We’re baaaaaack! December! Spoof story! Tez Miller. Short sentences! 😉 (Well, short everything I suppose today.) 😀 I hope you enjoy it! And remember, the covers were created by Jen W. at Cover Remix. She’s brillz.
Elle American is a New Orleans princess with ambitions of becoming queen. But to achieve that, she’d have to kill her parents and older sisters, or wait for them all to die, and she really couldn’t be bothered.
Meanwhile, a land far, far away needs a queen. But when Elle arrives, Batmania is nothing like the brochure. Instead of a tropical paradise with buff, bronzed bodies, it’s a burnt-out wasteland with only bogans for company, and no palace.
Elle could return to New Orleans with no queen title to her name – or she could convert Batmania’s dystopia into a utopia. She has no particular skills of note, but perhaps her mere presence is the perfect thing to turn around the kingdom’s fortunes…
Tez Miller is a reader, reviewer, and blogger based in Batmania (a.k.a. Melbourne), Australia. She’s the queen of her own blog, Tez Says.
In which our heroine learns that her fairy godmother is a fugly chick
“You have no farking clue.”
I lifted my gaze from the dusty ground to the burnt-out tree trunks and dead branches. And, apparently, a fugly chick. Dressed in stretched-to-the-limit jeans, a white T-shirt and red flannelette button-down barely containing a muffin top, she also wore boots. Not sexy stiletto-heeled boots or country bumpkin cowboy boots, but…work boots.
God spare me from manual labour…
“That’s it?” she remarked, quirking an unplucked eyebrow. “No snazzy comeback, or even a, ‘who the bloody hell are ya?'”
Ugh, were all the locals’ accents and voices going to be like that, all nasal and whiny? I retorted, “So who the bloody hell are you?”
Her hands slapped her knees. “Well, stone the flaming crows; the princess can mock.” She stood, holding out a hand. “If you’re Cinderella, I’m your fairy godmother. I’m Sheila. How the farking hell are ya.”
Was that a question? Even royals had to deign politeness with the unwashed masses, so I shook the chick’s – Sheila’s – proffered fingers. “My name’s not Cinderella.” I quickly removed my hand before she could grasp it too long – a second would be too long – and stuck it behind me to wipe semi-discreetly on the folds of my ball-gown’s skirt.
“I know that, dumb-arse.” She jammed her hands into her jeans’ front pockets. “You’re Elle American, princess of New Orleans.”
Technically, yes, but I didn’t skip an opportunity to prove someone wrong. “Actually, now that I’m here, I’m the queen of Batmania.”
Sheila guffawed. She snorted. Whatever those sounds were, they were awful. Her hands broke her fall on the tree stump as she laughed and laughed. She actually had the gall to say, “Did you honestly believe that tripe?”
My eyebrows furrowed.
She choked out a cough and, to her credit, didn’t laugh again. “Very well, then.” She stood. “To the Batcave!”