A Fashionably Dead Diary Page 4

  You wanna know what, Shelia? He was serious—totally serious. I need to take a four day shower after that one. Not to mention I’m considering a partial lobotomy to remove any memory of today from my brain.

  However, Satan informed me that a lobotomy won’t work. My brain will simply grow back with all the memories in it.

  He’s such a dick.

  Be careful if you read the staying power in the boudoir part. You’ll want a shower and you’re a book. That would be a bad move on your part.

  You have been warned.

  xoxo Astrid

  Friday

  Is the Devil still the Devil by any other name?

  Dear Shelia,

  It was a dark and stormy night…

  Is a rose a rose by any other name? Do I really fucking care?

  Nope. Nope, I don’t. But I have to say giving Satan a pen name was an outstandingly good time. Today, my recently discovered sister Tiara joined us. Tiara is all kinds of crazy awesome and has never tried to kill me which makes her A-OK in my book. She’s even weirder than I am. She’s a Vampyre-Demon-Fairy—extremely powerful, very profane and I adore her.

  Tiara and her mate Claudia are lovely and have moved into the Cressida House while they figure out what they want to do with the rest of their immortal lives. I couldn’t be happier. Samuel is besotted with the two women and Ethan has invited them to stay as long as they want. I hope it’s forever.

  Anyhoo, Satan has decided to use a pen name since a book by the Devil might not sell that well. This is also a very good idea since he doesn’t want lawsuits. Although, he’s smoking crack to think there won’t be any lawsuits. I’m going to make very sure my name is not on this farked up catastrophe anywhere—or I’ll take a pen name as well. I was thinking about Stephen-ie King or Janet Eclompovitch or Stephen (no ie) Meyer or possibly James-ie Patterson. I also am quite fond of Darynda Moans, Robyn Eaterman and Molly Larper. Although, my favorite at the moment is Charlaine Harriest.

  What do you think?

  Don’t answer. I’ll have to kill you.

  So here it is. Read and giggle.

  “We’re going to work on eliminating the moniker Uncle Fucker from your vocabularies,” Satan informed me and Tiara in an icy tone so we would know he meant business. “Besides I need to use a pen name. You will address me accordingly.”

  Secretly, I was very sure he enjoyed being called Uncle Fucker. It was every kind of wrong and profane—just like him.

  “Did you pick one?” I inquired, literally bouncing in my seat to give him a pen name.

  “Do you have something in mind?” he asked giving me a very suspiciously raised eyebrow.

  My laugh rang through the room and even Satan could hold back his grin.

  “You really don’t want to let her do this,” my sister Tiara warned with an evil little smirk pulling at her lips.

  “I’m offended,” I shouted in mock rage. “I read romance novels, for the love of everything bodice ripping and fabulous. I know what the ladies want.”

  “Let’s hear it then,” Tiara said with a bark of laughter.

  “Dirk,” I announced with wide eyes, waggling brows and an even wider grin. “Dirk D. Deemonee!”

  Satan’s expression looked like he’d swallowed a lemon—it was totally awesome. I knew the name was appalling. There was no way in Hell he was going to answer to Dirk. He’d probably go with Uncle Fucker before he went with Dirk D. Deemonee.

  “What does the middle D stand for?” Tiara asked, attempting to hold back her squeal of laughter.

  “Dick!” I bellowed and fell to the floor in giggles.

  Tiara lost a valiant battle with her composure and landed in a heap next to me.

  “While I find your bonding over my emasculation amusing, I will not go by that name. Even you can’t utter the abomination without guffawing like a common peasant.”

  “How about Sam Sinessssster?” Tiara suggested between unladylike grunts of glee.

  “Or Vinnie Villanilicious?” I squealed.

  “Or Nardel Nefariouso?” Tiara shouted as three windows in the room burst and shattered to dust.

  “Or Lou Sy?” I took another appalling turn.

  “Or Abe Bominable?”

  “Or Dizzy Greeable?”

  “Or Wick Edest?”

