The worst part is people’s assumption that I’m capable of anything for a price.
That I’d be unwilling to change, settle down in bland suburbia, blend in among the masses, work a regular nine-to-five. After a childhood of bubbling cauldrons, backyards of rotten decay, and countless broom rides, any girl would seek a new gig. Especially knowing how quickly an enraged mob resorts to pitchforks and torches, howling for your blood.
Yet, I could not shake off my destiny. After my mother's death, I moved to the lush Coral Pines, a neighborhood rich with robust trees, smooth sidewalks, and endless stop signs. I needed a job, an honest one. My newfound tranquility was interrupted when a peculiar person knocked on my door.
Her blue business suit - a skirt that went past her knees, a button that read, VOTE KYLIE! - instantly caught my eye. Her smile was warm and her delivery polished. She was a pro.
“I understand you’re a person of special talent,” she said. “It just so happens, I’m in need of your services.”
I didn’t like where this was going, but not wanting to appear inhospitable, I invited her in.
Kylie Mistopim glanced around my modestly furnished living room, sat down, and got right to the point.
“I’m running for re-election, but I’m up against it. My adversary, Richard Leposseh, is delusional about our country’s future. Yet, the masses love him. Bearing a miracle, he will unseat me in the upcoming midterms.” She swallowed, cleared her throat, then continued.
“He must be stopped, at any cost. Any cost. Just name your price.”
I thought about it for a second, several more, nearly a minute. An appealing offer, to be sure, but I needed to move forward, not backwards.
“I’m sorry, but I no longer practice the craft. I can not help you.” She thanked me for my time, and left her card, in case I changed my mind.
***
The ensuing job search proved fruitless. I filled an application upon application - customer service, restaurant industry, cashier jobs, even several salesman positions. But alas, modern employers placed little value on my skill set. The positions I was offered were low paying and required extremely long hours: the wages would barely cover the cost of living. The Congresswoman, however, offered a small fortune for a few days’ work, and despite the ethical dilemma involved, it was my best option.
You are what you are, mother always said. No amount of self-denial would change that.
The business card was on the table where Kylie’d left it: perfectly cut, with clean edges, a shiny font glowing on it.
Next to it, a stack of my unpaid bills. I needed money: the sooner, the better. If it turns out I’d signed a deal with the devil, it would hopefully the last.
After this, no more hexes, curses or spells of any kind.
This is it.
The. Last. Time.
Kylie’s secretary answered the phone after the third ring. The Congresswoman was delighted at the sound of my voice.
“Ms. Zennia!”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Wonderful! Come to the office tomorrow. Irma will finalize our agreement.”
I was given a gym bag full of cash. Included was a watch that Leposseh left in Kylie’s bathroom while attending a lavish dinner party last spring: a necessary personal item for the jinx to work.
There was also a list of vices required to taint her political opponent. Drugs, sexual misconduct, devil worship (this part would be a breeze), history of having paid for several abortions for various mistresses, and his unequivocal objective to ban guns across the USA.
Like I said, she was a pro.
I stayed up ‘till dawn, chanting and reciting passages from mother’s Dark Book, mixing various liquids of odd rare herbs from the Appalachian woodland, crossing them with rare plants that grew in the darkest caves across the western landscape.
Six and a half hours later, a thick perspiration over my face, I finished putting the final hex on Mr. Lepposeh and his family. All that was left now was to watch his next appearance on BCL News.
A few nights is all it took for the conjuration to take effect.
At a live interview, Richard Lepposeh condemns the military industrial complex, the billionaire tax cut, and the lack of social programs needed to abolish homelessness across the USA. His words sting the ruling class like a pointy shiv pierced below their rib cage.
The following day, caught in a motel with multiple prostitutes, the unshaved, disheveled and handcuffed Lepposeh is shoved into a flashing police car. Political commentators condemn his actions, and his popularity takes a hit in the polls. His wife files for divorce, and his fall from grace is reminiscent of Lucifer's.
Overnight, Kylie Mistopim becomes the favorite to regain her Congressional seat. After election day, her infectious smile and friendly wave greet thousands of supporters cheering her name while holding countless KYLIE! signs. She’s on her way to abolish abortion, instigate a war in Eastern Europe, and cut back on Social Security.
Yay, America.
My work, at last, finished, done to perfection. I know what you’re thinking: how can you sleep at night, having done what you did? Well, my kind has done worse, a lot worse, throughout history. No one ever mistook us for angels. Besides, when compared with American politicians, we’re practically saints. Practically.
My client was happy, and no longer worried about finances, so was I.
But… money leaks quickly in my affluent town. Rent, car, taxes, an organic gluten-free diet, bi-weekly yoga classes, plus a personal trainer. Before long, I’m left without a safety net, pondering my next move.
A nine-to-five gig? Nah, too much work for too little reward. Perhaps I can offer my services to a senator; they’ve been calling non-stop since Mistopim’s win. But I won’t make a habit of it.
Just one more, and that’s it. I swear.
The. Last. Time.
Barlow Crassmont has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages. He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Wilderness House Literary Review, and in the upcoming 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.
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