MAGIC & MAYHEM SERIES
“Magically Delicious is “funny, fast-paced, and filled with laugh-out-loud dialogue. Robyn Peterman delivers a sidesplitting, sexy tale of powerful witches and magical delights. I devoured Magically Delicious in one sitting!”
~ ANN CHARLES, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Deadwood Humorous Mystery Series
The Bad Boys of Assjacket
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A dare is a dare.
No self-respecting, slightly chubby, good-lookin’, crime lovin’ cat would ever pass up a dare.
So I didn’t.
Now, me and my boys are in hot water trying to figure out how to live on the right side of the law for a whole freakin’ week!
This is complicated by a couple of hairy issues…
— The half-headed bear in town had his privates pilfered. We have vowed to return his giggleberries. Legal means are not working.
— Sassy’s Canadian tutors show up—the furry, cat-burgling dames who we’ve been in love with our entire nine lives. In order to woo the gorgeous broads, we need to be at our criminal best.
— We need the help of a foul-mouthed troll who throws tantrums like a three-year-old serial killer and wants to bump off everyone.
Throw in a cryptic message from the Goddess, humans invading our town and evil, sticky-fingered groundhogs, and we have a hot mess on our paws.
I hope we have a few of our kitty lives left because the Bad Boys of Assjacket are going to save the day or get eighty-sixed trying.
READ AN EXCERPT
Once upon a time in the far, far away kingdom of West Virginia, there was an exquisitely enchanted place called Assjacket.
Don’t laugh. Okay, fine. Laugh. It’s a crappy name, but I’ve heard worse… Toad Suck, Arkansas… Hooker, Oklahoma… Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky.
I rest my case.
Of course, it wasn’t originally called Assjacket. But one bright sunny, cloudless, and slightly humid day, a potty-mouthed witch renamed the town. Or more likely, Zelda forgot the name and pulled the dreadful new moniker out of her ass. It’s not important to the story, so we’ll skip that part. Anyhoo, after that fated day, no one could recall the original name.
Was it a spell?
Was it providence?
Was the original name worse than Assjacket?
Who knows, but it has nothing to do with the tale, so please forget it was brought to your attention.
The enchanted town of Assjacket was filled with beautiful, magical misfits who happened to fit perfectly together—Shifters, Witches, Dryads and Warlocks… and three very handsome and lovably chubby talking cats. The cats paid me to say that—a lot. Although, I do adore them and would’ve spoken highly of the felonious felines without the bribe.
Even the leader of the witches, the illustrious and questionably dressed, Baba Yaga, aka Baba Yostuckintheeighties, had planted roots in the lovely town of Assjacket.
Of course, Baba Yaga was having relations with Zelda’s warlock father, but that’s another story for another time.
Back to this one…
Time after time and battle after battle, the Assjackians were torn to pieces—mostly metaphorically speaking—but always managed to put themselves back together with loving care for each other.
The magic was very real as was the love.
But in any good story, there is always a twist—usually dastardly, and in Assjacket’s case, always slightly profane.
For you see, the enchanted Assjacket was held together by an ancient secret—a mystical, magical secret… a circular-ish kind of oval-ish magical secret. A secret so old it had been forgotten. It didn’t help that the Assjacket historian had run out of toilet paper and had used the important documents for his own personal hygiene hundreds of years ago. The idiot who went by the name of Goober was run out of town never to be heard from again. Thankfully, that’s another story. And trust me, you don’t want to hear that one. It’s rather smelly.
Pardon my odoriferous digression.
As the saying goes, if history is forgotten or used to wipe one’s ass, it’s bound to cause a shitshow—pun sadly intended. Actually, that’s not the saying at all, but it is what happened in the enchanted town of Assjacket when an important piece of the magical historical puzzle went missing.
Magicals live a very private existence in public.
It’s the way it always has been and the way it must remain.
If the talisman disappears, the magic will follow. Somewhat like the circle of life… no wait, not the circle of life at all… more like if something circular-ish goes missing, chaos ensues.
The lines of safety for those who wield magic will blur and the danger shall grow dark and deadly.
It will take some very brave heroes to save the day.
If the day doesn’t get saved…
It will be the end of magic as we know it.
And that would suck.
xoxo The Goddess
Making my way into the kitchen and plopping my shapely, furry backside down on the kitchen table, I eyed the cheesecake perched on a plate ten inches away from me with lust. Cheesecake was sexy. Zelda would probably notice a paw print if I swiped a taste, so I sat on my paws and refrained. I was already in trouble. Actually, I was always in some kind of trouble. Trouble was my specialty.
I decided to wait until she’d turned her back then hide it under the table. A missing cheesecake was easier to explain than one with cat hair all over it.
“Don’t even think about it, Fat Bastard,” Zelda said, with her back to me.
