Attack of the Fairytale Zombies!
This is a work of fiction.
Attack of the Fairytale Zombies!
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by P. J. Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art by: Tamra Westberry
Please visit P.J. Jones at
pjjoneswrites.com
Or you may send fan mail (not hate mail) to [email protected]
This book is dedicated to my husband for encouraging me to follow my dreams and all that sappy shit.
Alan Nayes, thanks so much for your feedback and suggestions.
I’d like to extend a special ‘thank you’ to M. Edward McNally, author of REAL epic fantasies, for making my manuscript sparkle. Nobody shines a turd like you do, Ed.
Finally, all hail Heather Marie Adkins, Goddess of Formatting, ultra-cool and pretty cyber-witch, and inspiration for my heroine @
cyberwitchpress.com
PJ Jones is a proud member of
The Eclective
“By King’s Command, make way for the last living descendant of the esteemed royal line of dragon slayers, the almighty Barthalamew Huganut the Tenth. He is the destroyer of giant winged beasties, the man with the tightest pants and the smallest lance in all the kingdom.” The old knight sputtered at that last part. Then his sputtering turned into all out laughter.
Other knights joined in the merriment. A few even spewed ale through their noses.
Barth strutted past them, feigning indifference. “Would you fuck off, Sir Reginald?”
A handful of drunk pixies swarmed Barth’s head, their high pitched squeals grating his last nerve while they buzzed ‘looozzzer’ in his ear. He ducked down and flicked one of them in the stomach, sending her careening across the musty tavern. She landed spread eagle on top of a poker table.
A growling werewolf scooped up the little annoyance with a card and dumped her on the floor.
Gasping, her other pixie friends raced to her aid.
Barth sat on a barstool and unbuckled his sword belt before laying his weapon across the weathered wood of the bar. That damn belt was so uncomfortable. And since there were currently no man-eating dragons inside the pub, he figured it was safe to give his midsection some breathing room for a few moments.
As he examined his reflection in the bar mirror, Barth remembered to suck in his gut. All these years of not slaying anything were adding a little weight around his midsection. He was certain his fondness for ale had nothing to do with it. He frowned as he plucked a grey hair from the thinning dark strands on his scalp.
Damn.
He so was not ready for middle age. Especially considering he’d only slept with two wenches, both blind and drunk, in the past three years.
Barth’s shoulders slumped. What he needed was a drink to get his mind off of his problems. He pounded his fist on the bar and hollered for the innkeeper to bring him two pints of ale.
Reginald came up beside Barth and grabbed his shoulder with a wiry hand. “Kill any monsters lately?” the knight snorted.
Sir Harold flanked Barth’s other side. He turned his back to the bar and casually leaned on his elbows. “Hey, Barf, how many dragons you lay this week?”
“My name is Barth.” He arched a brow. “And don’t you mean slay?”
“No,” Harold chuckled, “I mean lay.”
Barth extended his middle finger at the two knights before refastening his sword belt and tossing his last shilling toward the bartender. He grabbed the two pints the bartender had set on the counter and strode for the exit, pretending not to notice the other patrons leering at him.
Once outside, Barth walked past the little medieval cliché looking buildings lining the cobblestone street: The apothecary’s shop, the seamstress, the baker… most of which had gone out of business thanks to the king’s new Mega Super Value Medieval Mart. The Medieval Mart was on the opposite end of town, next to the king’s ornate castle. Barth tried to avoid that area, mostly because if the king caught him loitering, he’d put him to work.
After walking past several thatched and a few candy cottages, and even that hideous giant shoe house with all the ugly kids running around the yard, Barth climbed the grassy knoll around the base of Lookout Point. His best friend was waiting for him with a sullen expression.
“Is this the biggest ale they had?” The winged beast adjusted the ruffles on his purple cotton dress before sitting on his haunches and grasping the ale with the tips of two outstretched, perfectly polished, pink fuchsia claws.
Barth heaved a resonant sigh. “Drag, we go through this every week. Besides, I’m not getting any bonus checks since I’m not slaying any dragons. A pint is all I can afford.”
“Oh.” Drag rolled his eyes. “I suppose it’s all
my
fault.”
Barth groaned. “I didn’t say that.”
Smoke tendrils escaped from the flared nostrils on Drag’s long, crimson snout. “If I’d just let you kill me, you could buy a round for everyone.” The tenor of his voice rose several octaves.
“Drag, you’re not making any sense.” Barth shook his head. “You know I would never kill my best friend. What’s wrong with you?”
Drag’s heavy jowls turned down in a pout. “I’m sorry I’m being a diva. It’s just that obnoxious little hobbit, Bilba TBaggins, got a new pair of red Blahniks.”
Barth shrugged. “So what?”
Drag clucked his tongue. “Have you seen hobbit feet? Those gorgeous shoes look so ridiculously huge compared to the rest of her body. Why can Blahnik design shoes for filthy little hobbits but not for cross-dressing dragons?”
Barth rubbed the day-old stubble on his chin. “I imagine there’s not a big market for dragon Blahniks. Besides, you can’t afford those shoes.”
The leaves on the trees shook as Drag stomped a paw. “I could put them on layaway. Or I could sweet talk Douchebagga into lending me the money.”
Ominous music slowly filtered in from the background, so as to alert the reader that Douchebagga was a really baaaaaad witch.
“Remember what Wizard Dilligaf said about Douchebagga.” Barth narrowed his eyes as his voice took on a somber tone. “She’s the nastiest witch in all of Fairytale Kingdom. She won’t think twice about cutting out your heart and feeding it to her demon dogs from hell. Or cutting off your balls and using them as chin implants so she can look like one of those cliché witches with the warts and pointy black hats.”
“Plus,” Drag snickered, “she’s got a bad case of plaque psoriasis. She really needs to moisturize.”
Barth folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Exactly, so you need to promise me that you’ll stay away from Douchebagga.”
“I promise.” Drag batted long fake lashes while crossing his heart.
Barth held out his hand. “I need a Brotherhood of the Templar Dragon Slayers’ mystical, secret handshake promise.”
“I still can’t believe you taught it to me,” Drag giggled.
Barth spit into his hand before fixing Drag with a stern expression. “Just shake.”
“Heather, come here and stir this cauldron while I get a tiger eye off the shelf.”
Heather set down her book of spells and walked toward her mistress’s cauldron. No sooner had she picked up the ladle and began stirring when her senses were accosted by a familiar sickeningly sweet odor. “Douchebagga, what is this? I’ve smelled it before.”
Douchebagga shrugged her humped shoulders while climbing up a rickety old ladder toward the top of the dusty shelves. “You should recognize the smell from the time I fell in love with the king.”
Heather gasped and her hands flew to her mouth. The ladle landed with a hiss back in the cauldron. “Not another love potion. Don’t you remember what happened to King Dump last time?”
“Don’t worry.” The old witch flashed an insincere, nearly toothless grin. “The wizard is working on a potion to make the king’s testicles grow back.” She climbed down the ladder and held up a jar of tiger eye. “Besides, this time I’ve got it right. A little eye of pussy will do the trick.”
True, the wizard had been working on a potion to regrow the king’s testicles, but so far their ruler had proven immune to every antidote. What if Douchebagga’s potion shrunk the balls of all the men and beasts in the kingdom? The dating pool of eligible bachelors would shrink considerably. And there would go Heather’s fantasy of some valiant knight saving her from a mundane life as an underpaid witch’s apprentice.
