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Sasha Pierce stared at the mangy unicorn swaying drunkenly beside her car and sighed.
the kind of smile typically worn by pyromaniacs skipping toward a fireworks factory with a flaming torch in each hand.
“Fine,” she said wearily to the man in black. “You win. I’ll do it. Just call off your unicorn—that car cost me a fortune.”
One week and two days earlier (when Sasha’s life was relatively normal and contained 100% fewer drunk unicorns)
we have no cell phone coverage, so not only are we stuck using prehistoric methods of navigation”—she scowled down at the map—“but we can’t call for help or, more importantly, pizza and wine.
We aren’t lost; we’re just temporarily displaced … in what is probably Wisconsin.
“Catastrophes make you unforgivably perky.”
“Farmers are serial killers, except their victims are more cow-like. Or chicken-like. Or vegetable-like.”
“You have a master’s degree—navigating a map should be child’s play.”
“I have a master’s in psychology, not cartography. The skills aren’t transferable ... unless you want me to probe the map about its deep-seated anxiety issues.”
“Tell me again—what possessed you to take this job? If you’re aiming to get us killed, you could have done that back in New York in a more glamorous setting. Something with less doom and farmers and more martinis and male models.”
“See what I left behind for you? Over-priced alcohol and man-flesh.”
Overall, her appearance was both charming and fear-inducing, like a baby seal wielding a machine gun.
“I once defended myself against an enemy soldier in my nightgown with only an egg whisk!”
“Look at you—so gleeful in the face of the apocalypse.
“I thought they were trying to lull me into a false sense of security—you know, so they could eventually sacrifice me in a cornfield during a harvest-themed, pagan ritual.”
“I’ve traumatized that nice man! Not to mention his poor customers: they were in there for baked goods, and I gave them sex charades.” “It was a nice bonus for them.”
“Nothing good comes from dating a bearded guy. If they’re devious enough to hide their chins, they could be hiding anything….”
“Was free of cannibals?” “Was, yes. We have just acquired one. According to public records, our new cannibal was intoxicated when he consumed the toe, which makes his cannibalism a misdemeanor at best and not a vocation. Then again, I suppose time will tell….”
“Moreover,” the King continued, “I have no desire to make an enemy of you quite so soon in our acquaintance. I would rather that you come to despise me naturally over time.”
Please, don’t take offense—” “People always say that just before they are about to be particularly offensive.”
“Well, if I am to gain material possessions from the experience—including the innards of a donkey—then it might be pleasant to have a birthday party.
This is how it ends, she thought hysterically. I’m either going to be skewered like a human shish kebab or killed with a blow to the head by a knight in twenty-first-century Wisconsin.
“Being hit by a mail truck would not be the worst part of my day so far. It may even prove to be refreshing.”
“If I were to make a list of the most undesirable events that could befall me during my lifetime, ‘hugging’ would fall somewhere between ‘being crushed to death between two trolls’ and ‘crotch rot.’ ”
“Are you currently living ‘happily ever after’? I’m not. At best, I’m living ‘somewhat pleased ever after’ or ‘moderately jovially ever after.’ ”
“Oh please—most of those guys were definitely perverts. Take that prince in Snow White: he was riding around, kissing dead girls in forests. That’s not romantic—that’s necrophilia. Plus, she was fourteen, remember? He was a pedophilic necrophiliac. Come to think of it, the prince in Sleeping Beauty wasn’t that much better. I mean, who kisses a woman in a coma? That’s assault! Not cool, Prince Charming. Not cool….”
“As long as there are crotches, any time of year is the right time for a crotch-rot epidemic.”
“My wife is a fine woman and deserves more than a moist napkin.”
It might be wise to put something below him to break his fall, such as a wheelbarrow full of pointy rocks.”
The essay portion of the arson permit takes too long to fill out—it’s taking all the fun out of recreational burning!”).
(Never touch another person’s chicken.
Never attempt to juggle flaming axes whilst drunk and standing in an ale barrel.)
