Moonflow

by Bitter Karella

Genres: Horror

Synopsis

Moonflow is three-time Hugo Award nominee Bitter Karella’s debut horror novel—a gloriously queer and irreverent psychedelic trip into the heart of an eldritch wood and the horrors of sisterhood. Answer the call of the forest, if you dare.

I see something out there, in the woods. It does not have a face. 

They call it the King’s Breakfast. One bite and you can understand the full scope of the universe; one bite and you can commune with forgotten gods beyond human comprehension. And it only grows deep in the Pamogo forest, where the trees crowd so tight that the forest floor is pitch black day and night, where rumors of strange cults and disappearing hikers abound.

Sarah is a trans woman who makes her living growing mushrooms. When a bad harvest leaves her in a desperate fix, the lure of the King’s Breakfast has her journeying into those vast uncharted woods. Her only guide is the most annoying man in the world, and he's convinced there’s no danger. But as they descend deeper, they realize they’re not alone. Something is luring them into the heart of the forest, and they must answer its call.

Release date: September 2, 2025

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 384

Sample

Greetings, fellow mushroom enthusiast! If you’re reading these words, it’s because you too have decided to join the exciting and rewarding world of mushroom hunting. The Pamogo Forest is well known as home to a stunning variety of unusual species, some found nowhere else on Earth. Of course, harvesting Pamogo mushrooms is strictly prohibited by state and federal law, so this book should in no way be construed as an endorsement of illegal mushroom harvesting. On the following pages, you’ll find a wealth of information about some of the species that you might encounter in the Pamogo. Learn and enjoy!

—Field Guide to Common Mushrooms of the Pamogo Forest, T. F. Greengarb (1978)

Sarah never met Madeleine in the same location twice. Before they were scheduled to make an exchange, Madeleine would text Sarah—always from a different number—to tell her where they were going to meet. Sarah wasn’t entirely convinced that all the cloak-and-dagger theatrics were necessary. Her friend Damon insisted that the cops had once caught him with five grams of shrooms in his pockets, and they’d just laughed and sent him on his way. But Damon was a dude and cis and he worked a low-level office job in the financial district that required he always dress in a nice clean-cut suit and tie, so Sarah expected that the cops might not be as lenient if they caught her. She didn’t relish the idea of finding out, so she went along with Madeleine’s secret squirrel shenanigans.

This time, the address was an old Victorian in Alameda, spires already rattling with the bassy electronic beats of club music, revelers sprawling on the front steps and across the parched dirt of the desiccated yard. Sarah assumed that the house didn’t belong to Madeleine; she wasn’t sure how Madeleine always managed to find a new place for every party. She also assumed that the house definitely didn’t belong to the shirtless burnout who answered her knock. He grasped the stick of a half-chewed corn dog in his free hand, mustard smeared across his bare chest, and stared at her with unfocused eyes.

She had to yell to hear herself over the THUMP THUMP THUMP of the music. “Is Madeleine in? It’s Sarah. She knows me.”

The burnout furrowed his brow in concentration as he struggled to understand. “Sarah? Sarah’s not here, man.”

“Yeah, that’s funny. No, I’m Sarah. I’m here to see Madeleine. You know what, never mind—I’ll find her.”

He offered no resistance as she squeezed past him, her fingers brushing through his chest hair and coming away with a film of mustard. The burnout nodded stupidly and glared in confusion at the cat pack slung over her shoulder, but Herman, ever the little gentleman, didn’t even hiss.

The foyer, the dining room, the hallway—all were filled with writhing bodies, with the heat and funk of dancers in motion, a sweaty bubbling petri dish of COVID, plague, and who knew what worse diseases. The gushing sound of strenuous vomiting echoed from the upstairs bathroom and reverberated down the stairwell, where the more lethargic revelers sat, their arms entwined with balusters. A film projector in the den was showing an old silent stag reel against a shower curtain draped over a bookcase, and a half dozen viewers sat crouched in the darkness, sucking on joints, as they watched black-and-white footage of a chubby 1920s ingenue frolicking around a fountain. Sarah squeezed between the bodies, always a few steps ahead of the mustard bouncer trailing in her wake, who was still insisting, in a voice now lost among the noise, that “Sarah isn’t here, man.”

