Peter, Peter

I’m not completely evil.

But I am a witch, and I don’t like being crossed.

On the third claw, the Threefold Rule is a bitch, so you’d best be careful when throwing around curses in a raving fit.

So I have become – how shall I say it? – judicious in my evilness.

Yes, the emphasis is necessary. That’s one of the ways to get around such things, like consequences.

For instance, the head of an HOA. You know the type – cruises around the neighborhood, looking for “violations” of “policy,” and handing out fines left and right. And, naturally, the HOA members never see one lick of benefit from all that money collected. Hunh, wonder where it goes? As much as I’d like to explode their tiny little heads and spread their entrails for the entire Haruspex Society to be able to read from space, a little delicacy must be used.

Like I said, I’m not completely evil. But I know a lot that are, in fact, completely evil. So much so that I buy my familiars from some guy downtown, who has the magical equivalent of a puppy mill set up. Something about a nexus point, a dock disaster in the past, and a raccoon he rescued from a meth dealer. Chet is definitely not all there, literally, and he chases danger like he’s got thumbs. If I were to send him over to the HOA head’s garage, for instance, with a small saw and some lock picks, Chet would gladly sacrifice his life over and over, breaking into a certain garage, and sawing away at the brake lines.

He claims he doesn’t mind, taking on the evil mana. So far, HOA Head’s gardens have been completely destroyed twice, her dog stolen three times (and when the backyard doggy mansion burned down during the third vanishment, the dog stayed missing), her gourmet trees completely denuded twice with spongy moth infestations, and her custom-built patio struck by lightning four times. The fourth time resulted in an explosion that took out her solid brick chimney, brickbats exploding like toothpicks, from sub-basement to attic above the fifth story.

I’ve had to replace Chet three times. He says he doesn’t mind at all, he’s having the time of his lives.

Don’t worry about the dog. Feefee is living his best life a few towns over, with a fellow witch. Well, Wiccan. She loves high-strung Pomeranians, and FeeFee loves witches with ADHD. No shade at all, just… uncanny. In a pink pixie creepy way. Well, someone’s got to.

And, oh yes, we completely fined Miz HOA Head for all damages. It brings down the resale value of the neighborhood, you know.

When freaked-out neighbors sold and moved (at a loss), I put out the word. Some of my friends and associates may have moved in.

There were ghosts and haunts that moved in with the new neighbors. It changed the vibe, for sure. Lots more foxglove and snakeroot sprang up, almost overnight, and every single dog developed an eerie howl.

Miz HOA Head could see which way the wind blew (usually a straight-line wind shear that hit her house, and only her house, for four storms running), but she was too stubborn to give up. Besides, we could see our unearned fines hard at work, building an extra wing or two onto her McMansion. And damage repairs, of course.

Too bad one of the masons was on our side, and layered some spells into the new brickwork. Sigils are easy to carve and cover with a trowel.

She tried levying new fines for loud dogs, but had to forego that task, when Bruno shredded her fine book. Who knew, that a teacup Chihuahua would have that much fight?

Then, somehow, she caught sight of Chet IV.

Now, there’s plausible deniability, right? He’s a raccoon. I have a woodlot off the back end of the property.

Except, Chet had taken to wearing ties. And pants.

So much for subtlety. Except that words are quite slippery, and “subtlety” has more than one meaning.

And most practitioners of The Craft know: change the font, change the effects.

I loathe Times New Roman. Stilted, rigid, formal. There’s no wand in my cup, thankyouverymuch, Times New Roman just screams misogynistic masculine red pill vibery, and I’ll have none of that.

Arial suits me just fine, especially for this stubborn Aries.

I set to some scribing. Chet sat on my shoulder, and chuckled at what I was imagining.

Chet volunteered, of course. I protested. I think Chet was thinking he was a cat, and thinking he had nine lives, and could get away with spinning the wheel of fortune like it was a game. He informed me that he identified as a possum, and could play dead as often as necessary.

I was really beginning to worry about his sanity.

But, he had volunteered…

A few days later, Miz HOA Head’s flower beds were so ripped up, that it looked like her yard had been attacked by giant gophers. Chet made sure that she saw him come morning. He chittered at her, threw up both paws in the one-fingered salute, and booked it for my house.

She shrieked, and came after him, slippers and robe flying.

For all of his hurrying, Chet took a strange route. A hop there, a skitter there, a veering zigzag, a drunken body roll. He knew where the runes were placed, and the magic would only take hold if she hit them all, in the proper order.

See, neither myself or Chet were compelling her to do this. If, in her fury, she chose a particular path, well, that’s on her fate. And if she tripped the final rune, painted in salt water, on my own front door, by banging on it-

Ah, the dulcet tones of a rattling tattoo (the dance, not the inking), beating on my own front door...

I opened it, and she took a step back in surprise. Didn’t expect to see me skyclad, did you, with runes painted in beet’s blood, on my whole body? She stood there, stupefied, while I stirred a bowl of herbal components, then threw a handful at her. “Facto! Curcurbita! Pepo! Fiat!” I shouted.

My nemesis vanished.

*****

I’d swept up the evidence, and had a thorough scrubbing, by the time the police finally came around. Beet juice stains everything it touches, but I covered most of what didn’t come off by making a batch – or twenty – of pickled beet eggs. My kitchen looked like a gory murder scene whilst I was being interviewed.

No evidence, of course. I’d planned it that way.

Chet, sans pantaloons and corporate noose, hid in the tree out back.

I had planted, by the light of the spring full moon, what little remained. They wouldn’t find a thing anyways.

More associates moved in. The HOA now stands for “Haruspicy and Oneiromancy Association,” when the dream interpreters moved in aside of the entrail readers. We don’t levy many fines, because the Threefold Rule doesn’t screw around with those, either.

Miz HOA’s Former Head’s ex didn’t want the house, took back what she stole from him in the divorce, and left it to rot. It collapsed like an event singularity in quicksand one night, courtesy of the masonic runes.

Meanwhile, my back yard was choking in vines.

No, I didn’t take her life. That would have dire consequences, for both me, and Chet.

But transmutation? If one is clever, one can have delicious revenge, over and over, with few consequences.

A “subtlety” can also mean a special food, served up like an art form, with a story attached to it.

I now happen to make the best pumpkin pies in a tri-state area. People come from miles around to buy them. I’ve won awards at state fairs up and down the coast.

And I carefully save the seeds, and re-plant them. In my back yard, and in her former lawn. They take over fast.

Most don’t grow. But the ones that do, produce the most bitter vines, but the sweetest fruit-flesh.

If you listen closely, you can hear the screams in the steam, as they cool down.

Care to try a bite?