Chapter 4

"No, just no,"Zelda said, staring up at the enormous sign with an expression of shock on her face.

"What do youse mean, no?" I demanded, insulted.

The sign had turned out great in my humble kitty opinion. It took us thirty minutes to enhance it with spray paint and an hour to hang it since it was fucking huge. We could have used magic to put the massive signage up, but we figured as straight and narrow businessmen we should do some physical labor. We also decided never to do that again. It was magic or forget it for anything else associated with our legal venture.

The little array of coffins over our guts made us look slim and trim, and we'd highlighted Sassy's rack with lime green glitter and purple neon lights. The added touch made her hooters the star of our business. An hour ago, I figured Sassy would love it, but Zelda's appalled reaction made me question my judgement—not that I actually had any judgement, but still.

In the end, since we had to write all the prices on the sign, we'd opted for one name—Don't Stop Bereavin'. We played Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine the name, but when I lost, I called foul and changed it to a burping contest. Suffice it to say the leftover Canadian beer in my system made me the winner after I recited the entire first scene of Anchor Man during one outstanding and gag-worthy burp.

"Does Roger know you defaced his building with Sassy's boobs?" Zelda asked.

"Not yet," I replied, again doubting my wisdom. "He's on vacation."

She shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. "Mmkay, Assjacket doesn't need a freakin' funeral home," Zelda informed me. "It's an insult to my abilities as the Shifter Wanker. You feel me? That's smack talking my skills of keeping clumsy-ass Shifters alive. You're my familiars. You're supposed to have my back."

"Didn't think about dat," I admitted, feeling kind of bad. "But I'd like to point out since youse is the best fuckin' Wanker in the Universe, weese won't actually have to spray paint or creamface any stiffs. It's a win-win for stayin' on the right side of the law without actually havin' to do nothin'."

"Help me Goddess," Zelda muttered, still staring at the sign. "I'm going out on a limb here and hoping like hell you meant cremate and not creamface."

"Son of a bitch," I screamed, glancing up in horror as I gaped at the truly disgusting faux pas we'd made. "Weese are gonna have to change all of our social media."

"You put this shit up on social media?" Zelda choked out.

"Dat's what legal business owners do," I huffed with an eye roll. "Youse are the one who said weese should stay on the right side of the law."

"My mistake," Zelda replied with a pained laugh as she wiggled her fingers and fixed the wording on the sign. "Take down the social media. It's a very bad idea."

"Done," I promised, pulling out my pilfered cell phone and deleting all fifty accounts I'd created.

Zelda sighed dramatically, walked over to Sturgill and sat down on the cement bench in front of him. My witch let her head fall to her hands and she groaned. "Did Sassy actually agree to be the face and boobs of a funeral home called Don't Stop Bereavin?"

"Not exactly," I told her, hoping she didn't notice the word Seagull painted over Sturgill's junk. "Weese was imbibin' a bit, and I think Boba told her weese was openin' a numeral dome for sssled steeeeeple."

"Translate," Zelda said.

"Funeral home for dead people," I supplied with a grin. "He slurred a little and Sassy thought he was speakin' Canadian."

Zelda couldn't bite back her answering grin even though she tried damn hard. "Goddess, this is a hot mess. However, it's my fault. I never should have dared you."

My brows rose in shock. "Youse takin' it back?"

Dares were very serious business in the magical world. There was a price to pay for not taking a dare and a steeper price to pay to take a dare back.

"No way," she said. "If I call it off, I have to accept a dare from you. Not happening. You asshats are insane."

"Pot, kettle, black," I shot back with a chuckle.

Our witch defined insanity and I loved her with all my kitty being. She was the perfect witch for us, and we were the perfect familiars for her. She regularly threatened the pound or setting us on fire, but that came with the territory. We were a lot to handle—literally. All three of us were on the chubby side, but I liked to think that there was simply more of us to love.

And Zelda loved us. Showing us by electrocution every now and then was just her way. Of course, we usually deserved it…

"Do you want to tell me why the bear is sporting the word Seagull where his privates used to be?" she asked.

"Not particularly," I answered.

Turns out I didn't have to.

"Weese named him Sturgill and named his stolen nards Big Sturgill on account of his hairy beans bein' huge," Jango Fett announced as he waddled out of our place of business and joined the conversation.

Boba was right on is heels.

"And Sassy, wantin' to be Canadian, helped us out," Boba explained.