Madeleine was in the palatial kitchen, holding court in a rattan peacock-backed chair with a whole battalion of new friends crowded onto folding chairs and ratty couches, around a table loaded up with pills and poppers and nugs and baggies and grinders and spoons. These new friends were probably all eggs, since Madeleine, with her easy laugh and her ageless beauty and her propensity to say things like Sweetie, you might look nice if you grew your hair out—have you ever considered that, attracted a certain sort of guy who was “just feeling some stuff out.” Prior to transition, Madeleine had abused her body in ways that hormones and makeup had completely erased: She had beautiful sleek alabaster skin and smooth hands, her mascara always flawless and her lips always a bright cherry red that contrasted with her pale skin but matched the bright cherry red of her double-breasted business jacket with the ridiculous shoulder pads. She smoked cigarettes through an old-fashioned cigarette holder, something that Sarah had only seen in cartoons. She looked like a vampire, and Sarah was never sure if she was deliberately cultivating the look or if she’d simply never realized that the ’80s were over.

“Madeleine, your man out front’s dribbling mustard all over.”

“Arnold, let Sarah through. And for God’s sake, put a shirt on!” gushed Madeleine, clutching at the arm of one of the new eggs. “The rest of you, shoo! Mama’s got business to discuss!” The crowd and the mustard guy dissipated, melting back into the party and leaving Madeleine with just her new favorite and Sarah. “Sarah, sweetie! So glad you could make it!” She leaned over to whisper loudly into the egg’s ear, “You have to see this. Sarah here is the best—she’s just got the most incredible green thumb.”

Sarah dumped her fat ass onto a now unoccupied couch and placed her cat pack in her lap. The party was in full swing out in the living room, louder than ever, and the throbbing strobe light threw the long shadows of dancers across the kitchen ceiling. Through the crack of an open door behind Madeleine, Sarah could see a bed set up in the laundry room and two anonymous shapes writhing under a sheet. Madeleine’s parties were always so sordid. Sarah didn’t know how Madeleine could get high in this kind of situation. Sarah preferred the safety of her own home, an ambient chillwave mix playing, her hand stroking Herman’s back. That was the way to do it. A much more spiritual high and all the better to avoid the paranoia and the bad thoughts. Sarah remembered the mustard on her hands and wiped them against her knees.

“Nice to meet you,” said the egg, who was tall and buff and sporting a bushy dysphoria beard. This egg might have fooled Sarah except that hanging around Madeleine was the biggest tell of all. Just like Madeleine seemed to have a new house every time that they met, she also seemed to always find a new egg to dote on her. Sarah knew from personal experience that eggs didn’t take long to crack around Madeleine.

“Sorry about Herman,” said Sarah, pointing to the cat. Herman howled pitifully. He hated being cooped up. He was convinced he would never be free again, as is the way of cats. “You mind if I let him out? He won’t be a problem. He loves people.” Sarah didn’t wait for an answer as she unlatched the pack and Herman waddled out. He was a beautiful fat black cat with big yellow eyes. He surveyed the party with interest, but he stayed close to Sarah, butting his head against her shin until she was forced to reach down and scratch his head. Herman always conducted himself like a little gentleman.

“You brought your cat?” said Madeleine.

“He doesn’t like to be alone.” That was all Madeleine needed to know. Sarah didn’t dare leave him at home, in case the landlord changed the lock while she was out. Herman wouldn’t survive that separation; he was a consummate bogmoggy—whenever Sarah closed the bathroom door, he would plant himself outside and cry until he could see her again. He loved his scritchies. “I can’t stay long, sorry. Let’s just do this, and I’ll get him out of your hair.”

Madeleine frowned but she didn’t object, so Sarah started pulling plastic bags from the side pouch of the cat bag. “You really called at the right time, Madeleine. I just had a great harvest of Fire Imps—take a look at these.”

She placed a plastic bag full of dried mushrooms onto the table. Madeleine pinched it between a thumb and a forefinger and held it up to the light, examining the contents with a critical eye, before passing it to the egg for approval. As if the egg would know anything about quality. Sarah was very proud of her Fire Imps (Agaricus infernus). Nobody grew them better than her. The deep blue color of the stems indicated a high psilocybin concentration. These were good. You could probably trip out on just one. Sarah watched, chewing her lip nervously. She really needed this sale to go well. She really needed the money.

