I Honk for Evil & Fashion

It was a tough world out there and at home, perhaps more so for a bungling witch with alignment issues. Despite coming from a family of good witches, Yvonne adamantly insisted that she was possessed of a fearsome, evil nature. She’d vocally maintained claims to this disposition since her first tantrum when she was two years old. She took herself entirely too seriously and assumed that everyone she met had an unshakeable fear of her presupposed wickedness. They never did and it was perfectly possible her purple cape embroidered with “Evil Yvonne” across the back just wasn’t sending the right message.

Her refusal to work for wholesome, honorable employers had her instead creeping around dark alleys and shady warehouses looking for a meal ticket. But eventually, at last, finally and in spite of all, she found herself suitably employed with the proof in her hands in the form of a fancy job offer letter. Frankly she’d only been offered the job because she’d work for cheap, typed a blazing 35 wpm, proposed a plan to keep their shipping costs down by eliminating the need for purchase of bubble wrap and was enthusiastically willing to show a little skin on casual Fridays.

Yvonne squealed in evil delight and held the envelope high above her head. She cried out to the heavens or in this case the ceiling of her bedroom. “Behold! My plans to vanquish mine own poverty-stricken misfortunes unfold in accordance to my mere desire!”

The dramatic revelation was brought to a premature close by the rude banging from the other side of the bedroom wall where lay her older sister's room and came her muffled voice, “Shut up in there! Some of us are trying to concentrate on real magic.” Living at home in her twenties was a drag and the only thing worse was having her sister living at home too. Yvonne had been denied the opportunity to upgrade to the larger room and their sibling rivalry was as divisive as ever. The fact that Yvonne considered herself to be evil and wicked while her older sister was pursuing the white magic and it’s healing craft did not help their relationship.

“Curse you!” Evil Yvonne twisted and crushed a sheet of bubble wrap in her sister's general direction with extreme prejudice. “I'll show her. I'll show them all. They'll rue the day I escaped their clutches. MWAHAHA!” She laughed maniacally and collapsed on a black beanbag to read the contents of the letter again.


“Wake up, Yvonne. Geez, you’re twenty-five years old and I still have to do this? Wake up or you'll miss your first day of work.” It was her mother poking her head into her room at the unholy hour of eight o’clock. In the morning!

“Five more minutes, Mommy,” Yvonne mumbled from beneath the purple blankets that she’d pulled over her head.

“Your clock has run out of time, Missy. Evil deeds wait for no one.” Mother Martin was never one to take Yvonne’s outrageous antics too seriously and wasn’t about to let her daughter lose her inaugural post-college job on her first day. Even if that job was working for the city’s self proclaimed Evil Conglomerate.

Yvonne blinked herself awake then jumped out of bed with an eagerness she rarely applied to anything. She was already dressed, having slept in the raiment she'd chosen for her first day doing professional evil for a criminal syndicate. Oooh it sounded so wonderful and brimming with opportunities for wanton villainy.

Mrs. Martin, the mother and unofficial ball-buster of the house shook her head at her daughter. “No ma’am. Absolutely not. You aren’t stepping foot outside of this room dressed like that.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Yvonne looked down at her skimpy outfit, checking for wrinkles. The top of her dress was entirely too low and bottom hem was entirely too high. It would have been inappropriate for nearly every professional outing one could embark upon, but of course Yvonne was completely clueless and this was regarding an as yet defined position among the ranks of rule breakers and lawlessness. Regardless, Mother Martin wasn’t having it and with a flick and a wave of her white wand she’d zapped her daughter’s dress into something more reasonable.

Yvonne clutched at her throat and made a scene of choking, but she was in no danger of any such thing at the hands of her dress’ new neckline which rested at a safe and modest position below her throat. Never one to back down from theatrics, Yvonne took an exaggerated step and purposely tripped and fail over the lowered hem of her dress.

“While you’re down there you can change your shoes. You’ll break an ankle in those heels. Don't forget your diabolical gear,” her mother reminded, trying to hide the sardonic smirk on her face.

