More wacky hijinks ’cause Anita can’t clean!
Stuffed animals are not meant to be submerged in water. The two in the bathtub were ruined. Maybe spot remover? The smell was thick and seemed permanent.
For fucks sake. You can stuff a cuddly toy in a washing machine and clean it. Water does not ruin soft toys. Hamilton, I’m fed up at yelling at you for writing stupid things, but honestly, have you never washed anything? Speaking indelicately, as a woman there have been times I’ve had to wash blood out of things. There have also been times I’ve vomited on soft toys. I dealt with these things with common sense and actually looking up what to do. It. Is. Not. Difficult. Seriously Anita, your career involves copious amounts of blood and gore. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous you can’t deal with it.
I don’t like being this annoyed this early in a chapter. It does not bode well.
Anita begins to pack an overnight bag, making sure to include plenty of guns, because they worked so well last time. A zombie minion of Dominga could just as easily come after her in the day, so she’s gotta get out of here. Never mind the neighbours or the build manager, Mrs Pringle – the zombies can just come after them instead. And tear them into pieces as zombies don’t eat human flesh. Pleasant.
Raising a zombie for the purposes of being a murder weapon is an automatic death sentence. The court system has gotten rather quick on the draw the last few years. A death sentence meant what it said these days. Especially if your crime was supernatural in some way. You didn’t burn witches anymore. You electrocuted them.
… you can’t do that. It’s illegal. It’s been illegal for almost a thousand years. Suddenly the existence of witches is proved and the whole concept of trial and judicial process gets thrown down the toilet – it’s not like it’s important or anything. There’s just a rubber stamp inscribed with DEATH and anyone who errs magically gets one. I’m sorry, but there’s suspension of belief for the purposes of fantasy, and then there’s ignoring the basic structure on which western society is based upon. America is not a country which can be all ‘fuck yeah kill dem witches’ without being severely punished by the rest of the world. This could not happen. Ever.
Anita goes to the nearest hotel (great hiding place) and worries that her landlord might be upset. I’d say he’d be upset why he’s not Mrs Pringle anymore. But the hotel is called the STOUFFER CONCOURSE and i love that. SILD.
Possibly I should explain what that was. Um, Stoufer is the blue cat belonging to Harry Hill, a comedian I’ve loved since I was a little kid. And I think I should leave it at that.
Anyway, the desk clerk looks at Anita in a funny way. Oh, god. Something bad is going to happen.
It wasn’t the bloodstains that had made the clerk look askance. Unless you knew what to look for, you wouldn’t know it was blood. No, the problem was that my skin was deathly pale, like clean paper. My eyes that are perfectly brown looked black. They were huge and dark and… strange.
i dont get it i dont get how you write i dont get how anita is mexican why is the clerk freaked out i know YOU ARE COVERED IN BLOOD. IT’S NOT BECAUSE YOU HAVE PERFECT EYES OR PERFECT CAUCASIAN SKIN IT’S BECAUSE YOU ARE COVERED IN ZOMBIE BLOOD ANITA. YOU ARE COVERED IN ZOMBIE BLOOD YOU HAVEN’T BOTHERED TO WASH OFF. IF YOU TAKE ONE MORE OPPORTUNITY TO BLATHER ON ABOUT HOW PERFECTLY WHITE YOU ARE, I WILL HIDDLES SPAM.
She calls room service and gets pissed when they ask if she wants decaf. Yeah, it’s terrible when people ask if you want something. Maybe it’s not because you’re female but because you’re wandering around covered in blood holding guns. Maybe the hotel staff think you need to chill out a bit.
What if we couldn’t tie Dominga Salvador to the zombies? What if we couldn’t find proof? She’d try again. Her pride was at stake now. She had set two zombies on me, and I had wasted them both. With a little help from the police. Dominga Salvador would see it as a personal challenge.
You didn’t waste them. You shot them into wriggling pieces that were carried off by the police. Stop trying to retcon what I read yesterday.
Righto, time to stop thinking about Salvador or Burke (WHY ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT HIM?) and start reading the Gaynor file. He’s a self-made millionaire with unproven mob connections. His only family was a mother who died years ago. His father died before he was born, but there are no records of the father.
An illegitimate birth, carefully disguised? Maybe. So Gaynor was a bastard in the original definition of the word. So what? I’d already known he was one in spirit.
Nice to know you don’t have a problem with children born to parents who aren’t married, even though you go to great lengths to talk as insultingly as possible about being a bastard.
I’m a bastard. And it really pisses me off when people talk about it, are rude, and then cover it up by saying they have no problems with it. You could have just said he was born out of wedlock. You didn’t have to call him a bastard and be snitty about it. This was written in the 20th century – no one gave a shit about being illegitimate anymore. This is being judgemental and trying to cover it up. Badly. You can’t polish a turd, love.
There are two pictures of Wheelchair Wanda, and in one, her and Gaynor are in love, and in the other Cicely is there too.
Anita phones John Burke because she still thinks that’s a logical plan. She then thinks to check on Irving, to make sure that Jean-Claude didn’t kidnap him to go show shopping and get make-overs. Irving says that JC behaved himself, and that the cat ate some lovely salmon.
I said my prayers like a good little girl. I asked very sincerely that I not dream.
Nearly half-done. But Hamilton’s stupidity gets worse every chapter. Everything is pissing me off. I don’t think I’ve been this urked since the Beekeeper’s Apprentice.