”

“Asia ...” I tapped my finger to my chin. The vaguest of memories flickered at the edge of my mind. “Your name’s familiar somehow. Have we met before?” I doubted it. She wasn’t a Villain Vamp, as we called the girls who lowered their standards enough to date my kind. So how did I know her?

She blew out a long sigh. “My full name is Asia Elizabeth Maledetto.” At my blank look, she added, “My stepdad’s King Maledetto.” She paused long enough to roll her eyes. “King of the land of Maledetto. You know, the kingdom that borders the northeastern part of New Never City?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” I shrugged. What the fuck was with the geography lesson? If I wanted to learn, I would’ve stayed in Charming School.

“Fine.” Her hands lifted to her round hips and she glared at me. “My stepsister’s Cinderella. Striking midnight now?”

Holy crap. I leapt from my seat on the table and paced around the room. Not that there was much room to pace. In fact, my whole apartment could fit into one of the three kittens’ missing mittens. “You’re the ugly stepsister!” I said with a frown. Yet this chick wasn’t ugly, not by a long shot.

“I’m one of them.” She shrugged as if the nickname didn’t bother her, but the look of hurt in her eyes spoke more than words could. The villainous, still hungry part of me took satisfaction in her pain. It served her and her princess-stuck-in-an-ivory-tower kind right.

“I’m sorry about,” I winced, “your sister’s accident.” Smashed under a bus was a bad way to go. I should know. I’d run over quite a few jesters and even a prince or two in my time.

“Thanks,” she said. “But it wasn’t an accident.”

I scratched my chin, not liking where this was going. “I have an alibi. I was at my mother’s in Queens of Hearts.”

Asia arched a flame-colored eyebrow. “Why would you need an alibi?”

“No reason.” I tried to smile, but it came off more like a grimace. “You were saying?”

“My sister’s death wasn’t an accident.” Her eyes met mine. “She was murdered. And I need your help to prove it.”

Damn. There was that word again. I started to say fuck no, but instead, the following string of words flew from my stupid lips: “Of course. Whatever you need.”

God, I hated myself. In an act of revenge, I chomped down on my treacherous tongue until it bled. Served it right.

“Are you eating your tongue?” For a brief second Asia appeared terrified at the prospect. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were that hungry.” She shoved her hand into the pocket of her leather pants and removed a lint-covered breath mint. “Here. Take this.”

Before I could stop her, she shoved the mint into my mouth. I wanted to yell “Are you fucking nuts,” but it came out more like, “Thanks.”

Damn it.

She smiled. “So you’ll help me track down her killer?”

“Why the heck not?” I stared into her green eyes, losing myself in their beauty. If a woman’s eyes were a window to her soul, I was in big trouble. Because the only image inside Asia Elizabeth Maledetto’s eyes was my own evil reflection.

“I’ll come back in the morning,” she said, “and we can begin our investigation.”

I nodded, watching her heart-shaped butt walk out my door and disappear down the hallway. Ugly stepsister, my ass. Hell, even the gayest of the rats surveyed her strut down the corridor.

“I’d do her,” said Tate, a pink felt hat-wearing rat with a lisp and a pronounced swish. The other, straighter rats rolled their beady eyes. To which Tate replied: “What?”

I closed the door before things got ugly and dropped into my favorite, now-empty chair. A cloud of dust exploded from the fabric and the sweet scent of pumpkin pie floated around me. I picked up the remnants of my dinner, surprised to see Asia had left a fortune cookie. I smiled at the plastic-wrapped goodie, picturing Asia’s emerald eyes.

Peeling the cookie open, I licked my lips in anticipation of its sugary goodness and informative, if not valuable, summation of my future. The cookie read:


Damn! Foiled again by a teen with more metal in his head than Snow White had sugar midgets.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho ...

Off to scrub delivery-kid spit out of my mouth I go.

I woke the next morning to the taste of dead toad (don’t ask) and turpentine, the only fluid strong enough to kill delivery-kid germs. My head ached, my eyes burned, and I coughed up something resembling Mary’s little lamb.

