"I didn’t say anything Princess," Cynthia replied.
A woman who had been walking hand in hand with the birdcage picked up the frog and kissed it. Nothing happened; it didn’t turn back into a man, or a bird. The woman giggled, and kissed the frog a second time. "He’s a better kisser now. Maybe I’ll keep him after all." She told the crowd gathered around her. All the women broke into peals of laughter.
It took a couple of minutes for the LAPD swat team to pick up their truncheons and shields, straighten their helmets, and reform their line. By then the rollerblading witch was gone, and there wasn’t much the swat team could do but crack the heads of a few drunks and throw them in the paddy wagon for proper beating, er processing, down at the station.
"The report was accurate. Transmogrifying bird boy into a frog went beyond stage magic. We better find that witch."
"Transmogrify? Eggheads! Why can’t you just be a bimbo like the rest of us, Cynthia?"
"Hey, we all have our skill sets. It’s what makes us a good team. So quit your bitching and find that witch, before L.A. is infested with frogs. It’s hard enough to find guys to date as it is."
Bullet stopped in her tracks, as they say in Wyoming, arched her back, pushed up her breasts, and gave Cynthia one of those you-have-got-to-be-kidding looks.
"Not that I have any trouble getting dates," Cynthia said, acknowledging the thrust of Bullet’s argument. "But it’s hard to find guys I want to go out with a second time."
"That I believe."
* * *
By the time Pretty Caddy and Galaxy Light got to Santa Monica Boulevard the Parade was heating up, party wise and demon wise. They heard screams farther down the street but couldn’t determine the cause. A few minutes later a witch, sitting on a broom, rollerbladed through the crowd wreaking havoc, much to the amusement of anybody who wasn’t bowled over. One drunk raised his glass to salute the witch.
"How does the witch do that?" Galaxy asked.
"Demon power. I don’t know." Pretty Caddy threw up her hands in despair. The crowd and the situation defied explanation, and she didn’t like it. To LA’s jaded party set the demonic interruptions were titillating, the element of supernatural risk spiced up the party, was a new intoxicant. "This is the best Parade ever," people exclaimed between drinks. Pretty Caddy was tempted to abandon them to their fate, but her sense of professionalism prevailed. What else could a girl from Iowa do, she would have to save people in spite of themselves. They were victims, though she knew not of what. Stupidity probably, Pretty Caddy thought acidly.
Her mood was interrupted by a costumed demon appearing directly in front her, as if it popped up through the pavement. No, not as if, it did pop up through the pavement. She saw the crack it came through.
The demon looked like a voodoo god from a 1970’s grade B horror movie. It was tall, 6'5'' at least, and that was before taking into account the top hat it wore. Its black face was painted pale white, and it wore a white tux and tails, and white gloves. The demon leered menacingly at Pretty Caddy and she splashed it with holy water. Water drops sizzled and spat like cooking oil on a hot griddle, and wisps of smoke curled from the contact points. "The Devil’s children play while the cameras roll," the demon said and laughed a devilish laugh. It burst into black smoke and was sucked through the crack in the pavement.
"I thought that only happened in television shows," Galaxy said, as if she wasn’t sure if she should believe what she saw or not.
Pretty Caddy held up her container of holy water and peered at it. Galaxy had her own container. "This stuff really works. I thought that priest gave us tap water, to get rid of us."
"Maybe he should have; tap water is lethal," Galaxy quipped. She would only drink bottled water.
"I wonder what the demon meant by ‘while the cameras roll.’ "
"Strange thing for a demon to say. Unless–" Galaxy systematically searched the crowd and their surroundings. "Up on the roof, there’s a camera crew."
Pretty Caddy studied the camera crew through the zoom lens of her camera. "I don’t see a station logo. Television crews plaster their logo all over the place. Wait. I see something else. The cameraman has horns."
"Are they real?"
"I think so. But this is Hollywood, who knows." Pretty Caddy adjusted one of the settings on her digital camera. "The assistant has a tail."
"It’s time for takeout," Galaxy said in a resolute but ladylike voice.
Pretty Caddy groaned and lowered her camera. "We really need to hire somebody to write you better lines."