Zelda eyed us like we'd rolled in dead bugs—which we enjoyed from time to time. "Okay. Still doesn't explain why Seagull is painted over his junk."

"Sassy can't spell," Boba said.

"Got it." Zelda laughed. "It is sad that Sturgill's bits got pilfered."

"Weese are gonna get dem back," I promised. "Dem sticky-fingered groundhogs did it. Youse don't rip off a man's dong pillow when he's only got half a head to start with. It's wrong."

"You idiots are going to stay away from the groundhogs," Zelda warned. "Mac is the sheriff, and he'll take care of it. Am I clear? Apparently, they show up every couple decades or so and Mac has to run them off."

Mac was a werewolf, Zelda's mate and the badass King of the Shifters, but groundhogs were tricky little bastards. To get into the mind of a criminal, you needed to be a criminal. We were criminals. And we were destined to return Sturgill's junk. I felt it all the way to my toe beans.

"I hear what youse is sayin'." I nodded and hoped she didn't catch the omission.

Zelda stood up and glanced once more at the enormous billboard that we'd attached to the front of Roger's building. "At least it's only a week," she muttered. "Has Sassy seen this travesty yet?"

"Ummm, nope," I said, wondering if we were in for a waxing from the flying wanna-be Canadian menace.

Zelda laughed. I glanced over at my boys who shuddered and were clearly thinking along the same hairless lines as me. Maybe we should remove the sign. Getting waxed sucked.

"Good luck with that, asshats." Zelda snapped her fingers and disappeared in a blast of sparkling green crystals.

"Are youse guys thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Jango asked, looking up at the sign with an unsure expression on his hairy face.

"Kinda," Boba added. "But weese worked hard on dat sign and weese look hot."

"While I agree dat weese are sexy, I'm a little worried Sassy might not like what weese did to her rack," I said.

"Well den, let's get rid of…" Jango said only to be cut off by the live version of the boobs under debate.

"Incoming!" Sassy squealed.

In a landing that defied aerodynamics, the witch crashed through the front window of our place of business in a blur. The most horrifying part was that Sassy had three passengers on her broom— the Canadians, who may or may not be dead at the moment.

"Youse think anyone lived through dat?" Jango asked with a wince.

"Sassy'll be fine," Boba assured us. "Saw her crash into a tree the other day and come out without a scratch. Don't know about dem Canadians, though."

"Well, if they kicked the bucket, they came to the right place," I pointed out on a brighter note. "Weese might have our first stiffs."

"Ohhhhhh! I'm so sorry aboot that," Sassy cried out as we heard some impressive hissing and swearing. "That wasn't very Canadian of me."

"Dem Canadians is pissed," I said with a laugh and then choked on my own spit as Sassy and her three tutors walked out of the building and onto the street.

The Universe tilted on its axis, and I forgot how to breathe. Jango and Boba's reactions were the same.

"No f-ing way," Jango whispered.

"Are weese dreamin'?" Boba asked.

"I sure as hell hoped weese ain't dreaming," I choked out, unable to take my eyes off the beauties in front of us. "Should I punch youse in the head to make sure weese are awake?"

"Good idea," Boba said.

Jango nodded his agreement. "Punch Boba."

"Why me?" Boba demanded. "Why can't Fat Bastard punch youse?"

Jango glared at Boba. "Well, youse is the one who said it was a good idea and my giblets are still screamin' from the massive racking earlier."

"Sounds reasonable," Boba agreed then turned to me. "Hit me, bunghole."

"Wait," I said confused and a little uncomfortable. "Are youse speakin' Pirate? Youse want me to hit your bunghole?"

Sassy nodded and called out, "Yes, that was Pirate. I'm fluent in Pirate from watching Pirates of the Caribbean two hundred times. Boba clearly wants you to punch his bunghole. Kind of kinky and gross, but that's exactly what he said."

Boba threw his hands in the air. "Whoa, if I was speakin' Pirate, I didn't know. I take dat shit back."

"Happens to me all the time," Sassy chimed in. "I have been known to speak up to ten languages in one sentence. Half the time I can't even understand what I say."

That gave everyone pause. Me and the boys stared at Sassy like she was nuts—which she was—and the three Canadian beauties stared at her like she'd grown another head—which she had not.

Par for the course with Sassy.

"While I'm all for bein' punched," Boba said. "I'd prefer to keep my bunghole out of it."

"Roger dat," I said, winding up and walloping my compadre in the gut.