The witch was good—very good.
“No worries, hot pants,” I lied. “Dat oral bacteria in cheese don’t agree with my flatus.”
Zelda rolled her eyes and tried extremely hard not to ask me what I meant. She failed. “I will so regret this,” she muttered, sitting down at the table and putting some distance between me and the cheesecake. “What the hell does flatus mean?”
“Kinda like a sphincter,” I explained as she wrinkled her nose. “It’s dat reflex dat expels intestinal gas through the butthole.”
Zelda let her head drop to the table with a thud. “I have got to stop asking questions that I don’t want the answers to.”
“Anyhoos, weese have an outstandin’ idea, dollface,” I told my witch, making a last minute, split decision not to lick my nards. I’d already pressed my luck with the fart talk.
I’d come to the realization lately that cleansing my gangoolies during serious conversations didn’t end well. Of course, refraining from my harmless habit was ridiculous since ball-licking was a way of life for me and my boys. As cats and familiars to the second craziest and most powerful witch in existence, we had to look sharp. Shiny giblets were a top priority. Not to mention, glistening cojones appealed to the dames.
“Those words terrify me,” Zelda said, eyeing me warily. “The last outstanding idea you idiots had ended in my digging your three fat furry asses out of a hole. Literally.”
I shrugged my kitty shoulders and chuckled. “Dat was just a little misunderstandin’.”
Zelda scrubbed her hands over her mouth. I knew my witch was doing her best not to laugh. Made me love the red-headed, gorgeous, insane broad even more.
“You think that getting a visiting group of six violent groundhog Shifters wasted then shaving them and dying what was left of their fur to look like they were diseased skunks was a little misunderstanding?” she inquired. “Not to mention, they buried you asshats fifty feet underground for the little misunderstanding.”
“Dem groundhogs is buttdongs—tried to steal everything in Assjacket dat wasn’t nailed down. Weese did youse a favor,” I reminded her, trying to reason my way into forgiveness. Getting buried alive wasn’t what I’d call a good time, but we had a few plans to get the rat-bastard rodents back.
“Yes, the groundhogs are sticky-fingered buttdongs, and because of that, they’re christening the brand spanking new Assjacket pokey for the next month,” Zelda shot back with a laugh. “But you can’t shave Shifters when they’re passed out. It’s wrong.”
“So youse is sayin’ weese shoulda shaved dem when they was sober?” I asked, scooting a little closer to the cheesecake. “Dats an interesting thought, and weese will take it under consideration for next time.”
“Nope,” Zelda huffed, exasperated. “There will be no next time. Your shaving drunk-Shifter days are over. You feel me, Fat Bastard?”
“I hear your words, yet I don’t knows what they mean,” I replied, using one of the techniques my felonious comrade, Boba Fett, swore by. I batted my eyelashes at my witch then went for my balls by accident.
“Mouth off your yam bags unless you want me to zap your tiny marbles off your obese carcass,” Zelda warned. “And here’s an idea for you three idiots. Why don’t you try living on the right side of the law for a change?”
“Could youse define right side of the law?” I asked.
“Cease all criminal activity,” she shot back, grabbing her purse and walking to the front door. Sadly, she also grabbed the cheesecake.
“Could youse define all?” I queried.
“For the love of the Goddess in mom jeans,” Zelda groused with an eye roll. “Stop breaking the law. Find something legal or at least mostly legal that you three dummies enjoy or you’ll be spending the night with the thieving little groundhog shits in the slammer.”
“Could youse define lea…” I started only to be cut off by Zelda’s dangerously raised brow and sparking fingers.
“I dare you,” she said with a devious little grin pulling at her lips. “Go without committing a crime for one week, and I’ll buy you the big screen TV for the cat room that you’ve been begging for.”
There was no way on the Goddess’s green earth I was about to tell my witch we stole a big screen TV three days ago. Didn’t think that would go over too well at the moment.
“Youse have yourself a deal, sweet cheeks,” I said before I realized the words had come out of my mouth. But a dare was a dare. No self-respecting cat could resist a dare.
Fuck. The boys were gonna kill me.
“Anyhoo,” Zelda continued as she opened the front door. “I have to go pick up the twins from their playdate with my dad and Baba Yaga. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
She walked out of the front door. Closed it behind her. Opened it back up and peeked her head back inside. She caught me mid nard slurp.
“What was the outstanding idea you wanted to tell me about?” she asked, ignoring that I had my balls in my mouth.
“I forgot,” I lied, pretty sure she didn’t want to hear about our plan to spray paint the word bunghole down the middle of Main Street.
She waited twenty-three seconds for me to come clean.
I politely refrained. I also removed my balls from my mouth. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Zelda sighed dramatically and shook her head. “Whatever it was, don’t do it.”
“Roger dat,” I said, giving her a thumbs up.