Outside my window songbirds chirped in chorus, slightly out of tune, but with the gusto reserved for flat-chested strippers. I picked up my boot and threw it at the window. My boot, of course, missed and instead of shutting the damn birds up, it tore a hole in my centerfold poster of Pamela Hans Christian Andersen.

“Hello?” Asia pushed open my bedroom door.

I blinked, stunned by her beauty in the early morning light. Today she wore a red leather miniskirt and a black sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled away from her face in one of those girly buns held together by some magic combination of dulled #2 pencils and fairy dust.

“Oh.” Asia covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you weren’t,” her other hand waved in my direction, “dressed.”

I glanced down at my nakedness and shrugged. Like her not-so-ugly highness had never seen a nude villain before. Hell, naked villains were a dime a baker’s dozen in Easter Village.

“Rough night,” I said. “Too much turpentine.”

“I see.” Asia paused, patting her flat stomach. “I’m starving. Do you have anything to eat?”

I shook my head and pointed to the kitchen and its nearly empty cupboards. Not a bone in sight. Old Mother Hubbard I wasn’t. “Help yourself.”

I didn’t have to say it twice. Asia disappeared down the hallway, leaving me staring after her. While my morning improved upon her arrival, I still felt the niggling fear that she wasn’t what she appeared. Not that I minded her appearance in the least. Literally. Spending time with a not-so-ugly stepsister in red leather beat the hell out of languishing away in my apartment.

Stumbling from my bed, I headed for the shower. The cold water did wonders for my chemically induced hangover, as well as my overheated libido.

Once I was squeaky clean, I tossed on a black “Your Lair or Mine?” T-shirt and a pair of faded Levi’s. I even took a moment to run a comb through my shaggy black hair. It paid to impress the client. Halfway presentable, I headed toward the distinctive scent of beautiful woman and coffee grounds.

Asia stood in my bare kitchen with my World’s Greatest V (the dishwasher had erased the rest of the word “villain”) coffee mug in her hand and a skillet of scrambled eggs cooking on the stovetop.

“My refrigerator had eggs in it?” I frowned, trying to remember the last time I went to the corner Fey grocer. A month at least, and that trip, I only bought a pack of Trojans. Fairy-dusted for her comfort.

Asia shook her head. A few stray ends of hair danced across her cheek. A hundred fantasies, all involving her royal ugliness, flickered through my head. Each one dirtier than the next. Most illegal in the Southern Fairy States.

“No eggs,” she said.

“What?” My eyes narrowed. None of my fantasies involved eggs, well, not the edible kind, to be sure.

“You didn’t have any eggs,” she repeated.

“So what’s that?” I pointed to the yellowish scrambled substance bubbling inside the pan. It smelled like eggs. Looked like eggs. Therefore, given my talents of deduction, it was in fact eggs. Yet I’d been fooled before. Mostly by my bitch of an ex-wife. The very woman responsible for my current cursed state.

Asia grinned, crooking her finger in my direction. I leaned in close enough to hear her whisper, “Do you really want to know what’s in the pan?”

“Nope.”

“Smart man.” She winked, filled a plate with an egglike substance, and handed it to me. I grabbed a fork from the drawer and dug in. It tasted like eggs too—buttery, light and fluffy. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman cooked for me. Hell, even my mum had ordered take-out.

I took a second bite. Warm. Tasty. Needed a little salt. “Ow!” I pulled a piece of concrete from my mouth. “What the hell’s that?”

Asia wrapped her fingers around mine, eyed the offending bit of gravel, and smirked. “Looks like a piece of brick.” She shrugged and tossed the debris into my sink. It smacked the stainless steel with a ping.

“Brick?”

Before she could answer, sirens echoed from the street below. I gazed out the kitchen window. A crowd had gathered. Fairy godmothers, rats in hats, and a little boy dressed in blue stood on the sidewalk, eyes wide as they took in the scene in front of them.

A man in a rumpled suit stood behind a string of yellow crime scene tape. He stooped down and picked up a goo-covered brick that lay next to an egg-shaped chalk outline. The cop’s eyes darted from the front porch of my walk-up to the brick in his hand. Another cop nodded to my window. I jumped back and glared at Asia.

Her lips trembled and tears rolled down her pale cheeks. After a few seconds, her tears dried and she crossed her arms across her chest. She mumbled, “I was hungry.”