Unable to control himself, Boba clouted me back. Jango immediately forgot about his injured doodle-knockers and jumped into the foray. Boba cold-cocked Jango while Jango whaled on me. Of course, I whacked the shit out of Boba at the same time. It was a symphony of knuckle sandwiches, and no one came near anyone's bunghole.

"Umm… are you asshats done?" Sassy called out. "Kind of un-Canadian to beat the shit out of each other."

With one last slug to both of my boys, I nodded at Sassy. "Weese are done."

We were also bleeding and limping. Whatever. We were manly cats with a penchant for smackdowns. It was one of our better qualities.

The bored and disinterested yawns of the Canadians proved they were impressed.

"The dames are real," I whispered. What was a feline fella to do when he laid eyes on three of the most beautiful and felonious cats in the Universe? "It's time to show dem weese mean business."

We'd been chasing these furry broads our entire lives. They were slipperier than eels. How they'd ended up in Canada was a mystery, and one I would love to unravel. Life was about to get very interesting.

My heart pounded like a jackhammer in my chest, and my tail twitched spastically. Boba squealed like a girl. Jango adjusted his junk.

Not to be outdone by Jango, I quickly went for my own junk. It was an inspired move, and I wished I'd thought of it first. Gangoolie grabbing was a sign that a male cat was taken with a female cat. Taken was an understatement. I stumbled as I went for the gold and grabbed Boba Fett for balance. He was worse off than I was, and we both went down in a heap. Jango tripped over us as he ogled the Canadian beauties and racked himself. It wasn't sexy. It wasn't cool.

It was not our finest moment.

"Mmmkay," Sassy said, eyeing us and trying not to laugh. "These are my Canadian tutors, Poutine, Annie Surely, and Blythe. Aren't they just aboot the most awesome gals you've ever seen?"

I was speechless.

Boba Fett was speechless.

Jango Fett was trying to breathe through his second rack of the day.

The cats had our tongues.

Again, not our finest moment, but we were face to face with all of our dreams come true. Poutine—all curvy, white, fluffy and rude. Annie Surely—black and white fur, curly whiskers and a shitty attitude. And Blythe—gray tiger-stripe with an eye roll that deserved an award and an outlook on life that sucked. They were f-in' gorgeous.

"Poutine," I said, puffing out my chest and sucking in my gut as I untangled myself from my boys. "Youse is lookin' as hot as ever."

"Bite me," she hissed, sending joy through my furry frame.

"Annie Surely," Boba said, eyeing her warily. "Youse is still a babe."

"I'll cut your tongue out of your head," she snarled.

Boba grinned and gave me a thumbs up.

Sadly, due to his nards being injured, Jango sounded like a girl. However, that didn't stop my brave brother. "Blythe, humpin' youse is my fondest dream."

Damn, he was good. Why didn't I think of that?

"Get in line," Blythe snapped and gave him the middle finger.

Nothing had changed. It was just as romantic as it had always been.

"You know my Canadian tutors?" Sassy asked, surprised.

"Weese are acquainted," I said, winking at Poutine, who made the international I'll slit your throat sign. Poutine was everything I wanted in a dame, and this time she wouldn't get away.

"Old news," Poutine purred.

"This is awesome," Sassy shouted, missing all of the death threat foreplay going on. "I'll host a dinner tonight. We can have a picnic under Sturgill and his missing bits. I'll just pop home for aboot an hour and have Jeeves make us some food, eh?"

"Youse do dat, Sassy," I said, wondering if the furry gals were packing enchanted weapons.

They wouldn't dare use them since any magic shot at us, went back onto the attacker—times ten. We might be girthy, but we were deadly and seriously good looking.

Sassy hopped on her broom and flew right into the sign we'd just put up. It hit the ground with a loud crash, and we all dodged the debris.

"Sorry," she yelled. "We can make another sign tonight!"

We watched in appalled silence as the witch flew down Main Street upside down squealing with glee. When Sassy was out of sight, I glanced over at Poutine who gave me the finger. All was right with my world.

And then, in a move so brilliant it brought a tear to my eye, Boba dropped to the ground and raised his back leg high. Jango and I immediately followed his lead. Ball sac maintenance was a sure-fire strategy to let the gals know of our undying love for them. I went to town on my giblets like my life depended on it.

True love was true love.

We loved the violent cat burglars—had for decades. Maybe we hadn't been clear in the past, but the vigorous ball bath ritual we were performing would clinch the deal. Win-win.

Or we'd just have spotless nuts.