(Ah, due to lack of control over my life right now, I have to send you a first draft. But it is wot it is! Hugs!)
Wickedness:
Her name was Patricia Cumberfelt and her friends might have called her "Cucumber," (or some other playful variation) if she had any friends. Which sadly wasn't the case. But she DID have acquaintances and the respect (by God!) that came with her position of Grand Inquisitor.
Accordingly, she was called "Patty" by her superiors and "the GI" (behind her back) by everyone else. Which rather unpleasantly made her think of the gastrointestinal tract, but then, she supposed, her job was viewed as quite a nasty one, so there was THAT. Truly though, the public opinion was outmoded. And she was determined to show everyone that being the Grand Inquisitor was just a regular ol' job that someone had to do, and it was oh so much better that someone helpful, fair-minded, and pleasant like herself held the position rather than some heartless lunatic that was determined to give every John, Dick, and Carrie a turn in the Iron Maiden!
Her Scarchucks coffee had finished brewing and she slowly poured the dark liquid into a base compounded of a deadly sweet mixture of butterscotch, maple syrup, Irish cream, and topped off with a whipped dairy substitute. "Just a little nip," she murmured to herself, "just a little pick-me-up before another long, tedious day." For really, her position was all paperwork as there was rarely anything to Grand Inquisit about (as it were) until trout fishing season began.
Briefly sitting down in a parody of relaxation, Patricia poured the drink mixture down her throat like a cheap gargle that she had forgotten to spit out and was about to rise up again when she spied an ant crawling across the clean white table and triumphantly clamped a glass over it.
She stared at it balefully as it scurried back and forth, attempting to escape its prison.
"It's your choice," she murmured with a shrug. "You can continue with your worthless life, or you can become someone who matters."
She waited as if for a reply, her hands neatly folded, her posture a product of some fancy east coast finishing school. She had regulation blonde newscaster looks: poreless fair skin that looked almost plastic, shoulder-length hair slightly turned up in a flip as if in concession to someone's 1960 senior high school photo, a suggestion of tits under the pale cashmere sweater, but nothing too overt. Pretty, but not flashy, with a hint of overabundant teeth. A woman in her late 40's trying to maintain an aura of being perpetually 26. A poster child for the new Stepford Wives.
The trapped ant (of course) had said nothing to her in reply, intent on escape.
Patricia narrowed her eyes at it and clenched her fist. "Do not. Challenge. Me."
The ant hurled itself against the inside of the glass in increasing agitation.
The doorbell rang just then and Patricia sniffed in disdain. "I tried to talk sense to you but you have decided your own fate," she declared, lifting the glass and squishing it with a paper towel, before leisurely strolling to the foyer.
Veronica Shalttnot, shook her shaggy black and magenta hair out of her eyes and leaned on the doorbell again before battering the front door with her fist, being careful not to ruin her nail polish—black and artistically chipped in all the right places--and of course, careful not to jar the explosives in her backpack. Damn. These high-heeled boots were killing her. Where the fuck WAS the old witch? She poured a handful of Sweet Tarts into her mouth and waited.
Aunt Patty's car was still in the driveway, a showy foreign model that had cost a bundle, custom-painted a stupefying powderpuff pink. And Aunt Patty's house – decorated in tones of ivory and cream with the occasional rose-colored "accent." Boring. Moronic. She couldn't believe Auntie had a spooky job like Grand Inquisitor and still managed to be the dullest, most conventional person on the planet.
Mom had been shocked and somewhat dismayed when Veronica had signed up to intern with her aunt for the summer in the state-sponsored program "Give Our Youth A Way!" But her mom had abandoned any effort at reasoning with her daughter a long time ago. When Veronica snapped out that this what she really REALLY wanted to do, her mother merely glanced at Veronica wearily and sighed, "That is a terrible, horrible, incredibly foolish idea. But by all means. Do it and see what happens." And discretely popped a few more pills. (She suffered something awful from indigestion.)
Patricia barely avoided being bashed in the face by Veronica's fist as she opened her front door. "Ronnie, darling!" she dodged and gushed upon seeing her eldest niece. "So punctual. A true professional in the making!"
"For the 100th time, don't call me RONNIE!" snarled Veronica, with a vicious glare. "Aunnnt Pattycakes."