  Closing his eyes, Satan leaned back on the couch and let us wear ourselves out. When there appeared to be no end in sight, he finally stepped in. Clearly, we could go on for days—weeks—years—centuries.

  “I shall be known as Blade,” Satan announced. “Just Blade.”

  “Like Beyoncé or Cher?” I questioned, pushing a still laughing Tiara off of me.

  “Yes. Except I’m sexier.”

  “Hmm, it’s not bad,” I mused, considering it. “But you really should have a last name. Sounds less like a male stripper that way.”

  “She’s right,” Tiara agreed. “What do you love? What makes you happy?”

  “I enjoy sex.”

  “Blade Fornicate or Blade Boink doesn’t work for me,” Tiara said, thinking aloud. “How about Blade Boffmeister?”

  “No, too literal,” I said, thinking Blade really was a good name. “What about something more obscure like Blade Nooner?”

  “That’s better, but I like alliteration. How ʼbout Blade Baller or Blade Bugger,” Tiara suggested.

  “How about no fucking way,” Uncle Fucker inserted just to make us stop.

  “What else do you like besides bumping uglies?” I asked, still smirking and giggling.

  “For the record, mine’s not ugly. And the answer is fire. I adore fire,” the Devil said with confidence.

  “Blade Inferno,” Tiara said, her mismatched eyes wide with excitement. “It’s hot and dangerous. It’s very memorable—I mean not as memorable as Satan, Lucifer, Mother Humpin’ Prince of Darkness, Blade Boink or Uncle Fucker, but I think it will work.”

  “It’s perfect,” I agreed with a clap of my hands.

  Satan didn’t look quite as certain, but it clearly beat all the other names we’d so helpfully come up with.

  “Blade Inferno it is,” Satan said, relieved we were done with renaming the Devil.

  Shelia, Blade Inferno still sounds a bit male strippery, but the Devil is hot and dangerous so I think it will be fine. And Blade Boink—even though it made me laugh till I couldn’t speak—was not going to work.

  I’m still in shock that this profane and offensive pile of words will become a book, but it’s not my problem. It’s his. And just so you know, I’ve narrowed my own pen name down to two choices—Darynda Moans and Charlaine Harriest. I’d love it if you could chime in on my pen name, but if you did I’d have to kill you.

  Have a great night.

  xoxo Astrid

  Diary

  WEEK FOUR

  Monday

  I’m in the home stretch.

  Dear Shelia,

  It was a dark and stormy night…

  Today I barely sat through a Bible lesson that was not in the Bible—at all.

  Apparently all the animals on the Ark tried to eat each other and many succeeded. I’d always wondered about that. I mean lions and chipmunks are not a good match. Sounds like a furry bloodbath in the making. You feel me, Shelia? Sometimes I forget that my uncle has been around since the beginning of time. It’s too much for my undead mind to grasp—but he has. And trust me, the dude is smart—very naughty, but very smart.

  “So they all ate each other?” I asked with a shudder.

  “Yes, they did—that is if you believe the Ark existed at all,” Satan replied with a careless shrug.

  “Did Noah’s Ark exist?” I asked, now confused.

  “Do you want it to have existed?” he countered.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Did all the animals really eat each other?”

  “No. Several of the larger carnivores survived the journey.”

  “Then, umm… no. I don’t like that version.”

  “Pick the other
one then. That’s what God did.”

  I sat and chewed on that for a moment. We were getting into some majorly controversial territory here.

  “You sure you want to go there?” I inquired, wanting him to and not wanting him to at the same time.

  Satan sighed and rested his chin in his hands. “Think about it, Astrid. If one is to believe everything they read then they have to accept the consequences. My brother’s book was written in a language that doesn’t have clear English equivalents.”

  “So you’re saying none of it is true?”

  “Absolutely not. There are many truths and many untruths that man can choose to believe or reject. The Bible and the world are full of choices and my book will be as well. One can believe it or negate it as fiction.”

  “You’ve read the bible?”

