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Welcome to Prefect City

Stephanie Burke

No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including

but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Changeling Press

LLC.

ISBN1-59596-037-6

Formats Available:

HTML, Adobe PDF,

MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader

Publisher:

Changeling Press LLC

PO Box 1561

Shepherdstown, WV 25443-1561

www.ChangelingPress.com

Editor: Katriena Knights

Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and

which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as

defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely,

where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Chapter One

“Just in time for another fast-paced episode of… Perfect!”

“Well, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” Shaquandra murmured as she settled deeper into her

comfortable couch.

Dressed in all of her ratty, terry-clothed splendor, the out-of-work accountant cuddled her closest

friends closer. Her friends being three bags of assorted potato chips, one bag of barbecue pork rinds,

two packages of popcorn, cheese and caramel flavored respectively, one box of pocky… and a fifth of

tequila. She poured another shot of tequila into a tumbler, took the shot, and chased it with a swig of lime

juice from the nearby plastic lime-shaped squeeze bottle. She had no place to be since she got

downsized by corporate America.

All of her resumes were electronically filed, her interviews from headhunters were conducted by phone,

and her unemployment check came straight to her front door.

Now, with her snackable friends gathered around, she settled down for the next round of relentlessly

sexist pointless soft porn known as the daytime soaps.

“You know,” she gurgled to her pet potato chip Chippy Three Thousand, named thusly because she had

eaten his two thousand nine hundred ninety-nine predecessors, “look at that chick.” She pointed to an

overly developed blonde with underdeveloped acting ability. “She was a drunk prostitute turning tricks

for her younger brother on the Perfect Strip. Now she’s a millionaire heiress with a handsome,

mysterious fiancé. Damn, I wish I was in a soap opera. Five minutes after you get there, you’re a

millionaire and everyone loves you.”

Chippy had nothing to say, so she tossed him into her mouth and poured out a little liquor for her newly

fallen brother who didn’t make it. And she poured it right down her throat.

She was adding a second memorial shot to her tumbler when the first fly buzzed around her head.

Absently, she swatted it away and returned to her TV viewing. Brad was about to announce to the world

that he was a product of the first male birth, an experiment gone wrong back in the seventies… and that

he was the mother of Christy’s baby, and that Christy was really Christian and had only married the aged

oil baron for his money and not for love.

Christy, nee Christian before the sex change operation, was about to rise up and invite the alien horde

waiting just out of range of the Star Wars defense grid to come and make slaves of the human race when

the second fly dive-bombed her.

Did I forget to close a window or something ?

The third fly landed in her drink.

Cursing, she tilted the glass to peer inside and saw something that almost made her swear off drinking for

life. The fly in her drink was reclining on a melting ice cube and smoking a cigar, and damned if it didn’t

smell like those Cuban things her ex-boss loved.

She was about to let out the prerequisite B-movie scream when someone speaking behind her pulled her

attention in that direction.

“Ignore Murray, love,” the gravelly voice rasped. “You got the good top shelf stuff and Murray needed

to wet his whistle.”

“M-Murray?” she stuttered as she slowly turned her head toward that voice.

Maybe it was Chippy coming to claim revenge for all his fallen brethren. But all she saw was another fly.

This one was also smoking a cigar and brandishing a metal wand with a heart on the tip.

Okay, she decided, slowly putting down the tumbler. It was definitely time to give up on spirits of a Latin

origin. Time to switch to good old fashioned German beer. She never saw flies with wands smoking

cigars and resting on ice cubes, stealing sips of her good hooch, when she was wasted on Jagermeister.

“We are not flies,” another voice huffed, joining the second cigar-smoking… thing that was hovering

above her face. “We are personal, paternal, aviated, size-challenged inner desire granters.”

“Did I say that out loud?” she gasped, then his words, or at least some of them, penetrated her

alcohol-fogged brain. “What?”

“Ignore Carl,” the first personal paternal… flying thing interrupted. “He is playing the PC, card-holding

metrosexual nowadays. His cigar is a legal Cuban,” he whispered in his rough voice, “and he has

manicures to prevent tobacco stains on his fingers and nails.”

“I’m dreaming,” she muttered. “This is a tequila induced fantasy.”

“Then I would hate to see your nightmares,” another fly added as it joined the two hovering over her

shocked face. “I mean really, look at those drapes and that carpet. Was your designer Martha Screw

Up? I mean, plastic backings! Who has plastic backings on drapes? And that color! Neutral is not a

color, darling -- it’s a country, like Switzerland!”

