I’m very bad at this, and very sorry. But, at least this time it isn’t a week later? :X We should be excited about that right? Anyway, spoof story! Tez Miller. We’re back at it and trucking along! I hope you enjoy it! Requisite necessary note that 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 a hot guy is always hot, even when – or because – he seems to hate you
This area of Batmania was a former campground, and the Batcave was a brick shithouse. No kidding – there were rows of shower- and toilet-cubicles. There was a joke to be made involving “clearing the cobwebs out of my plumbing,” but I couldn’t figure out how to translate my abstract, incomplete observation into a proper sentence. So I stumbled out, “This is the Batcave?”
“Ha!” Sheila followed that up with, “I wish I were a glow-worm, for a glow-worm’s never glum…”
I could not keep up with her train of thought.
She clapped a hand on my bare shoulder, spooking the hell out of me. Damn haunted campground bathroom. “Want me to find someone who speaks your language?” she offered.
“Someone who can get me on a helicopter back to the airport,” I said. “Please.” Saying he magic word would help, right?
Sheila laughed, and clapped my shoulder again. “I’ll take you to the president’s office.”
My eyebrows shot up. I was actually hoping for a king to make me queen, but a president would do.
She took my hand, and led the way towards a janitorial closet. She knocked on the door.
“Hark, who goes there?” an extremely deep voice asked. I thought I detected an accent similar to mine, but that could’ve been Batmanian madness affecting me.
“Ever heard of a New Orleans princess?” Sheila turned the doorknob.
“The technical term is bitch.”
Sheila opened the door to reveal a hot black guy in the walk-in closet. Yes, I noticed his hotness, colour, and gender, because this stuff is important to a royal. Hotness, because no one wants to fuck a fugly. Colour, because there’s less chance of you being related if your skin colours differ greatly from each other. (There used to be a lot of inbred royals, so it’s vital to breed with outsiders.) And gender, because I was pretty sure I was straight, minus the occasional girl-on-girl make-out session to attract guys.
The hot black guy raised a thick, but neat, eyebrow. He stared right at me, and it’s a good thing I wore panties, otherwise my moisture would’ve flooded the closet.
Oh, so that’s why it’s called a water closet…
“This is the princess?” He even did air-quotes, which ordinarily I would find as pretentious as hell, but his fingers were long but rough…
I smoothed my gown’s front, bringing attention to my chest. “Queen of Batmania now.” I held out my hand. “I’m Elle American, former princess of New Orleans.”
He shook his head, but not my hand. “NOLA doesn’t have royalty.”
Elbows out, I stuck my hands on my hips, emphasising my slender waist. “When were you there last?”
I realised my error when his eyebrow lowered, and he brooded. Okay, he scowled, but hot mysterious guys don’t scowl; they brood. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked that.
Sheila choked out a phlegm-y cough. Okay, it was probably just a normal, dry, “ahem” throat-clearing, but anything sounded awful compared to the hot black guy’s voice, even when it questioned my royal status. Hot fuckwit.
Sheila asked, “Do you want to tell her about this place, or shall I?”
He swept us out of the closet. I so wanted to ride that broomstick.
Maybe there was something true about the saying that love turns people into idiots.