  “No one has ever read the Bible,” he stated flatly. “No one. Not you. Not me. At the very least, if we’ve bothered at all, we’ve read a very bad translation—a translation of a translation of a translation of a dead language that was passed down by word of mouth long before it was ever recorded.”

  “Kind of harsh,” I muttered.

  “The truth is always harsher than fiction,” Satan replied breezily. “Which is why lying is far more fun.”

  “Well, when you put it that way…”

  “To me, the book my brother put into the world is a bunch of stories—some true, some not—that teach his deluded followers to be good people. My book will do the same except it will exemplify the joys of being bad. In the end neither of them matter. All that matters is how you live your own life. Period.”

  “You’re sounding a little good at the moment,” I pointed out.

  “Not at all. I’m horrible and I’m happy that way. However, I have no ill will toward the good. I’m just delighted that some have chosen the ‘wrong’ path. It keeps me busy and in business. Free will is a beautiful thing.”

  “So you like the really bad ones?” I asked, needing clarification.

  Satan paused and stared at me.

  “No. I despise them—the murderers… the truly vile. I only like the naughty ones. The ones that didn’t hurt people other than themselves,” he replied watching for my reaction.

  “You’re actually a good person.”

  “Yes, well, let’s not let that get out,” he said. “Fucks with my outstandingly bad reputation. So shall I pontificate on how the honey badgers fornicated with the cows and then ate the chickens, skunks and rattlesnakes on the very first day the Ark set sail?”

  “Holy Hell on fire. Do you have to?” I asked, my stomach roiling.

  “No,” Uncle Fucker replied with a devious grin. “I could talk about the time I joined the Mile High Club with twenty-six women.”

  “On the same plane ride?” I asked under duress as I pressed the bridge of my nose and contemplated sealing the Devil’s mouth shut—permanently.

  “Absolutely.”

  I pondered my choices and didn’t like any of them. I considered offering to play a round of blackjack to get out of all of it, but that would end in tragedy—as always.

  “I guess I’ll go with the horny honey badgers,” I said morosely.

  “Excellent choice. We’ll discuss the flying brothel tomorrow.”

  “Fucking awesome,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “Pun intended?” Satan inquired with a laugh.

  “Yes. Yes it was.”

  Shelia, the Ark was a shit show. I have no clue if anything Uncle Fucker said was true, but if even half of it was accurate it was a motherhumpin’ mess—pun intended. I’m surprised we didn’t end up with a bunch of chimpandoggies, honeybeavers, ravengles, bearooses, puppy-monkey-babies and so many other farked up species I can’t bring myself to name them. Suffice it to say, I’m gonna go with Noah’s Ark being a fictional story to teach man to be good. My stomach just can’t handle anything else.

  I probably should have gone with Satan’s Mid-air Copulation Sex Plane Escapades, but again, hindsight is 20-20. And no fucking worries—pun totally intended—I get to hear that one tomorrow. Yay me.

  Try to get some sleep. I’m gonna go blow some shit up to relax before I hit the sack.

  xoxo Astrid

  Tuesday

  For real?

  Dear Shelia,

  It was a dark and stormy night…

  But it was a glorious day.

  Satan didn’t show up today so I was spared the Flying Sexcapades. Yayayayayayay me! He texted me and let me know there were problems with the three hundred foot monument of Steve Perry. Apparently the construction Demons got the face wrong. While Elton John’s face is amazing, he is clearly not Steve Perry. Suffice it to say, the Devil was wildly displeased with the enormous gold rhinestone sunglasses and the pink boa. However, they got the mom jeans and the leopard print midriff shirt correct.

  I’m guessing all Hell broke loose. So I’m just gonna color with Samuel and then get my ass kicked by The Kev at sparring practice. He’s a Fairy. You would love him. He punches like an out of control freight train that has no brakes. Last week I got an outstanding jab in and shattered his nose. The Kev and I had a karaoke party that night celebrating my violence.

  I know that might sound weird, but Vampyres are a brutal breed who like to sing Top 40 cover tunes. You’re a sweet little book, so that kind of savagery might be hard to understand. Trust me on this. We have no choice, but I have never harmed an innocent and never will.

