“Hazel,” she says, “Her name’s Hazel. Like the eye color.” speaking of eyes, her own upturn and roll in a trademark expression of accepting indifference, flit back down after their brief jaunt. “I could’ve gotten my own scary mansion with a maid’s closet and an attic filled with haunted shit. Still could if she turns out to be a total hag, or a bore, or both. There’s only so much boring hag I can take.” balmy with rising whiskey bloodlevels, her talons seem to recede if only a millimeter, her sharper edges blunted with soft corners. She’s unearthed another cigarette, chain-smoking being an indication of her comfortability.
With the aching blue of the fantasia between her petaled lips, she continues, “Too bad we threw out that ouija board.” and she laughs, because what a stupid piece of shit that was! Those things aren’t real. That’s why they sell them in the toy section. The end of the cigarette illuminates, orange and pulsating. “We could do a witch-finder spell, sure. But what would we do? Once we knew? Tap them? Stalk them? Send them a starbucks giftcard? Also, fuck Coco. But also, it would be nice to have a danger detector, so maybe not... fuck, Coco.”