Kissing Claws - Julia Mills Page 0,2

the rim of glasses that glowed in black lights and disco balls were being downed. It was the party of the millennia, and I was the guest of honor. We were...

Buzz... Buzz... Buzzbuzzbuzzzzzzzzzz...

"Who in all the holy fat fairy farts keeps calling me?" Groaning with what little energy could be mustered, I swatted at the maleficent malady choosing that very moment to attack the end of my nose.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

"Get a clue. I'm not answering. Leave a message. Stop calling. You have been warned," I snarled. Wasn't it bad enough for my phone to be imitating the flapping wings of a big, black bug from the Bogs of Batheshear? Did something soft and tickly have to launch an all-out assault my nasal passages? Why was I being punished for celebrating the fact that I'd gotten a year older? It damned sure beat the alternative. Yes, I have wings and know how to use them, but the whole dressed in white and playing harp – the Heavenly gig, so to speak – for the rest of eternity and then some was not happening anytime soon. I had a Dragon to love. I needed my happily ever after, ya' get me?

Buzzzzzzz… Buuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzz…

“Seriously? Again? Is the world on fire? I don’t smell smoke,” I yelled at the very top of my lungs.

(Whoever created vibrate mode on cell phones should be shot. Taken out in the hot sun without sunscreen, tied to a diving board, and whipped with one of those big, Styrofoam, pool noodles. Two choices were all we needed. On or off. Period. Too many options made us crazy. Too much noise made us nuts. Don't you agree? I knew you would. Thanks for havin' my back. You're the best.)

"Somebody shut off the sun," Kiki moaned, making me wonder why she'd bothered to open her eyes in the first place. Yeah, I had yelled, but that overwhelming commitment of opening my eyes was out of the question. I had to hold onto my dream as long as I could. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed was not in my horoscope for the day, probably the week, but who's counting?

Opening my mouth to explain the facts to the Keekinator, my words were cut off as she grumbled, "And kill the…*huffing groan of a sigh*…bug." One incredibly long pause and an even more extended, more profound sigh followed by an almost snore proceeded long drawn out words that sounded more like yawns than anything actually intelligible. Thankfully, I was fluent in the language of Kiki, so I understood. "Squaaaaaash it. Maaaaaaim it. Dissecccccct it. Just maaaaaake it shuuuuuut... *snore*.”

And that was where it ended. My partner in crime, my sister from another mister, my bestie for life was down for the count. Yes, it's true. Everything you've ever heard was spot-on. Canary-yellow Flamingos were - and will always be - the Supernatural world's party animals, and my bestie was no exception - quite the opposite.

Kristina Katarina Kovamochanoff, aka Kiki, because it's shorter, Princess extraordinaire of the Scandinavian Golden Flamingo Flamboyance, was the all-time, gold medal-winning, champion. She could dance like no other, sing like a songbird, and drink everybody under the table, all without messing up her hair or smearing her lipstick. She. Was. My. Hero.

(What was that? Oh, yeah, I know what you mean. Leave it to the Flamingo nation to come up with a name like Flamboyance. They are so over the top, and I mean that in the best possible way. It's almost as cool as a Fairy Frolick. Just almost. We, the Fae, are the best of the best. The brightest of the bright and cooler than cool, and you can take that to the bank.)

(Oh! And about that 'canary-yellow’ comment, you can go right on ahead and tell the Keekinator that I said it. Girl's feathers are yellow, not golden. She can wish all she wants and refer you to the name of her Flamboyance, but that just don’t make it so.)

Anyway, my girl could party hardy, all night long and then some. She'd raise the roof till she could raise it no higher. It was a sight to behold. Heck, I had a whole folder on my computer filled with videos of Kiki in action, but when the get-along went out of her giddyup–that was all she wrote. My bestie was proverbially dead to the world. The only way to get her upright was with three – extra-large, quad shot, triple caff, extra hot, extra foam caramel macchiatos all poured together in one