* * *
In a dank basement images of Pretty Caddy and Galaxy Light taking out the demonic camera crew flickered on a cheap video monitor. "Who are those two bitches killing my demons?" An angry voice shouted in the semi-darkness. "Blonde bimbos in bikinis are definitely not in the script. I don’t want heroes, this is a documentary."
Sacrifice them! Sacrifice them!
Red-horned Satan wants them
Satan orders you to slay them!
Sacrifice them! Sacrifice them!
The sole and slinkiest background singer in the demon chorus wandered out of the fires burning inside a pentagram. Uber evil jack-o’-lanterns lit with fluorescent black lights, personifying the face of demonic power, sat on every point of the pentagram.
"I need a replacement camera and crew."
The slinky, background-singing demon strolled leisurely up to the creator of this tabloid scenario and patted his cheek. Oily skin rolled off like smegma. "Ooh, gross!" The demon wiped its hand and talons on his shirt.
Michael Moore, failed documentary maker, was in sorry shape. Weeping pustules were breaking out all over his face and body, and his sight was burning out. He could barely see the raw film feeds he was editing on the monitor he crouched in front of. Supremely envious of his famous namesake and ruined financially by decades of failure, he had made a deal with the Devil. In exchange for his soul the Devil had agreed to unleash his demons on West Hollywood’s Carnival so Moore could have more one more kick at the metaphoric film can and produce a hit. The Devil was exacting his dues, but failing to provide an adequate budget. Moore had never expected the Devil to be a skinflint, although it was well known that Satan cheated whenever possible and inserted invisible clauses into contracts. Snooze and you lose your soul was his motto.
"If you want anything more you have to give the Devil something." The slinky demon dipped its horns at the monitor, "Those two girls."
* * *
"We’re never going to find that witch in this crowd," Bullet complained, as they slowly worked their way up Santa Monica Boulevard.
"The witch is probably not the only demon at the Parade, Bullet.... Bullet, did you spot one?"
Bullet was gawking at costumed characters, but Cynthia couldn’t tell which one had caught her attention: the cross dresser wearing a combination of dominatrix outfit and frog man’s suit; the cardboard knight recycled from a Medieval Fair; the guy painted green wearing a hockey goalie’s mask and a Day-Glo jockstrap, or a clutch of escapees from a sci-fi con. "What’s so fascinating?" Cynthia asked her. Bullet was staring so intently Cynthia worried a demon had her in thrall.
"One of those guy’s looks just like Wha—"
Cynthia clapped a hand over Bullet’s mouth. "Don’t say it."
Bullet knocked Cynthia’s hand away and whirled around and glared at her. "Quit doing that!"
"You can’t mention characters from movies. This is a low budget story. A.B.R. can’t afford lawyers."
"~#*! Hollywood. They spend millions of dollars on promotion, and sue anybody who mentions their characters. And who is A.B.R. anyway? I’ve never seen him."
"Nobody has."
"It smells fishy to me. If I was still a state trooper, I’d investigate him."
"Caddy did. She couldn’t find much. Galaxy thinks he’s one of those alphabet agencies, but Caddy says no."
"Fine! Don’t clap your hand over my mouth again. Nobo
dy tells me to shut up."
"Can we get back to work now?"
"Yeah; we can look for demons, but what are we supposed to do if we find one, write it a ticket. I don’t even have my gun. They should call this outfit boobs on heels. We’re a joke."
Cynthia, smart girl that she was, decided silence was the best response, saying anything would just provoke Bullet and prolong her hissy fit.
They made their way up the street, ignoring catcalls and whistles and guys calling out ‘hey baby’ in preface to various invitations, all equally repellent. Bullet’s mood improved, she only broke one groper’s arm and let the rest off with a warning, if you call death threats a warning.
Cynthia and Bullet navigated around a keg party of Vikings and Goths wearing enough fish net to start a tuna fleet. Then pushed their way through a throng of gawkers and found themselves on the edge of a small clearing, in the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard. Occupying the center of the clearing was a blonde dressed like she had stepped off the streets of Manhattan, circa the 1950’s.
"She looks like Marilyn Monroe."
Bullet glared at Cynthia. "How come you can say that and I can’t say anything?"