“Okay,” Shaquandra muttered, desperately holding her panic at bay. “My brain is fried, I am receiving

fashion advice from an insect.”

“Decorating advice,” the perturbed voice corrected. “If I was going to give you fashion advice, I would

say something about that terry cloth robe. Hello? It is so Laverne and Shirley ! I mean, get out of the

seventies.” Then he added, in an aside to the others, “And a little wax will take care of that unibrow,

ducky. Wax is for black people, too!”

“I need a drink!” Shaquandra’s voice cracked as she felt herself slipping farther into insanity. She

reached for her tumbler, forgetting her tequila moocher until the glass was at her lips. A movement made

her look down with a whimper, just in time to catch the first of several cigar smoke rings that the floating

fly blew at her.

“I think you’ve had too much,” the first fly mused as she very carefully placed the tumbler back on the

table.

“I think you may be right,” she agreed, her voice reedy and thin.

She was shocked that her voice sounded that normal. Hell, she had just impressed herself. “Okay,” she

continued, sliding back into her couch to hide her trembling limbs. “Talk to me.”

She was now ready for the pronouncement that the world was coming to an end or that Jenna Jameson,

Nicole Ritchie, Anna Nicole Smith, Paris Hilton, and Michael Jackson had decided to form a Christian

Coalition and give up sex, liquor, scandals, shocking people, and plastic surgery altogether.

“We,” the first voice began formally, “are your Fairy Godfathers.”

“Personal paternal…” the second voice began, but was cut off.

“Fairy godfathers, Carl! We have wings and we wear tutus!”

“Enhanced body sheaths,” Carl muttered, but fell quiet as the rest of the fly-fairy -- or was it the fairy-fly

-- contingency shot him glares.

“Carl the PC, Murray the drunk, Phil the fashion consultant, and I am Carter the leader. We are your

four fairy godfathers!” Carter sounded pleased with himself.

Shaquandra stared.

“Well?” He flew in closer, close enough for her to see that the fly really did have a tiny face… that was

covered with a five o’clock shadow. It was wearing, sure enough, a small black tutu and had a cigar

clamped between its lips, lips that spread into a smile without dropping the precious cigar.

“Get out!” She hid deeper in her comfy neutral colored couch and fiddled with her snack friends.

“Truly!” Carter added, shifting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other without the use of his

hands, a truly skilled and magnificent feat.

“No,” Shaquandra stated. “Get out. Get out of my house! Get out now!” Her voice rose with each

word, until she was nearly roaring.

“You…” Carter stammered, a confused expression crossing his tiny little face. “Maybe you are not

understanding us…”

“Get out! Get out! Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout!” Then she was on her feet ad swatting at the little buzzing

creeps like mad. “Get out of my house!”

Suddenly there was a poof, a damned audible poofing sound, and suddenly four -- count them, four --

beefy buff type guys, wearing matching dark colored tutus, ballet slippers, and puffing on cigars, stood in

her living room, all fisting heart-topped wands.

She knew that they were there because in her wild, fly-flapping flight, she barreled into the one called

Carter’s chest, then bounced, bottom first, onto the floor.

“Now will you listen to us?”

Shaquandra gaped like a slack jawed yokel at the four buff men, who were glaring down at her like

she’d tried to kill them.

She opened her mouth to speak, but in tandem, they each snapped open previously unnoticed mother of

pearl wings and slammed equally large hands onto their hips, still fisting those damn wands.

Numbly, she closed her mouth and nodded. Suddenly her four personal paternal flies were looking like a

thug gang of four.

“Good,” Carter snapped. “In that case, you made a wish and we are here to grant it.”

“Wish?”

“You wished for it, we grant it!” Carl continued. “Too bad you didn’t wish for decent living quarters.”

“Or some better manners,” Phil added, sniffing around his cigar.

Murray said nothing, but he reached down and picked up the nearly empty liquor bottle, shook it twice,

and frowned at her.

Shaquandra stared at the four winged fairies and gave in, just a little, to the urge to laugh hysterically. It

started life as a chuckle and grew and grew in sound and in fervor.

“I think we broke her,” Carl whispered loudly from behind a raised hand after a few long moments of

manic laughter.

Murray just nodded.

Stephanie Burke - Welcome To Prefect City.pdf

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