“Dame Julia’s Used-To-Be.”
Although she cannot see, that familiar prickly feeling tells her that she’s once more at the threshold of that fateful ROOM. She slips off her clogs, that sadistic footwear with those “oh so suggestive” lace-up fronts.
Cathy is already barefoot and positively beaming. She guides her roommate-for-unlife into the chamber where her Moonglow died.
The ornately-carved mahogany door closes and locks behind them. All of the furniture is mahogany and all of the paneling is knotty-pine. No surprises.
“I can tell.”
“Good. I knew you and the former munster of my Moonglow would be simpatico.”
“The fact I’m still alive tells you that.”
Mondo removes her kit and places it in the wardrobe. She can move about unaided, thanks to the munster.
Cathy dresses Mondo in the sequined nightgown Dame Julia was wearing when she passed-on.
CK yanks Kane’s arms behind her back and fits them in a single lace-up sleeve that extends from wrists to armpits. The restraint is charmed human-hide. Kane sits down on the queen-sized bed. It’s a slab of hardened marble. Cathy removes Mondo’s blindfold.
“Behold. Your inheritance.”
What Mondo focuses on is the chairs she and Cathy sat in while they kept vigil over the dieing Dame. The sight of them causes her to tear up. Who said strong women don’t cry?
“I’ve kept it just like Moonglow left it. Notice the blood-stained flogging stand.”
“Yes. It was her favorite.”
“As it was yours.”
One whole wall, from ceiling to floor, is shelves of books. As one would expect of an avowed racist and dyed-in-the-wool Segregationist, there are the complete volumes of Mein Kampf, The Silent Sisterhood, Mute Testimony, the outlawed Turner Diaries, the forbidden White Noise Chronicles, and the cookbook serial that’s indispensable to any Easy chef, [that undisputed culinary masterpiece of the “other” Dame Julia] Dame Julia Child’s “How To Serve Man”. All of the books are priceless First Language editions.
Dame Julia hated all humans with a vengeance, and made no bones about it, all humans, that is, except for one Connie Smith. She, a guru of white supremacy, loved a human Connie Smith like a daughter. And no one, absolutely no one, who privately or publicly confronted her about this apparent contradiction, was allowed to live long and brag about it. Dame Julia would challenge ‘em to a duel-of-honor, dispatching them using either of her two favorite blades: a Gurkha Kukri or a Woodman’s Pal. And, although flatlining someone in a duel is still murder, no one has ever been prosecuted for it!
“What’s the ROOM been placed inside of? A broom closet?”
“Good guess, detective.”
“Using the Dame’s original spatial displacement spell?”
“Right again. You’re two-for-two.”
“And not a sign of distortion or decay. It’s her handiwork, all right. Let’s see, the broom closet is … maybe …”
“The size of that hi-girl over there.”
“Definitely the Dame’s handiwork.”
Cathy invokes an incantation and Mondo’s mono-sleeve shrinks, breaking every bone in her arms, as well as dislocating them from their sockets. You can hear the snap-crackle-n-pop of the girl’s rotator-cuffs across the immensity of the ghost-quarters. Kane goes into orbit. Her pain, pleasure, and endorphin levels are off the scale.
“Welcome home, sister. It’s time to forget the nightmare of ever being human. It’s time for the Painfully sociopathic twin to arise again and take control. This time you will be in ascendance forever, or at least until the real you decides to resurface again. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”