  However, I will harm you if you ever repeat any of this. I have a mean left hook and I like to blow shit up. Keep that in mind.

  Have a lovely rest of the day.

  xoxo Astrid

  Wednesday

  Happily Ever After, my ass.

  Dear Shelia,

  It was a dark and stormy night…

  It always gets darker before it gets light. Right, Shelia?

  Sweet Baby Jesus in booty shorts, I hope so. Satan wants me to make up an HEA for him. That’s a happily ever after in romance speak just in case you were confused.

  Hell knows I’m confused. What exactly does a happily ever after for the Devil mean? I know what it means for me, but I’m not the Harbinger of Evil. Right now I really wish you could speak. I mean, I’d have to kill you, but I could really use some moral and creative support at the moment.

  I suppose turning every single human in the world into a lying, card cheating, fornicator would make him happy, but that’s not how a romance should end. A romance ends with the guy and the girl getting together and riding off into the sunset on a white stallion named Spirit or Ken. Or it means the guy and the girl take a trip to an island made of black raspberry chip ice cream. They have sex and then they eat so much fucking cake that they have food babies. But the best part is that their adorable, cozy hut is also edible. It’s made of those really thin and extra salty chips and the private heart shaped pool is filled with hot salsa. However, the crowning jewel is the cookie dough fridge, which is full of wedding cake with no icing and Coke in glass bottles.

  Wait.

  That’s one of my HEA fantasies. Sorry about that. The undead not being able to eat thing still chaps my ass.

  So as you can see, Shelia, I’m clearly hungry and in need of a happy ending for the Prince of Darkness—not to mention I need about a year of therapy to get over the last several weeks spent with my uncle. Should I give him a mate? Oh my Hell, who in their right mind would want to hook up with the Devil permanently? Don’t get me wrong, Satan is definitely gorgeous and he’s secretly a nice guy. However, he also lies, cheats and steals… and fornicates like a rabbit.

  Maybe he should end up with that typing teacher bee-otch, Mavis Beacon. Nope, even I wouldn’t do that to Uncle Fucker. She’s mean and awful.

  I could always just make up a female version of the Devil… that’s not a bad idea.

  What do you think, Shelia?

  Don’t answer.

  You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to sleep on it. First I’m going to have s
ix orgasms with the love of my undead life and then I’m going to sleep on it.

  But before I leave you to your own bookie devices, I’d like to share the rest of my fantasy with you.

  You ready? Good.

  The bed in the hut is made of marshmallows and the headboard is graham crackers. Of course the pillows are chocolate so after several mind blowing orgasms you can light the bed on fire and eat s’mores. The guy and the gal, aka Ethan and me, would be buck naked the entire time and the second diamond shaped private pool is filled with whipped cream. We would go for a dip and then lick the whipped cream off of each other followed by another round of mind shattering sex.

  Then if we got hungry, which we would because it’s my fucking fantasy, we could eat the floor of the hut that’s made of white chocolate covered almonds followed by a few Cokes in glass bottles. Then we would have outstanding sex again and afterward be so nutritionally deprived we’d have to eat the hut. The salty chips would replace all the water we sweated out while having aerobic sex. I know… I know, Vampyres don’t sweat, but this is a fantasy, for the love of everything edible.

  Then we’d take a nap and BAM— all of a sudden it would be time for dinner. Not a problem. The crusty Italian bread tub will be filled with pesto pasta and for dessert we would eat the island as it’s made of black raspberry chip ice cream.

  I do realize that we’ve now eaten our house and the land it sat on, but that’s the great thing about a fantasy. All I have to do is snap my fingers and it all comes back. Someday I’ll take you there. I promise.

  Well, now I’m hungry, exhausted and horny. I’m gonna go jump Ethan’s bones, hit the hay and dream about s’mores.

  Have sweet candy covered dreams, my friend.

  xoxo Astrid

  Thursday

  Light at the end of the tunnel.