Patricia pursed her lips in displeasure, but soon allowed a glowing smile to gently spread over her face. "Of course, darling. You're all grown up now. A perfect and beautiful young lady with a wonderful future in front of her. Of course, some of that is due to your extremely dedicated guardian angel." She tittered coyly and attempted to make her eyes twinkle, but only succeeded in squinting in a way that looked deranged and somewhat sinister.
Veronica groaned, "Ah, come off, it!"
Aunt Patty had some kind of weird obsession with considering herself to be Veronica's "guardian angel"—responsible for Veronica's happiness and wellbeing. It was nuts and totally gross. If Veronica didn't desperately need to get into the Citadel, she wouldn't have willingly spent two minutes in Auntie's company.
Patricia reached out and held Veronica's hand softly. "Someday you'll realize how dedicated I am, dear niece. But for now…" She released Veronica's hand and assumed a brisk tone. "For now, to work! Your first day on the job! Hooray!"
Veronica surreptitiously wiped her hand on her leather miniskirt and frowned. She hated all this rah-rah, touchy-feely, squeaky-squishy stuff! But she would endure anything for Him, for The Cause. She closed her eyes and envisioned Brother Garadon as she had seen him last, speaking to their group, his head thrown back in ecstatic declaration, the strong slim column of his naked throat gleaming like some marble statue, tawny wavy hair falling gently to his shoulders.
"We are a new breed rising. With fire in our eyes, we don't fear anything because we've already died!" he had declared, exhorting the Circle to cast off the shackles of their past lives, destroy that which had held them down, renounce their old selves, and rise reborn from the ashes.
It had been her proudest moment when she described to him how she could get into the Citadel under the radar, posing as her Aunt's (the Grand Inquisitor!) assistant. His eyes had filled with bright wonder as she basked in the glow of his approval.
"Sister Veronica," he had murmured, "You will be at my right hand when we bring about a new world. Some would call you an angel, but we renounce the angels! No. You are a demon – proud, rebellious, beautiful – blissfully fallen from the ignorant, dull and sterilized "heaven" of this corrupt world into a righteous maelstrom of change and chaos. One who sees what must be done and answers the need of the Cause. Not as a follower, but as a leader! One who will pay any price and feel no fear. One who will stand not at my back, but by my side."
He had embraced her respectfully for a moment, and she hardly dared to breathe. He smelled of leather, rosemary, salt, and jasmine and made her tingle down to her toe rings.
Aunt Patricia was looking at her strangely. "Ronnie dear, did you hear me? Time to go!"
Veronica snapped out of her reverie and pasted a neutral look on her face. "Right! I'm ready." Oh yes, it was time to go bye-bye, Aunt Patty, and she was ready. More ready than old tart realized.
Enduring the ride in the cotton candy-colored car, Veronica sneered internally as her Auntie parked in her super special VIP space – which was after being stopped at the gate by Security, who wanted to vet her passenger.
"Really, Dagmar," Aunt Patricia had fluttered her lashes and pursed her lips in a sickeningly weird way, ""I thought you were my friend."
The aging Security guard motioned for Veronica to get out of the car and smirked. "I am, but it is my duty. I must do this."
Aunt Patricia smiled coyly and cooed, "Oh Dagmar, you have so many duties, how do manage to remember them all?!"
The big man puffed up proudly at this. "Well, Missy Grand Inquisitor. I'm a multitasker, I am. I'd claim the only time I'm not multitasking is when I'm sleeping, but considering how many bruises I wake up with, I probably multitask then, too."
Veronica stared at them in disbelief as both adults burst into laughter as if the man had said something witty. They were flirting, omigawd. It was obscene! She squirmed in her seat, wanting to barf.
"Just think of me as your 9 to 5 protector," winked Dagmar.
"I don't think of you as a protector," cooed Patricia. "More like a distraction." Dagmar smiled lewdly and their eyes met.
Oh gawd, enuf! Veronica couldn't stand it anymore. "Okay," she yelled, unbuckling her seat belt, "what do I need to do? Breathalyzer? Metal detector?"
Patricia shot her a sharp glance and pushed her ungently back into her seat. "Looks like I'm holding up traffic," she chortled gaily. "This youngster is my niece whose summer internship starts today. Papers are all processed and stamped." She waved them at Dagmar. "I'll vouch for her."