Finally, Madeleine said, “Oh, sweetie, Fire Imps? You can’t be serious. No one is taking Fire Imps anymore.” She shoved the bag back toward Sarah. “They’re passé.”

Sarah felt her face drain. “Come on, Madeleine! You love Fire Imps.” She tapped a finger desperately against the fully packed plastic bag, pointing to the product. “Look at the color—you know these are high yield. No one else grows them this blue.”

Madeleine sucked on her cigarette thoughtfully and released a puff of smoke from her mouth. “I can’t serve Fire Imps to my guests. They will think I’m dreadfully gauche. Very last season. That just won’t do.”

Madeleine could afford to be picky. But Sarah had needs that Madeleine, with her endless supply of party houses, couldn’t fathom—like the need to pay the rent and the need to refill the fridge. She hadn’t worked in months, not since she lost that job at the coffee shop. The last harvest was wrecked by mold. Then there was Herman’s vet bill. And then Jade moved out, and suddenly rent got real expensive real fast. Damon kept saying that she should start an OnlyFans, hinting that there were lots of people who would pay good money for pictures of a naked fat girl, but Sarah knew from experience that porn wasn’t the instant money solution that Damon thought it was. Besides, she had enough experience fielding annoying chasers online just from posts of dinner selfies, so she didn’t relish the idea of opening those floodgates again. God, everything had been so much harder since Jade left. Sarah had sold everything that she could sell, everything except for Herman (she would never sell Herman) and the terrarium under the sink, and she kept that only in hopes that Madeleine would pay enough for the harvest to save her. But now what was she supposed to do?

Her empty stomach ached; she’d been living on instant ramen and ketchup packets for too long. And poor Herman got only the dry food now.

Sarah wasn’t too proud to beg. “Madeleine, please. I’m in a bad spot.”

Madeleine pushed the bag back across the table toward Sarah. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but of course I’ll help you. You know I wouldn’t leave my favorite girl in the lurch. You know I’ll always help you out. When haven’t I come through?”

“Thank you, Madeleine. I really mean it.”

“But I need you to do something for me. Have you heard of the King’s Breakfast?”

The egg shifted uncomfortably. In the other room, the figures under the sheet were reaching the crescendo of their thrusting.

“No.”

Madeleine reached under the table and produced, seemingly from nowhere, a ziplock bag full of dried mushrooms. They were not Fire Imps.

“I got this sample from a friend. You really need to try this. As a connoisseur, I want your opinion.”

Sarah did not like the idea that Madeleine had found another supplier. That did not bode well at all. Madeleine’s mushrooms were white tinged with yellow, the caps tight and rounded and oily, and the fruiting bodies so tightly packed in that they all looked like one single big lumpy shroom until Madeleine started to break them apart and hand them out—one to Sarah, one to the new egg, and one for herself. Sarah turned it around in her hand to inspect the delicate fluting of the gills and search the thick knobbly stem for evidence of blue stains.

“There’s no blue at all. Looks pretty weak.”

“Try it before you say anything.”

Sarah squirmed. “You know I don’t like to get high in crowds. I don’t do well.”

“Just try it. Trust me. I promise you can’t have a bad time on the King’s Breakfast.”

Madeleine and the egg popped their shrooms whole into their mouths, so Sarah sighed and, against her better judgment, followed suit. It was only one shroom, after all. The dried body was rubbery between her teeth, tasting of musk and dirt. Sarah knew it could take up to an hour to feel anything, but she was tripping minutes later.

The room was suddenly awash in colors, beautiful shades of purple and blue, like living at the bottom of an aquarium. Her whole body tingled with unexpected arousal. Oh my God, thought Sarah. BOOM BOOM BOOM, the beat of the music thundered louder and louder until it felt like the whole house must surely collapse. She leaned back into the chair, the exquisite softness of the cushions enveloping her, and stared at the ceiling.

Herman, grown to the size of a panther, regarded her with big yellow eyes.

“Heeeey, Herman,” said Sarah. “Who’s a good baby? Come sit next to Mama.”

Sarah patted the cushion next to her. The giant cat jumped up onto the couch, climbed nimbly onto her lap, and started to rumble softly. Sarah scratched him between his ears and ran her hand down his back, marveling at the incredible fractal patterns improbably forming in his black fur. He seemed way fuzzier than usual, as if he’d been run through a dryer and all his hair was standing on end from static cling. The idea struck her as hilarious, and she wanted to laugh.