“Youse did what?” Jango Fett demanded, gasping for breath as he logged time on the treadmill.
“It was a dare, numbnuts. I couldn’t pass up a dare,” I hissed then squinted at him in disbelief. “What exactly are youse doin’ on a treadmill?”
Jango Fett looked like he was about to have a heart attack. That would be a problem since Zelda had left the premises. Our red-headed, green-eyed witch was the infamous Shifter Wanker. Zelda could heal all Shifters and magical beings, including her three magnificent, good-looking, law-breaking, yet extremely lovable familiars.
Of course, we did have nine lives being cats and all, but I was pretty sure we were down to three or possibly two.
“He can’t lick his giggleberries,” Boba Fett whispered with a sad shrug. “Too fat.”
It took a lot to shock me into silence. But the devastating thought of not being able to get to my wrinkled grapes did it.
“Jango,” I choked out in an emotional whisper. “Youse dumb mug. Youse’ll be able to get dem mitts back on your marbles in no time. I believe in youse.”
Jango glanced over mid-stride and flew off the treadmill. A girthy, screaming ball of flying fur launched about twenty feet into the air and landed with a sickening thud. After a full minute of impressive profanity, Jango got back on his paws and wiped the sweat from his brow. His furry chin dropped to his chest. It didn’t have far to go since his stomach was as big as his ass—which was fucking huge.
“Thank youse,” Jango said, still breathing hard. “Dat means a lot to me, Fat Bastard. Gotta get back into shape so I can visit my meat clackers.”
“Youse can do it, paisano,” Boba Fett said.
“Hey now,” Jango complained. “Don’t youse be talkin’ about no pie.”
“My bad,” Boba apologized.
“Apology accepted. So, now dat I’m done with my exercise for the day,” Jango said. “Youse better explain yourself, Fat Bastard.”
“How long did youse jog?” I asked, wanting to avoid the smackdown that was headed my way.
“Forty-five seconds,” Jango announced with pride then narrowed his gaze at me. “Youse told Zelda weese was goin’ on the straight and narrow?”
“WHAT?” Boba shouted. “Youse was supposed to tell her weese are gonna spray paint the word dingleberries on Main Street.”
“It was bunghole,” I corrected.
“It was?” Boba asked, confused. “Coulda sworn it was dingleberries.”
“Happens to everybody. Dingleberries and bunghole practically rhyme,” Jango assured him, waddling over. “Can’t believe youse told Zelda weese would refrain from felonious activities. What the hell are weese supposed to do?”
He had me there. I had no clue.
“Weese could start a business,” Boba suggested.
“Card sharks?” Jango proposed.
“Dat’s iffy,” I pointed out. “Maybe a little more legal. Too damn hard not to cheat.”
“Pyramid scheme?” Boba offered.
“Umm… pretty sure dat’s fuckin’ illegal,” I told them. This was hard.
Jango snapped his toe beans and a six-pack of beer appeared. “Youse guys want one?”
“Shouldn’t youse be drinkin’ water if youse ever wanna see your love sac again?” Boba questioned with a huge grin as he grabbed a beer.
“F-youse,” Jango grumbled. “It’s light beer.”
I paced our quarters, aka The Kick-ass Cat Pad, and tried to figure out what we should do. Thinking was incredibly overrated and exhausting. Glancing around, I looked for inspiration in the massive suite that Zelda’s mate, Mac, built for us. It was feline heaven. The bright yellow room had strategically placed scratching posts, and three miniature beds lined the wall under the bay window where we spent hours staring at birds, planning illegal activities and napping. A pilfered collection of paintings depicting Garfield, Grumpy Cat, Sylvester, Mr. Bigglesworth, Monty and Cat Woman on the crapper were some of our finest possessions. There was catnip and a fridge filled with frozen pizzas, beer and Spam. Cat food was for losers. We lived the good life on pepperoni, cheese and mystery meat products.
“What are weese good at?” I asked my boys.
“Killin’ shit,” Jango said.
“Spray paintin’,” Boba added.
Jango flopped down on the thick green shag carpeting that we’d requested and burped. “Cheatin’ at cards.”
“While youse both are correct, I’m thinkin’ Zelda won’t go for dat. Spray paintin’ dead people after we fleece dem for dough doesn’t sound legal to me,” I pointed out. “Also, weese are gonna have to return the big screen TV.”
“Why?” Boba asked.
“Cause weese stole it,” I told him, smacking him in the back of the head.
“And dats bad?” he asked confused as he walloped me back.
“Yep, dats bad.”
“I got it!” Jango yelled, ripping open a bag of pepperoni sticks and inhaling them. “Weese can combine all the things weese are good at into a business.”
“All the things weese are good at are criminal,” Boba reminded him.
Jango was a dumbass, but he might have made an excellent point.
