Bubba and the Beast

by Charlotte Babb

Off-duty in the Twilight Lounge, Grizelda the Troll grumbled about the under the bridge trade while I listened for those heartfelt words: "I wish". The Twilight caters to folk looking for a chance for a change; the dress code requires an appropriate contrast of disguised persona to person. A good mix tonight—a hero further down the bar wore hunchback, and an elf in the corner had donned dragonskin. But one undisguised patron lurked at the end of the bar, a frog/prince who seemed vaguely familiar; apparently ensorcelment counts as persona. I’ve really got to lay off that frog spell—how many had I transformed this week?

My wings drooped under my evil stepmother garb, and my wand felt like half-life uranium, lead heavy but still radioactive. Another sip of nectar—no beer in Faery—and it was bedtime. I wouldn’t even stay to see who was who at midnight.

Grizelda, in persona as a 7-foot tall nanny-goat, an ex-nemesis turned blood sister, was as sick of butting heads with billy-goats as I was of making wannabees into princesses, but we do what we do. "What you need is a vacation," Griz said. " Get away from this for a while."

"Thanks, but no thanks." I had gotten to know Griz on a vacation after I got a little too creative in my wish-granting. "Besides, where would I go? This is Faery, and I don’t think you can get to Paradise from here."

"You could come hang out under the bridge with me." Grizelda "Eat a goat or two, maybe ask a riddle." She ate a couple of tin cans off the appetizer tray.

"You could go around making magic for the pure in heart," I told her, smiling less than sweetly.

"Pass me the insulin, Maven." She slurped dark tea from her stone mug and ate another tin can. Trolls are ravenous; it makes for short relationships. "I could grant a few wishes. A sparkle here, a pumpkin there. Not like arguing with a goat. I don’t even like goat; doesn’t taste nearly enough like chicken."

"Wish-granting’s not that easy," I told her. "Assess the situation, figure the appropriate limits, and then metamorphose the results."

She grunted, obviously unimpressed.

"Most of them would be better off with frogs," I said, defending myself. "Real ones."

"Both kinds around here lately." She nodded at the one up the bar. "Fiona likes that, I bet. Try turning them into trolls. I’d like some company."

"You wish!" I took a long sip. My boss had been less than forgiving of my turning offending princes and other layabouts into amphibians.

"OK, you asked for it. I WISH you would find me a true love."
I reached for my wand, which beeped before I touched it. "Duty calls. You’re next in line, Griz." Headquarters calling means I’m in trouble, but I go; ignoring the beep was how I met Grizelda: my first re-education vacation. I tightened up my wand sheath, gulped my drink, and slid off my toadstool seat. What had I done now?

"Just my luck. Poof me a prince while you’re gone—even yon ugly frog would do—in fact, he’d probably do better."

"You got him." I sent a little glamour spell to draw the frog to Griz and left them to work it out.

Fairy Godmother Superior Fiona, my arch-nemesis, hadn’t been seen outside FGM Headquarters in millennia. I don’t know if she remembered Real at all. I was afraid she might.

I fluttered in, landing a bit heavily, then smoothed out my gossamers. "New assignment?"

"Maven, we’ve received three complaints about you today. Just what is your problem?"

"Complaints?" I didn’t even pull out my poker face—I hadn’t heard anything.

"Your magic is not biodegrading—a large, squashed pumpkin carriage and the remains of a rat-cum-footman blocked traffic all morning after the ball in the far western kingdom. Why didn’t they dematerialize at midnight?"

"I have no idea."

"However, the client’s dress did disappear while she was limping in one shoe back home. She was locked up for indecent exposure and pandering. Didn’t you use her rags—standard procedure?

"I decided to start from scratch. She was so dirty." I didn’t mention that it took two spells to clean up the dirty under the ashes of that Cinderella.

"Indeed. And another frog/prince was seen at the Twilight tonight, not in persona. That makes six this week!"

Next time I would turn the offender into a troll and let Grizelda have her way with him and/or eat him alive. She might have eaten the evidence already tonight if I’d been a little quicker.

Fiona glared like an elementary principal, kindly smile and steely eyes. She waiting for an answer, ten seconds…eleven…twelve…

"The spell wears off, even without a kiss. Good exercise and experience—they get to know the lower side of their kingdoms."

Fiona indicated her huge, dusty ledger. "Your record shows several disciplinary actions—troll apprentice, dragon nursery, even a stint at magic doll." She smoothed a frizzy lock of hair. "I really don’t have any recourse this time: give me your wand."

