Daylight. The author is wrapped in a striped blanket, holding a stuffed animal, flopped on her bed. Blazing white rays of sunlight stream through the window, lighting up her messy golden curls and haloing her small face. With a hand on her forehead, she awakes, curses, and glares into the sunlight. "Grrrrrrrrrrr..."
"Do I hear an angel calling?" comes a cheerful little German-accented voice beyond the door.
The author's pet cats, Polly with her kittens, Optimus Prime, Megatron, and Bumblebee, proceed Brunhilda, and curl up to the author affectionately. "Yes," the author says, "You know where your Fancy Feast comes from, don't you, loves?" while gently entwining her fingers into Bumblebee's soft gold and black fur. He purrs and rolls.
"Very late night, liebchen." Brunhilda fixes her with a look of loving, maternal disapproval. She begins to fill coffee cups, and slathering a bagel with cream cheese.
"Guten morgan, Brunhilda. Ja, I know. We uh... got a little tied up last night."
"That's what you said when you dated that boy in the Navy." The author blushes.
"I suppose coffee might have to wait." She regretfully puts the affectionate kitten, and her coffee cup down, and leads Brunhilda to the living room.
When we next meet Lady Slutskaya, she is bound and gagged with duct tape, screaming behind her gag. She affixes the author with a look of pure horror. The author, looking like a little girl, in a t-shirt that goes to her knees, chuckles a little that someone could be afraid of her. Brunhilda watches without emotion, inwardly chuckling at the usually gentle and laid-back author's way of handling Lady Slutskaya.
Kneeling next to Lady Slutskaya, the author reaches for the corners of the duct tape covering Lady Slutskaya's mouth. "Can you behave now?" She asks brightly. Lady Slutskaya nods her head briskly.
"Good."
With ferocity, the author tears the duct tape away, murmuring "Just like a Band-Aid" in a soft, soothing voice.
Lady Slutskaya lets loose with a shriek.
"Oh, stop that," the author says, mock-affectionately, patting Lady Slutskaya on the head, "It's no worse than a wax, which you desperately needed. You've got to do something about that mustache."
"I'm..."
"Yes, I know, you are Lady Slutskaya, and you don't like, have to, like, put up with this. But, it's my words in your mouth, oh Dear Monster that I've created. Behave and take a shower. I'm no good with knots, Brunhilda will have to untie you. I have work to do, I'll call you when I'm ready for you." With a pause, the author stands again, and looks back at the prone Lady Slutskaya. "You stink," she tells Lady Slutskaya, who for once remains quiet while Brunhilda's sure, pale, fat fingers make strangely short work of the author's double and triple knots. The author retreats to her cats and her coffee, mumbling about divas and tugging on a strand of hair.
Over coffee, she reads Brunhilda's note from the evening before:
"Pratty-Pants called. Expressed concern that Slutskaya is known for being difficult. Wants more money, a masseuse of his own, and a new Mercedes as payment."
Swiftly, the author dashes off a note to Sir Pratty-Pants.
"Dear Sir Pratty-Pants:
You do realize I created you? Do not make me remind you again. As for difficult, my good sir, that is akin to the pot calling the kettle black, now isn't it?"
The author finishes her coffee and showers and dresses, little cartoon blue-birds bringing her her sweater and tying her freshly washed hair with ribbons, tweeting a sweet song. The author holds one on her finger as the 4 cats watch, trying not to lick their chops. "Fly away," she says softly.
Dressed, the author and her cats majestically and quietly make their way to the living room. Brunhilda is at her side in a heartbeat, refilling her mug and chattering about her youth. And then, there's an interruption. Of course!
"Like, this soap is like, unacceptable. I demand something from Paris, pronto!"
The author marches into the bathroom.
"Would you rather I give you the hose again?" she affectionately rubs the happy Polly's furry white head, not understanding why Lady Slutskaya stares at her oddly for doing so.
"Well, this is what we've got. Take it or leave it, Slutskaya. It shuts its' mouth, or it gets the hose again. Capisci?"
With a huff, Lady Slutskaya disappears into the shower. The author tries to shake a few images of Lady Slutskaya's wide, white arse from her mind. Sadly,the song, Moon River remains stuck in her head, and the images pop up as little distorted nightmares.
"Damn divas. Why I oughta..." mutters the author.
The phone rings, and Sir Pratty-Pants lets her know he is on his way.
"Oh, good," the author replies, with far less enthusiasm than Pratty-Pants might like.
"I am Sir Pratty-Pants, good scribe," says he, "Of Pratty-Pants Manor, Houndsdyke. I don't have to give you anything, you know."
"But you do, Pratty-Pants," the author replies more cheerfully, "You see, my dim-witted friend, you may be self-aware, but you have the brains of a cactus. Because I created you that way. I can tell you to dance the Hoochie Coochie, and you won't be able to help yourself."
"I will do no such thing."
The author hangs up with a smug smile. Sir Pratty-Pants will be meeting his match.
"Brunhilda, Pratty-Pants will be here at one. He is leaving the Manor now."
After sending Lady Slutskaya for a manicure to tame her talons, Brunhilda and the author sit to enjoy a peaceful moment.
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