THE GIFT (or The Great Penis Theft of ‘Aught-Eight)
By Terese Ramin, continued...

“The ‘wildergeek Café & Pub over on Main and Periwinkle,” Brokenoggin’s most recent purely human visitor to the local Dead ‘n Breakfast sobbed.  “Where that demon Wyvern hangs out.”

“Uhhuh, uhhuh,” Janice muttered, murmuring under her breath, “Bee-wil-der-geek Ca-fay” as she spelled out the name of Vicellus’ newest favorite place to torment…well, whoever happened to be around.  …  “And you’re sure Mr. Buzdug’s, ah…” she gestured south with her pen without looking up from her notepad “…is missing and not just…” a momentary pause to search for tactful phraseology “…shriveled from, say, cold or maybe fright or—”

“No!”  Mrs. Buzdug’s tears ran harder.  “My Edgar is an absolute stallion of a man, cold, frightened or just gone soft from loving me.  Oh!” 

She sank into an upholstered, armed chair.  When it attempted to embrace her (whether in comfort or capture was difficult to say) she shrieked and fled across the room to the relative safety of her mundane luggage.  Scream-summons activated by the shriek, Janice arrived simultaneously, which freaked out Mrs. Buzdug even more.  Again she opened her mouth to scream.  Firmly Janice clapped a hand over it.

“Get hold of yourself, Mrs. Buzdug.  We can’t do anything for your Edgar if I can’t finish filling out my report.”

“Report.  Report?!”  The alleged stallion’s wife shoved away from Sheriff Thinksalot, incensed.  “That’s all you police ever think about isn’t it, your paperwork.  Doesn’t matter what’s happened, could be a stolen penis, could be murder or mayhem, but if you don’t have your paperwork, ooooh no!  We can’t have that.  Nothing’s to be done then.  I told Edgar, I told him.  Not Brokenoggin Falls, I said, we’d be better off in Disneyland.  But no.  He wanted to come here.  Most magical place you can get to that’s south of the North Pole, he said.  And we’ve already mailed our Christmas cards right down the road from the post office in Christmas besides, he said.  It’ll be romantic he said, adventurous.  None of the neighbors have been.”  She drew a short breath, ranted on, “Well none of the neighbors have lost their penises either, I can tell you!  Oh!  This isn’t magic, magic is good, it’s supposed to be delightful, this is horrible, it’s the worst thing to happen ever.  What am I going to tell the children?”

But Janice didn’t have a chance to find out what Mrs. Buzdug might think to tell her children.  At that very moment someone else screamed across town and she was whisked away by the curse governing the Brokenoggin Falls ISSP (Instant Scream Summons Plan) to meet with her next missing penis complainant.

For better than a week it went like that: write up a complaint about one missing penis and she was screamed off to the next.  By the end of ten frantic, sleepless days Janice had one hundred-and-fifty missing penis grievances on file and no leads—primarily because she’d had little time between responses to investigate the ones already on the books.  There were days when a one Wyrd-Monster sheriff’s department was hardly large enough for a town of only 567 (sometimes). 

By noon of the eleventh day, Janice’s eyes were red and bleary from lack of sleep and she was ready for her inner beast to wake up and cut loose on the very next person who spoke in anything louder than a whisper, let alone screamed.

“Toothpicks?”  Poppy Krumholz, psychic waitress extraordinaire, handed Janice two minty green pieces of wood fresh from the dispenser beside the Chat ‘n Chew’s cash register.  A vat-sized mug of hot, milky coffee slid under Janice’s nose, which was currently resting close to the tabletop where the sheriff had left it with the rest of her face, inert on her fists, after slumping into a plastic-covered chair.  

“Mfankyew,” Janice mumbled.  A single forefinger twitched in the direction of the toothpicks.  Possibly if she propped her eyelids open…

“Chew on them,” Poppy suggested.  “Emma Mincement swears they work better’n breath mints.” 

“Doneenostinkinbrefminstahunforpenishes.”

“I can see that.”  Poppy sashayed away, swinging her hips.  “I’ll bring you a straw for your coffee and see if we’ve still got that lead shield from the last time you got too many scream-ups in a row.  Maybe that’ll help.”

When she was gone, a few moments of blessed silence reigned.  Then a hesitant plink-clunk on the floor next to Janice’s chair and a somewhat “clawed” scratch across her uniformed right arm caused her to rouse.  Vicellus hopped onto the back of the chair across from her, a picture of two-headed orange and gold smugness.  In his tail mouth he held raggedy bits of…well, Janice couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it looked disgusting. 

Reluctantly Janice sat up.  She’d never known Vicellus to have a taste for anything that didn’t bleed.  He gave her a toothy, very dragon-y grin—and canted both of his heads toward the floor on her right.  Misgivings high, Janice tipped her head to look over the edge of the table.

Story © Copyright May 2008 by Terese daly Ramin. All rights reserved.