“While you were getting dressed,” her drawn-out sigh reverberated around the room, “I noticed this egg just sitting on the brick wall outside. He looked so sad.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I was so very hungry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So when I saw him fall, I immediately ran to help him up, but I was too late.” She shook her head, glancing up from lowered lashes. “All the king’s horses and the king’s men couldn’t have saved him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Poor little egg.” A tear glistened in the corner of her eye. “I’m sure it was suicide. He had nothing left to live for.”

“Fair enough.” I dropped my plate of Humpty Dumpty into the sink and grabbed her arm. “But, sweetheart, in Easter Village eggicide gets you twenty to life.”

“Oh.” She eyed the evidence in her hand. “Maybe we should go.”

“You think?”

She sighed, grabbed a fork from the counter, and gobbled down the rest of Humpty as if it was her last meal. When she finished, we left my apartment through the back door, arm in arm, partners in a deviled deed.

“Nice ride,” I said, motioning around Asia’s Ford half-pumpkin, half-chariot hybrid. While the interior smelled like Thanksgiving Day throw-up, the vehicle handled like a dream and was surprisingly roomy. Asia shifted gears like a NASCAR driver, twisting in and out of the early-morning traffic.

“Thanks,” Asia said. “Cindi wanted me to have it.”

Cindi, as in the famed Cinderella, I deduced. Already I played the part of a PI, or rather a dick. Give me a couple more days and I’d unmask Cinderella’s killer.

But anyone who knew my villainous past would ask: Why?

The answer was surprisingly simple and seated next to me—one egg-murdering princess. I wasn’t planning our fairytale wedding yet, but I wouldn’t mind finding out if not-so-ugly girls really did work that much harder in bed. If I solved her sister’s killing, Asia would reward me, hopefully until I was limp and putty in her hands.

And if not, I’d kidnap her, lock her in a tower, and force her to weave knock-off Gucci handbags for the rest of her days. Because that’s what villains did, and I, current mental health leave aside, was one hell of a villain. I’d crushed princes, made my share of maidens cry, and even stolen a golden goose or two.

I smiled, eased my seat back, and closed my eyes as Asia drove us through a snarl of commuter traffic to the heart of New Never City. Next to me, she hummed a familiar song.

But I couldn’t place it.

Oh well, it will come to me, I thought as I closed my eyes.

A few minutes later Asia shook me awake. “Get up.”

I opened one eye and snarled. The afternoon sun blinded me, searing my innocent eyeball. During my brief cat-and-a-fiddle nap, my legs had cramped up under the dashboard, twisting me into a villainous pretzel without the salty parts. No rest for the recently-cursed-used-to-be-wicked.

Yawning, I peeled open my other eye and glanced around at the city in front of me. It was a beautiful sight. Skyscrapers and exhaust filled the sky. Pigeons dressed in pink dive-bombed passing tourists waiting in line at the falafel stand. Buses and cars sped past, as did the Pied Piper and a string of felt hat-wearing rats, coffee cups and the early edition of the New Never News, New Never City’s number one source of news, gripped tightly in their tiny, manicured paws. Shiny windows reflected the scene like a warped version of reality TV.

“We’re here.” Asia exited the Ford Pumpkin.

Here was Fairy-Second Street, the place where another chalk outline lay on the exhaust-stained blacktop. This one, however, told the story of Cinderella’s final moments.

I followed Asia from the compact and scanned the crime scene. In death Cinderella appeared much smaller, her chalk outline merely a speck on a busy city street. For some unexplainable reason wetness gathered at the corners of my eyes. I wiped a tear away.

“Spice.” A guy in a dark rumpled suit joined us on the sidewalk. He looked as worn as his clothes and just as outdated. Like a member of an eighties hair band once male-pattern baldness settled in.

“Spice?” I tilted my head, noting every detail about the man from his sagging jowls to his overly big nose. No wonder Asia needed me, if this was the best the New Never City PD had to offer. I mean, really, we stood in the middle of a crime scene discussing recipes, for fuck sakes.

“The reason your eyes are tearing up.” The cop nodded to my salt-smeared cheeks. “Sugar, spice, a. . .