I stood there dumbfounded—she was taking away my magic I would be HUMAN again? I hadn’t been Real in how long? "But I still have a wish to grant!"

Her gnarled hand extended expectantly.

I tossed the wand on her desk as my wings disappeared.

Fiona had the grace to look a little sad. "Maybe you just need a vacation. Grant a wish before midnight tomorrow local time and you can have your wand back. We’ll keep an eye on you."

Right, I thought. When was the last time you sent an FGM out on an old woman case? I said nothing. She made a gesture across her crystal ball and FGM Headquarters shimmered and disappeared.

I found myself standing on a sidewalk by a two-lane road in some semi-civilized area. Compared to the humanity in my immediate location, frogs looked pretty good. It looked like payday in the mill village: muddy pickup trucks and small rusty cars snuggled up to a cinderblock watering hole like shoats to a sow. But Fiona had been kinder to me than I expected; I was apparently about the same age as when I opted out of Reality—how long ago was that? I felt like I’d worked double shifts.

I checked to see if I had money. It’s so embarrassing to have to sell blood or find a job on these disciplinary holidays—especially with no ID and no good story about where I’ve been for the last however many years. For once I was flush—guess it WAS payday.

Fiona was serious. I might have to Get Real the rest of my life. In Faery, to say "Get Real" to someone is grounds for homicide; comments about one’s mother are merely humorous in comparison. But the whole set-up stank. This was just not like the other jobs I’ve been on. I turned up the volume on my bump-of-direction and scanned the immediate area, especially the building across the street.

I decided to have a real beer while I had the chance, and see who I could go home with—even if I had to buy several six-packs. If I were going to be human, I was definitely going to err in the flesh. Not so easy for someone my age, but there’s more than one kind of magic. But I know Fiona shoots up irony for breakfast. After all, the name of the bar was the Cafe O’Lay.

Inside, watching the various goings on, I told the waitress Lurleen I was thirsty and settled in. I scratched an itch of intuition: she was much too perky for a place like this—and her name? Had to be someone from Central Spell Casting—maybe even an apprentice FGM.

Even sans wand I felt the wishes as the patrons staggered by; with my wand, a lot of us would have gotten lucky. Real world knowledge would have to serve—I needed hospitality for the night. But it was way too early for anybody to be ten feet tall and bulletproof. I drank another long one.

Then the Archetype Redneck slunk in, probably on his own family tree in six different places: a guzzler’s gut, gloss-lacquered, graying, preacher hair, and a wallet chain jangling the hip of his creased jeans. I’d been sent here to find him—I can smell an undercover job from beside a cat box.

Fiona’s got more kinks in her mind than a serpentine chain from a hock shop; would she strand me here with him? Do unicorns do it in the woods? He spoke to the waitress; she nodded, and he headed for me. Bingo.

"Anybody sittin’ here?" Bubba asked.

"You."

He shuddered faintly—I’m not even six-pack pretty. Feeling mutual towards him, a slight interest still stirred. It must have been a LONG time.

"My name’s Bubba—really." He sagged into the chair, bulging a bit over the sides.

"Hey, Bubba—really. I’m Maven." I reached out to shake hands, but he had focused on the jukebox like he was trying to keep the last brew down.

"Lurleen said you might be able to help me," Bubba said. "I know I’m not what today’s woman is looking for. Don’t even know how to play the game anymore."

"Yeah. Rules changed."

"Done tried all those newspapers and computer-date things, you know. Ain’t nobody out there looking for me."

I wondered about his ads:

SW Neanderthal with beer gut seeks SF fishing and and hunting buddy with scaling knife and CDL license for trailer rocking. Bring own tools. Overhauls optional. Send picture of boat.

"Who are you looking for, Bubba?"

"Thought I wanted one of those pretty little blondes, you know, but they just work a man to death and don’t never give him no time to play. Ain’t old, mind you, but I ain’t as young as I once was neither. Just want to enjoy living, and I want to enjoy it with a good woman who likes fishing and ain’t got a weak stomach."

He swallowed to clear his throat, then drained his beer to screw up his courage. I have to admire a man desperate enough face rejection from an old woman he doesn’t even want.

"Does that sound good to you?"

I felt for him, like seeing a possum on the road two days after it was hit. "Bubba, when Lurleen sent you to me, she did the right thing. I am a conjure woman, with special powers and the second sight."

His face went from white to fishbelly green—selling him magic was the wrong approach—I’d already forgotten where I was—Bible Belt.

I backed up and stared over. "Bubba, good things don’t come easy. Take me home with you, and I’ll fix you up so you will get lucky before closing time tomorrow."