“Got it.” Yvonne waved her wand carelessly to show it was indeed in her possession. A stream of harmless purple bubbles blasted from it's tip and ping ponged their way around the room. Mother and daughter alike ducked and swatted at the bubbles while Yvonne clambered to her feet.

“And you'll be needing your broom as well.” The maternal parental unit was merciless in her tyranny.

“Aw Mom...do I have to? None of the other criminals are gonna have a busted broom.” The unassuming sweeper that until now had been cast aside in the corner and covered under a week’s worth of clothes came out of hiding and dragged itself to Yvonne’s side, thumping against her leg like the tail of an old dog happy to be going on another adventure. This broom had been handed down from so many generations that it’s bound straw were bent and sad to look at. The handle was worn smooth from years of exploit and had more than a few hairline fractures along its shaft. Yvonne’s desperate attempts over the years to destroy it had failed; it had proved remarkably resilient. She tried to leave it behind or lose it intentionally, but it followed along in her wake everywhere she went like an oblivious puppy dog. Lately she’d taken to sneaking out of her room (not through the window) just to get away and gone without it tagging along.

Her mother glared at her and a purple bubble popped noisily. “Missy Von Martin! That broom could save your life someday.” But her mother didn't look too confident in this assessment.

“I've got a wand for that.” More bubbles filled the room and Yvonne popped one with a judicious poke of her wand. “And don’t call me Missy Von Martin. It sounds like a stripper name and I would never accept money for taking my clothes off.”

“Yeeaahhh,” her mother said slowly, not sure if she should point out the implications of her challenged daughter’s last statement. She decided to let it slide. “I'd feel safer if you relied more on your broom than that wand.”

“What are you saying? Is something wrong with my wand?” Evil Yvonne shook her wand vigorously and pointed the perilous end straight at her eye, staring carefully at the tip. “It seems fine. Nice and straight.”

“Dear lord, don’t point that at your face, Yvonne.” Her mother had the decency to mutter the rest of her response under her breath as she turned around and walked away.

At the bottom of the stairs Mother Martin heard her daughters pitiful plea, “Ouch Mommy, I’ve got soap in my eye!”

“That’s nice dear, now go to work!”


Thirty minutes later Yvonne was walking down a dirty street surrounded by industrial warehouses. Her pointy tipped, wide brimmed hat rested atop her head and her indecent clothes had returned to their pre-mother alterations. Score another victory for Evil Yvonne. Her neglected broom kept bumping against the back of her leg as it skulked along in her wake. “You know, Broom, we would have arrived a while ago if you could get it up a little more than twelve inches.” To clarify this intentional innuendo, Yvonne’s broom was only capable of flight within twelve inches of the ground and would fall like a broom-shaped rock from any greater heights. Whether age, abuse or an unfortunate phobia was to blame, Yvonne planned to spend her first paycheck on the purchase of a new broom less imbued with acrophobia.

The broom was decidedly silent in response to Yvonne’s jab.

“I can't ride you when I'm that low to the ground; my knees keeps scraping the concrete.”

The broom twitched and made a valiant effort to ascend, but alas one foot above the ground was as far as it could rise.

“Yeah, well thanks for trying. Come on.” Yvonne read the address of the warehouse on their left and led the way to the corner when they could find no entrance along the front. They might be the wrong pronoun seeing as the broom did very little searching, but we will overlook that.

Where the broom was afraid of heights, our misguided Witch was consumed by a morbid fear of corners; specifically the inescapable danger and unique forms of death that she was convinced lurked around their right angle bends. Literally every corner. You didn’t want to get stuck behind her in a maze.

“Crap, another deadly corner to circumvent.” One of these days it would be inevitable. Today, though she safely navigated the treacherous ninety degree maelstrom and continued along the side of the building. And directly into another corner.

“My God, who designed this death trap?! They must have been some seriously evil people whoever they were.” That thought cheered Yvonne up and bolstered her nerves enough to make the second passing manageable. Having survived two corners unscathed, she stepped up to the door that was now apparent and poked the buzzer with the tip of her wand. To the world’s knowledge, Yvonne had yet to perform any useful (or evil for that matter) magic with her wand. It did not prevent her from twirling the magical rod in her fingers triumphantly. “Try doing that with a broom, Mom.”

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