I think I’m going insane, said Sarah telepathically.

Herman telepathically assured her that, no, she was not going insane and that, in fact, everything was great.

“Right on,” said Sarah. The couch cushions had never been so soft, so comfortable. She thought of the King’s Breakfast and the marvelous mellow high she was having, despite the chaos of the party swirling around her, and that pleasant thought caused rainbow-shimmering mushrooms to blossom from the floor, spreading their gills and unfolding up toward a beautiful yellow sky (oh, apparently they were all outside now—whatever, just go with it), bigger and bigger, until they were the size of trees and Sarah was lost in a beautiful fungal forest. She saw a flickering image of someone else crouched on the couch next to her, and she was too stoned to be anything but pleased when she realized it was another her. This other Sarah was curled into a little ball, naked, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her shins. A carpet of green moss blanketed her shoulders, and a constant billow of brilliant, glittering spores rose off her and floated into the ether. The doppelgänger’s feet burrowed into the pillows of the couch, which were suddenly dirt, her toes turned to long stringy roots. A tangle of toadstools grew from each of her eye sockets, and a serene smile stretched across her placid face.

“Wow,” said Sarah. “That is crazy.”

She watched as her doppelgänger suddenly curled open like a chrysalis, something large and bright emerging, too beautiful to behold, although Sarah got the impression of a perfectly symmetrical pair of cantaloupe-sized breasts and two kindly outstretched hands. The goddess was reaching out to her and Sarah wished desperately, with the sudden onslaught of emotions that always accompanied a shroom trip, that she could reach back. In the corners of the room, friendly fuzzy things bounced and tumbled like raccoons at play, always darting away when she turned to look at them directly.

“Pretty intense, isn’t it?” said Madeleine, breaking the spell. “Are you getting visuals?”

“I am,” said Sarah, still staring at the blinding beauty of the emerging goddess and the full, ripe breasts upon her chest. They were huge and very distracting. “But never like this before.”

Madeleine and her friend, who were both staring into nothingness, eyes wide, smiles wider, swayed to music that only they could hear.

“Where did you get this?” asked Sarah, stroking Herman’s back until the cat purred so loud he rattled. The good feelings continued to swirl in her head.

Madeleine ignored the question, returning the bag to its place under the table. “Now that you’ve tried it, I think you’ll agree that the King’s Breakfast is definitely poised to be the next big thing. Someone who could grow this would really make a killing. In fact, if you were to turn your expertise to the King’s Breakfast, we could both make a killing.”

Back home, under the sink in the bathroom where Herman was forbidden to go, Sarah had a shotgun terrarium made out of an old plastic tub, filled with rice flour and vermiculite and little discs of white fuzzy mycelium carefully perched on squares of tinfoil, shoved next to a humidifier. She grew Fire Imps and Jupiter Scrotums (Lactarius jovus) and Pink Venom (Amanita rosacea), all fine cultivars and, when Sarah grew them, all very, very, very blue. Like Madeleine said, she just had a green thumb.

“Of course I could grow this. I’d just need to get some spores.” Sarah glanced back to the empty space next to her on the couch; there wasn’t even a depression in the cushions to reveal that the goddess had ever existed. But of course she never had. She was just a mushroom hallucination. Sarah could feel her sudden absence so acutely it hurt. She wished the goddess would come back.

“Oh, sweetie, that’s what I like to hear!” Madeleine coughed and wrung her hands, suddenly nervous, which was weird, because Madeleine was never caught without words. It must be the King’s Breakfast affecting my judgment, thought Sarah. That was the only possible explanation for that.

“It grows up north, in the Pamogo woods. I’d go myself, of course, but…” Again the hand-wringing, the sudden nervousness. “I don’t thrive in nature. You know how it is.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with the Pamogo?”

“What? Nothing’s wrong.” Madeleine smiled. “It’s a perfectly ordinary forest.”

“Is it haunted or something?” Sarah had heard that name before, but she was still too dazed on the King’s Breakfast to recall any specifics. Herman trilled as she ran her hand down his back.

