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everyone coming together to rejoice and be kind to their fellow humans— “… I’m going to rip your arms off and shove them so far up your arse you’ll be able to tickle your own tonsils from the inside.” Well, almost everyone.
Since the ceiling was only ten feet high, the top branches scraped across the plaster like jolly Lovecraftian tentacles devouring everything in their path.
Heathcliff’s face glowed even redder. “Get rid of that boombox or it’s joining the rest of your limbs up your anus—”
This was turning out to be the most stressful Christmas gift-buying experience since I was seven, when my mother joined a cult and declared everything we owned now had to be made of hemp.
I’m playing Santa Claus, delivering presents to all my favorite people around the village. The Banned Book Club. The Knobbly Knitters. My Bondage and Discipline for Pensioners circle…”
“Now, to wrap an unusually-shaped present like this, you want to fold this edge down and crimp it—” “There will be no crimping on my desk!” Heathcliff boomed.
“Lie back, gorgeous,” Morrie whispered. “Tonight, Quoth and I will have you walking in an orgasm wonderland.”
I mashed my mouth against Morrie’s, mostly so he’d shut the fuck up.
“What a bloody stupid theory,” Heathcliff retorted. “That tree was twelve feet high. Where do you suppose I hid it? Up my arseho—”
“I never did trust him. He always looked far too happy about spreadsheets.”
Correction. If your name is Mina Wilde, and you’re an almost-blind punk rock bookseller with three boyfriends who were plucked straight from your favorite literary masterpieces and a crazy mother who wants to marry you off to the Napoleon of Crime, and you live in a picturesque village that must be the murder capital of England, in a magical bookshop with a room that skips around in time, then Christmas isn’t just wonderful. It’s magic.
