“Missed by a mile, you lazy hell-child,” a voice called from just beyond the grove.
“Maybe, maybe not,” came a steely reply.
TimTim’s ghost arms flared to life. Syl rolled her eyes. I wet my pants a little. Then two kids from Happy Camp (definitely living up to the name) stepped into the grove. They didn’t seem surprised to see us, just a little put out.
“See where my knife went?” a girl who could’ve passed for Malibu Barbie asked.
“It was supposed to land in me,” her companion clucked. “She’ll never become the assassin she aspires to be.”
“She can always be a lumberjack then,” TimTim motioned to the tree stump. “It’s in there, though you did almost cut my girl, Char.”
My girl, Char. Even though I was still wetting myself a little, TimTim’s words warmed me in a much better way, and emboldened me. “Yeah, what in the Sam Hill is wrong with you?”
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You might have noticed one of the side effects of my listening to so much NPR: I can sound like my grandparents. So, I tried to muster whatever pissed-off cred I could while pee-staining myself and raged. “Who the fu-u-u-uck are you dweebs?”
“Fu-u-u-uck?” Syl snorted. “Don’t tell me this is your first f-bomb, Char?”
Of course it was, and I gave up. “Okay, I’m a curse virgin. Happy, Syl? I don’t get knives thrown at me everyday.”
“I can respect that,” said the knife thrower’s companion who then came over and helped me to my feet. “It’s never good to be too loose with one’s language. Meaning is malleable, precision is precious, balance is beauty. I’m Qwapiwd and she’s Hell. Literally and figuratively.”
And that was Qpid in a nutshell. Quick. Deep. Poetic. Of course he also had bad breath and a romantic death wish, but who of us teenyboppers doesn’t have issues.
“Lovely,” Syl remarked. “More recruits.”
“Some kind of circle jerk about to happen?” Hell asked as she dug into the crumbling stump to retrieve her knife.
“You could say that,” Syl answered. “We’re about to jerk reality off. If we can find the right shrooms.”