Madeleine laughed. “I’ve never known you to be scared of ghosts! Maybe it is true that sometimes hikers go missing in the Pamogo, maybe even a statistically significant number of hikers, but that’s just what happens when you go traipsing around in the woods without knowing what you’re doing. You, sweetie, will not have to worry about that, of course. I have a friend up in Las Brujas, a very old and dear and trusted friend, and he knows the Pamogo like the back of his hand. He’s already said he’s willing to be your guide. It would just be a couple days in the woods. You’d enjoy it. Think of it as camping. You’ll do this for me, won’t you, sweetie? Say you will.”

If Madeleine was willing to pay real money for the King’s Breakfast, Sarah was willing to do whatever she needed to do to grow it.

Sarah hefted Herman over her shoulder like a baby. The cat blinked in baffled confusion for a moment but quickly adapted to this new reality. “I’d need someone to watch Herman for me.”

Madeleine frowned at Herman, who had closed his eyes, his tongue blepping in idiot pleasure, as Sarah kneaded the top of his head. Madeleine was a known dog person. Sarah could see her doing the mental calculations about whether it would be worth it to put up with a cat for a few days to get access to a completely new drug.

“Fine,” she said finally. “I’ll watch your cat.”

“I’ll give you instructions.”

Madeleine threw up her hands. “I’ll even follow your instructions.”

Sarah was feeling way more hopeful when she took her leave. She even patted the egg tenderly on the shoulder as she passed. He looked like he was having major revelations under the King’s Breakfast, so Sarah just said “Good luck there, friend” as she took her leave. Madeleine could deal with the fallout.

Sloane Mill State Historic Park is the crown jewel in Northern California’s crown of jewels! Visitors to this unique and unusual park will find adventures well worth exploring, from the innovative lumber operations of Lazarus Sloane to the unique flora and fauna of the Pamogo Forest.

—Sloane Mill State Historic Park informational brochure (circa 1995)

The blond girl emerged from the car, and after exchanging a few muffled words with the driver and watching him pull away and disappear up the road, she stood awkwardly on the boardwalk outside the Dank Hole. It was the only bar in Las Brujas, and a buzzing neon sign in the window indicated that it served not just beer, but ice-cold beer. Skillet and the Hell Slut stood in the shadows, sharing a joint and watching to see what the girl would do next.

“She ain’t gonna go into the Dank Hole,” said Skillet as she passed the joint up to her companion. “No way, no how! She’s too pure for that. Lookit her. An honest-to-Gord little angel. I bet she’s never even seen a dick in her life. Completely unsullied. My Gord. Just look at her.”

The Hell Slut took the roach and sucked on it. “Skillet, I love you, but you don’t know shit about the world. I can tell you her whole life story right now: Daddy issues, bad ones. Ran away from home at, say, fourteen. Shacked up with some smooth-talking baby face in LA or maybe San Francisco. He had her turning tricks in a week. This morning, she finally had enough. She woke up early, took all the cash from Benny’s wallet—after all, it’s her money; she earned it—and hitched her way up the PCH—”

“Benny, huh? Her pimp’s got a name already?”

“Shut up. She’s a frugal gal, gotta make that cash last, so she’s been trading blow jobs for rides whenever she can. Except this last ride—that was just a nice retired couple coming back from their Yosemite vacation. She offered cash, but they wouldn’t dream of charging such a nice young girl. The husband wanted to fuck her, though. And he would have, if he wasn’t riding with his wife. He’s gonna resent that wife all the way back to Oregon or wherever the fuck they’re from.”

“Shit. How do you come up with this shit?”

“I’m not done. Any second now, she’s gonna go inside. She’ll play it cool, sidle up to the bar all casual and order a beer. The bartender’s not even gonna check her ID; he’s gonna say We don’t get a lot of pretty ladies here in Las Brujas. She’s gonna look at him and wonder Does he want to fuck me or father me? Or both?

“I’m just passing through, she’ll say. I won’t be here long.

“Passing through to where? asks the bartender.

“The girl shrugs and drains her beer. Still trying to play it cool. Dunno. North.

“There’s nothing north of Las Brujas. Just the Pamogo.

“Then I guess I’m going to the Pamogo.”

“Ha ha, fuck you,” said Skillet. “You’re full of shit.”

The girl went into the bar.

“Ha ha, holy shit…” Skillet giggled. “Fuuuuck. I dunno how you do it.”

