I flew in, hanging on to the wrong end of a witch’s broom

Witch

I flew in, hanging on to the wrong end of a witch’s broom.

For there wasn’t room, an Egyptian and a zombie were riding pillion. The ride was bumpy but not unpleasant. Though I wouldn’t recommend it for those who hate crowded spaces.

We arrived at the mansion where a French maid and a bloody gypsy were smoking at the door.

“Fancy a drag? You can’t smoke in there,” the gypsy offered.

We declined, for the Egyptian only smoked Nile reed, the zombie led a healthy lifestyle when he was human and I generally abhor public displays of sucking.

A Bavarian beer maid with the hardest and most unyielding breasts (guess they don’t call them knockers for nothing) greeted us with vodka jello shots at the foyer. (Turns out the “breasts” were strap-on beer dispensers)

The party was already in full swing. It was a very well attended gig — all of heaven and hell lent their support, plus a few characters from purgatory thrown in for good measure — I counted two angels, two demons, two cats (yes, I too, suspect Noah had a hand in these couplings), another French maid and the rest of my ride’s coven.

Even Marie Antoinette managed to locate her head in time for the occasion.

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