“Dis is true, but what if weese spray paint dead people and charge for it?” I suggested, waggling my brows.
“Dat’s a business?” Jango asked, scratching his head.
My smile widened and I nodded. “Yep. Dat’s a business.”
“What the hell kind of business is dat?” Boba questioned.
“Weese are gonna open a funeral home,” I announced.
Boba wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Weese are?”
“Yep, Assjacket ain’t got no funeral home,” I pointed out.
“Might be because Shifters and witches don’t croak dat often,” Boba said, popping another can of beer.
He made a superb argument, but I needed a nap and couldn’t think of anything else. “Not a problem,” I assured them. “If nobody dies, weese don’t have to spray paint dem. Win-win.”
“I like it,” Jango said, nodding. “Weese could pilfer a building and set up shop.”
“I like it too,” Boba said. “And just so weese don’t get thrown in the big house, weese can borrow a building instead of pilferin’ it.”
“Good thinkin’.” I told him. Weese can borrow Roger the rabbit Shifter’s office. He’s on vacation for two weeks and weese only have to be law abidin’ for one week. The bunny won’t even know.”
“Perfect.” Jango grinned, warming even more to the idea. “Weese have tons of spray paint just in case weese accidentally off someone or an Assjackian kicks the bucket.”
I knew I could count on my boys. The plan was coming together.
“Wadda weese gonna call it?” Boba inquired.
“Maybe somethin’ dat rhymes with dead?” I suggested.
“Got it,” Boba said. “Dead and Shred.”
I almost puked in my mouth. “Dats fuckin’ disgustin’.”
“It rhymes,” Boba huffed, flipping me off.
Jango chuckled. “I can top dat. Youse Kill It—Weese Grill It.”
“While I dig the thought behind it, no f-in’ way,” I said with a laugh. “Hows about The Dead Bed?”
“Nah,” Jango said. “Should be more fun. Youse know, somethin’ dat makes people wanna bite the big one and come to our place.”
“Fine point. Well made,” I said, laying down on my bed in preparation for a nap. “What do people do when someone buys the farm?”
Boba raised his hand and waited to be called on. I rolled my eyes. “Speak.”
“They mourn,” he said. “Weese could call it Sworn to Mourn.”
“Closer,” I said, getting under the blankets. “Not quite right yet.”
“Grieve and Thieve?” Jango suggested, giving up on his diet and grabbing a pie we’d absconded with from the Assjacket Diner yesterday.
“Sounds a little shady,” Boba said, removing the pie from Jango’s paws and swallowing it whole.
The hair on the back of Jango’s neck stood up on end, and he hissed viciously. Pie was pie. You didn’t fuck with a man’s pie. Ever. They beat the hell out of each other for three minutes and twenty-six seconds. Smackdowns were a regular occurrence for us. Nails were out, chunks of fur flew and the language was salty. It was a good healthy way to communicate. Couldn’t let that shit stay bottled up. Last time we tried being socially acceptable, we’d ended up incarcerated for six months after an unfortunate spray-painting incident at the Super Bowl. We’d learned our lesson and tried to whack each other daily to avoid stints in the pokey.
“Youse girls done?” I asked. Both of them were bloody and laughing like dummies.
“Yep,” Jango said. “But when Boba drop kicked me into the garbage can, I had another idea.”
“Spill it,” I said, yawning.
“Bereave,” he announced, pumping his paws over his head.
“What’s dat mean?” Boba asked, mopping the blood off his whiskers and sipping on his beer.
I sat up. “It’s like when youse eighty-six someone and den youse feel guilty for offin’ him even though he deserved it because the jackhole bilked youse outta 10K.”
We sat in silence and mulled over the possibilities. They were endless.
“Youse Better Bereave It!” Jango shouted.
“Hows about Bereave It or Not?” Boba bellowed, not wanting to be left out.
“Or…” I said with a naughty grin. “Don’t Stop Bereavin’.”
“Dems all good names,” Jango said. “What are weese gonna do?”
“Three owners. Three names. Youse assholes in?” I asked.
“In like Flynn,” Boba said.
“I’m in with a grin on my chin drinkin’ gin with a twin and her kin on a spin…” Jango said, not to be topped by anyone.
“Shaddup,” I said with a laugh. “Youse are gonna give me a headache. I’d suggest a nap and den a trip into town to borrow a building.”
“Should weese get permission to borrow Roger’s office?” Jango asked as he settled himself on our cat-sized couch for a mid-morning snooze.
“Nah,” Boba said, curling up on the floor. “Much easier to apologize after a minor pilfering.”
Truer words had never been said.
Series: Magic & Mayhem Series, Book 9
Publisher: Robyn Peterman
Publication Date: October 26, 2020
Genre: Paranormal Romance, Romantic Comedy
Length: 168 pages