"Proper names of real people aren’t subject to copyright or trademarks," Cynthia primly informed her.
Before Bullet could think of a rejoinder, or give Cynthia a good slap, Marilyn’s dress flew up and she tried to pin it down, exactly like in ... the classic scene from that famous movie. You know the one.
"You can say it! Titles can’t be copyrighted. Ah! I’m surrounded by ignorance." Cynthia felt a mood coming on.
Marilyn Monroe’s dress flew up again. "Why is her dress flying up like that?" Bullet wondered aloud. She’d never seen the movie, but she didn’t feel a wind, and being from Wyoming she knew what wind was, it came from ~#*! Canada.
She and Cynthia exchanged direct looks. "Demon!" They cried in unison.
"After her," Bullet shouted, and charged straight for demon Marilyn.
Demon Marilyn turned and ran, flitting effortlessly through the crowds. Cynthia had to push her way through, scattering apologies as she ran. Bullet forced her way through, heedless of the crowd in her pursuit of the blonde demon, who taunted them mercilessly, by stopping in every opening in the crowd to let her dress fly up and then flitting out of their custody. Demon Marilyn led them on a merry chase part way down Santa Monica Boulevard, hung a left at a bespattered paintball warrior in an elf mask, and darted into a side street. She paused in front of a shop door to taunt them. Her skirt blew up and she pinned it down, red lips forming a perfect O. An expression seen more frequently in fiction than in nature and as alluring as it is trite, demon or no demon.
Demon Marilyn turned and ran through a solid door like it was smoke. Despite their corporeal disadvantage in crowds, Bullet and Cynthia were hot on her heels and in close pursuit. A feat that was only possible because they had changed into sensible shoes in the taxi. Galaxy had not. She regarded sensible shoes as sartorial anathema and wouldn’t be caught dead in them. Cynthia thought Galaxy’s stylish heels were going to be the death of her, but it wasn’t possible to argue rationally with a footwear ideologue. Cynthia had tried, and failed.
Bullet consented reluctantly to wear high heels on stage and in the studio, but discarded them immediately after the shoot. Combat boots were her footwear of choice, but she had to admit they clashed with a string bikini.
Bullet didn’t need combat boots to kick down a door, which she proceeded to demonstrate, delivering a powerful kick that smashed the door open and almost knocked it off of its hinge pins.
"You have got to show me how to do that," Cynthia said.
"Buy a lock pick."
"Do you see the demon?"
"No. Maybe there’s a back room. I’ll check it out."
"I should go with you, for backup."
Bullet shrugged indifferently. "Fine, you can stun it with your polysyllabic lexicon for tedious discourse, and I’ll collar it."
"Bullet. I’m impressed. Did you come up with that yourself?"
"I dated a script writer last week. He wrote it for me."
"And you’ve been waiting all this time for a chance to use it, have you?"
"Yup." Bullet beamed triumphantly at Cynthia.
Cynthia resented Bullet’s attitude. "I was an army brat; my Dad taught me how to defend myself."
"I didn’t know that. What did your Dad do in the army?" Cynthia’s association with the military raised her a little higher in Bullet’s estimation.
"He was a quartermaster."
"What’s a quartermaster do?"
"He was in charge of drawing and quartering terrorists and war criminals."
"Cool." A cross expression flashed across Bullet’s face when she realized Cynthia was putting her on. "Stuff a rag in it Cynthia. They’re not allowed to do that anymore."
"You’re supposed to kill demons, not arrest them Bullet."
"Fine with me, but how are we supposed to do it? Clobber them with a chamber pot." Bullet had noticed they were in an antique store.
"There must be something here we can use for weapons. Check those armoires. I’ll take this side of the store."
"There’s an armory here? Cool. I feel naked without a weapon.... Where is it?" Bullet asked when she didn’t see a weapons locker.
"That row of furniture along the wall."
Bullet glanced at the row of furniture and back to Cynthia. "You mean those pimped up dressers?"
"Don’t damage anything; they’re valuable."
Bullet snapped off a mock salute, and walked away.