The Hell Slut passed the joint back down to Skillet. The Hell Slut was a big woman, tall enough that she had to duck to fit under the balcony and wide enough that she filled the whole boardwalk with her bulk. She was high in the temple hierarchy, second only to Mother Moonflow, and, as such, her rank came with certain privileges. She liked to take her bike down to Las Brujas on Saturday nights and throw back a few beers. Skillet came sometimes, clutching at the Hell Slut’s broad backside the whole ride and shrieking in giddy glee whenever the Hell Slut revved her engine.

Skillet loved when the Hell Slut brought her along. The Hell Slut always drank until her gut sloshed and then she’d get amorous, and then later Skillet would place her ear against the Hell Slut’s bloated belly and fall asleep listening to it gurgle softly. Fuck. Skillet was getting wet in her shorts just thinking about it, and she scratched at her crotch to adjust herself.

“Should we go in?” she asked impatiently.

“No. Give her a minute. She’s checking out the opportunities. She thinks she can play that dumb bartender; now she’s just waiting for him to offer something—advice or a place to crash or even a few bucks. He’s not getting involved, though. He’s not as dumb as he looks. Now she’s scoping out the other lowlifes in there—the drunk bikers, the punks around the pool table, the old geezers from the fucking Elks. She thinks she could work any of them if she had to. One of them would give her a lift or a crash pad or something, if she cared to put in the work for it. But she’s been working for it all day. She needs a moment. She needs to breathe. She’s gonna come out again.”

The girl came out of the bar again and sat down on the bench next to the door on the front porch and put her face in her hands. Skillet nearly lost her mind.

“Holy shit! How did you—”

“I been at this game a long fuckin’ time, Skillet.”

“I’m gonna ask her,” said Skillet.

“No. Not yet.”

“I’m gonna! I’m gonna do it!”

The girl was breathing deep and slow, her face buried in her hands. Now she seemed to notice that there were two other women out here with her, standing in the shadows. She could surely see the glowing red cherry of their smoke and could surely smell that they weren’t smoking tobacco. Skillet extinguished the light and emerged from the shadows to approach her.

“Hey, sister,” said Skillet. Skillet was a wispy girl with wide wet eyes, a shaved head, a skimpy crop top across her flat chest, and a pair of scandalously short denim shorts riding up her narrow ass. There was a splash of freckles across her cherubic face, and when she smiled, she revealed a massive gap between her front teeth. “You need a friend tonight? We’re from the Sisters of the Green Lady temple and we’re—”

“I’m not interested,” said the girl.

“All right, all right,” said Skillet, nodding. “Good vibes.” She returned to the shadows without another word.

The Hell Slut chuckled. “Bad opening, Skillet.”

“I had to try.”

“Just wait.”

Eventually, a young man—clean-cut, sandy blond hair, definitely fraternity material—came out of the bar.

“Hey, there!” He grinned at the girl.

The girl ignored him. Unlike Skillet, the young man didn’t take the hint.

He pouted and shrugged helplessly. “What, not even a smile? That’s cold.”

Now the girl looked at him, but she still refused to smile.

“Good,” whispered the Hell Slut. “Not tonight. Men always come stomping all over everything, always demanding all your fucking attention. Fuck them. Fuck this guy. Not tonight.”

“C’mon,” the man goaded. He stepped closer and now the girl was tensing up. “Just one smile. I gotta walk all the way back home, ya know—I need a little something to keep me warm all that way. You don’t want me to freeze to death, do ya?”

The girl remained stoic.

“Hey, sister, this guy bothering you?” Skillet and the Hell Slut stepped forward together, and the girl gasped now that she could see that the Hell Slut was big, built like a bear, wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, a ring of studs through each ear.

“We’re just having a conversation here,” said the young man. The fact that he was still talking indicated that he wasn’t a local; he didn’t know whom he was talking to. He didn’t know to shut up.

“We weren’t asking you,” said the Hell Slut.

The girl’s face twisted with indecision. Skillet could tell she was fighting the urge to say No, he’s not bothering me—everything is fine. That was what she was supposed to say, anyway. But the young man was too close, too cloying, and the girl was tired. It took so much to get away from Benny… Was she going to stop now?

So instead she said, “Yeah. Yeah, he’s bothering me.”

The Hell Slut grinned. . . .