Dagmar glanced back in dismay at the line of cars backed up behind her. "Well, I guess I can trust you, Grand Inquisitor!" he chuckled. "Catch you later."
"You bet," Patricia had waved daintily, making her fingers wiggle at the security guard. "Toodle-loo!"
….
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Veronica got her chance. From what she could see middle-aged people got incredibly drowsy after a big lunch (which seemed to be the highlight of their day) and a few hours of sitting at their desks. After indoctrination and being shown around the building, she had been deposited at a vacant desk and been given some crappy grunt work, with no deadline -- and no one seemed to be responsible for checking up on her. All right!
Grabbing the ancient backpack with one hand, not raising it above waist level, Veronica casually left her desk and moseyed out the door of her department, eyes stealthily sliding left and right to see if anyone was taking notice of her departure. Amazingly, not. People were either gossiping, or had their heads buried in their computers, or on their cell phones. No one cared about the teen newbie. They had already formed their own little hive and she was just a foreign object. Which suited her plans just fine.
Veronica had received a map of the layout of the place this morning along with the tour. She didn't need it. Her Circle knew of places that were NOT marked on the diagram; she had her destination memorized. It didn't take her long to get to the door bearing the legend "Authorized Personnel Only." She slid the access card into the holder and punched in the Grand Inquisitor's code, which had been surprisingly easy to find on Auntie's desk while her back was turned.
Veronica let out a long breath once she was through the door. That surprised her. She hadn't anticipated she would be nervous at all. She snorted in self-depreciation. "Get it together, girl!" she chided herself. Brother Garadon had called her strong and beautiful. She would be by his side in their new world. That was all that mattered. She could DO this. It wasn't her first act of violent anarchy, after all, just her final one in this corrupt old world.
She faced the nerve center of the Citadel where clean shining banks of machines hummed and purred. Machines that must be destroyed. She understood that people would probably die, too, it was no big loss. They all willingly worked for an evil government that oppressed the common man. They weren't innocent. Veronica found a small alcove with a flat surface, opened her backpack and began assembling the explosives. She found her hands sweating, trembling -- and slapped herself in the face. What was wrong with her!? She wasn't afraid to do this. Her Circle was working this same day in other parts of the country to bring about a radical cleansing change. They counted on her to do her part!
She gripped the edge of her work table and tried to steady herself. "One last time," she whispered to herself. "One. Last. Time."
And it was done.
She had only to press the detonator. With all the courage and determination that resided in her fierce soul, she hit the button. And heard the tones, not of explosions, but of tinkling silvery laughter.
"Ronnie, really, you are too much fun! Did you really think I'd let you blow up the Citadel on MY watch. So amusing. Your devices were deactivated before you reached my front door. I'll miss you, darling, but it's time to move things along."
Veronica whirled around to find a crew of granite-faced security guards that had her Aunt Patricia at their head.
"What?!" she managed to gasp out, as she was roughly seized and immobilized.
Patricia patted her niece's face. "There have been a lot of candidates, but you are the one I've always been interested in. Of course, I always watched over and protected you since you were a little girl. I just knew you were the One."
"Aunt Patty!" Veronica screamed in shock. "What the hell..!"
"Shut her up – but gently," the Grand Inquisitor instructed her captors.
A meaty hand smelling of cole slaw closed firmly over Veronica's mouth.
Patricia's face took on a far-away look. "You wanted a noble cause and I assure you will contribute to one. We've found a way here at the Citadel to siphon the life energy from you naughty young people," and here, she wagged her index finger playfully at Veronica, "and put it to much better use serving the needs of your government. We find that the best match is from someone in the immediate family. I knew it could only be you. Good bye, darling. I'll make sure your mother doesn't blame herself too much."
Patricia smoothed her hair back from her brow and then barked out, "Take her to the Transition room!"
….
During the funeral services (the death of a young person was always so tragic), people commented on how extraordinarily youthful the Grand Inquisitor looked. "I wish I dared asked her the name of her plastic surgeon," one onlooker whispered to another. Patricia smirked. The process had proceeded perfectly and it was only a matter of time before it was improved on.
If only she could get over her craving for Sweet Tarts!