Cynthia searched the French quarter, skipped the Chinese porcelain, discarded the bric-a-brac as worthless, and surprisingly couldn’t find anything in the Early American Classics section, not even an iron fireplace poker. She thought for sure there would be weapons among the American antiques.
Cynthia looked for Bullet, hoping she had found something useful. Every drawer on Bullet’s side of the store was hanging open. She was rummaging in one of the drawers. "Find something Bullet?"
Bullet pulled out a fork and turned it over in her hand. "Nah. A fork. It’s silver plated."
"Silver might be good. Keep it."
"There’s a whole drawer full." Bullet started tossing silver-plated forks into her bag. "I feel like I’m shoplifting."
It was first time Cynthia had ever seen Bullet look guilty or embarrassed about anything. "Call it commandeering."
Bullet perked right up. "We took that at the police academy. Thanks." Bullet went to throw the last fork into her bag and changed her mind. "Let’s check out the back room," she said, holding a silver-plated fork in one hand.
They converged and walked together toward the back room. When they were almost to it Demon Marilyn attacked through the closed door, and the demon’s beautiful face transformed into a grimace of snarling, spitting evil. Bullet barely had time to overcome the startle factor and stab it with the fork. Demon Marilyn went up in a puff of smoke and the silver-plated fork clattered onto the floor.
Bullet picked it up. "It worked," she said in amazement.
"Better give me one of those forks."
Bullet handed Cynthia a couple of forks. "We should go back to the Parade and hook up with Caddy and Galaxy," Cynthia suggested.
On their way through the store Bullet picked up a sort of familiar looking device. "What’s this?"
"A brass blowtorch."
Bullet shook it. "It’s empty."
Cynthia had seen kerosene lamps somewhere. She looked around the store and spotted a row of beautifully decorated kerosene lamps lined up on a counter. "Maybe there is a can of kerosene for those lamps."
"I’ll see." Bullet ran off to look for kerosene.
Cynthia pulled out her smartphone. She had found what she was looking for by the time Bullet returned, carrying the blowtorch in one hand and a silver-plated fork in the other hand. "A sporting goods store should have something we can use for w
eapons. There is one on this block."
"Let's do it."
"It’s closed." Bullet sounded peeved. She wanted to get her hands on some serious weaponry. Silver-plated forks didn’t conform to her definition of a weapon.
"Do your thing."
Bullet booted the door open, and walked inside. "I don’t see a gun department."
"Look around, there must be something here we can use."
Bullet spied something of interest, and headed toward the back of the store. Cynthia went in the other direction. She found a selection of knives and picked up a large one with the head of an elk stamped on the leather sheath. The knife had an imitation pearl handle and bands of abalone shell above the finger guard and below the pommel. Made in China was stamped on the 6-inch blade. Cynthia pulled it out of the sheath, and hefted it. The knife felt comfortable in her hand, balanced. There was a slit in the sheath to hang it from a belt, but Cynthia was afraid the knife was too heavy for her bikini. She found straps with buckles in the camping section, and then commandeered two of the knives and went to look for Bullet.
The sound of hammer blows led Cynthia into a back room. She found Bullet flattening silver-plated forks, with a rubber mallet. "Take over Cynthia," Bullet ordered. Bullet tucked a silver-plated fork into the strap of her bikini bottom. "Keep yours. We’ll make arrowheads with the rest." Bullet put a cutting disc in a cordless drill, and began cutting the flattened forks down to size, leaving an inch behind the tines to use for a tang. In a surprisingly short time they had the forks mounted in stock arrows.
"Odd looking arrows," Cynthia commented, and picked up one.
"Demon bolts." Bullet scooped up the arrows and ran back into the store. Cynthia followed her to the archery section. Bullet chucked the arrows in an empty quiver, slung it over her back, and studied the high tech crossbows hanging on a display wall. She picked a powerful crossbow, complete with pulleys, balance weights, laser sights, LED wind speed readout, and arrow rack. She tested the trigger action, approvingly. Then she filled the arrow rack with bolts from her quiver.
"Do you know how to use one of those things?" Cynthia asked dubiously.
"Nothing to it. Aim; squeeze the trigger and the perp falls down. Just like a gun."
Cynthia eyed the crossbows on display. "Maybe I should take one."
Bullet looked askance.