He wasn’t buying it; his head leaned over and he studied me sidewise out of the corner of his eyes. "You ain’t got no place to stay tonight?"

Eye for eye, straight back. "Well, no. I don’t."

"Like you said, good things ain’t easy. You come on home with me, and we’ll figure out a trade."

"Fair enough." I touched his forearm. When he jerked away, some of his arm fur stayed between my fingers.

He paid for the beer, but I held Lurleen aside. "You tell Fiona I want my wand back, now. I’m taking Bubba to the Twilight Lounge."

"I don’t...." She fiddled nervously with her pencil.

I took a closer look at the pencil. Its aura was unusual for a yellow No. 2. I held out my hand for it and gave her the elementary teacher evil-eye, adding the eyebrow arch. She gave it to me without a peep—definitely too inexperienced for this place.

"And tell Grizelda the troll to meet us tomorrow."

I wrote Bubba’s name on the door jamb as we went out and stuckone of his arm hairs on with a drop of spit. When he walked back in, he’d be in the Twilight. If Lurleen got word to Grizelda, I’d be back on the job before Fiona could enjoy missing me. If not, well getting REAL was something I had experience with too.

The ride home in Bubba’s new Suburban showed him to be a man of resources: not only money, but lots of peace and quiet as well as local herbs I needed for the kind of magic I could do in Reality. Pokeberries and sassafras grew along his dirt driveway, and rabbit tobacco graced the skeletal remains of a ‘52 Chevy.

He brought me to his parlor where animal trophies hung over ancient, uncomfortable furniture. He disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes and brought back two cups and a teapot, real china on a tarnished silver tray.

"I don’t keep food in the house, but my granny always said I’d get along better if I served a lady sassafras tea."

"So she was a conjure woman too?"

"Yeah." He drank deeply and sighed.

"So you know all these secrets, Bubba, and you don’t have a lady friend? You got an arsenal growing by the road that should have you knee deep in women."

"I’ve tried potions and charms. I can get them to love me, but I can’t get ME to love them. Love plants are pure poison, too, you know? I shouldn’t say this, but..."

"I see. No, don’t tell me." The third oldest story—the remedy for the love disease is always more of what bit you, and like a snake bite, if you don’t drain the venom, it kills you.

"Naw, cain’t be magic; got to find me someone to love and someone to love me just for me."

"Then look for the person on the inside and let someone find the inside of you."

"Nobody even wants the outside without a potion."

Even rednecks have low self-esteem; I felt for him. "That’s my job. Even so, a little magic might help things along, like your granny said."

"What’s the price?"

I let my defenses down and met his eyes straight on. "I can go back to the Other Side if I can help you."

"You’re not lying. No tricks." He searched my face, my posture.

I held out my hands, palms up and open. "No. Get some sleep."

"But I thought..."

"Bubba, don’t think. If this doesn’t work out, I will stay here myself and love only you, but I’m immune to pokeberry poison—you understand?"

He went fishbelly on me again; I put him to bed and got to work.

Pokeberries are luscious, purple, and highly toxic—an efficacious cathartic. Sassafras has hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac effects if prepared properly and in strong enough doses, and the rabbit tobacco was to smudge the kitchen clean of previous magic.

By dawn I had the potions cooking; Bubba’s granny must have been Fiona in her former life, judging from the depth and extent that magic had soaked into the kitchen; even the greasy dust glowed in the dark. No wonder Bubba didn’t keep food there.

Finally by dark the next evening, the potions, Bubba, and I were ready. He was slicked up and polished down to his snakeskin boots and deer antler concho. I handed him some pokeberry cordial.

Bubba eyed me suspiciously, but he swallowed it. "Ain’t I good enough for her like I am?"

"Of course you are, Bubba. But all females like romancing, and it will make HER more appealing to you."

"She’s that ugly, huh?" About that time, his love life became the least of his worries as he fled to the bathroom. Once he was cleaned up, inside and out, I gave him the sassafras, and we headed back to the Cafe O’Lay.

"Close your eyes, Bubba. You got to trust me on this." I took him by the arm. "Now things’ll be a mite strange at first, but you’ll like it when you see it."

He shook his head and hung onto my arm. "If this don’t work, you gonna stay with me, Maven?"

"Cross my heart and hope to spit." When we crossed the threshold, we were in the Twilight Lounge. There was a fair crowd of various beings, some of whom I recognized, including the waitress from the Café, and others new to me or better disguised than I could see without my wand. No Grizelda, though.

"Keep your eyes closed. Don’t worry about seeing unusual things—it’s just the sassafras."

"Teach Granny to suck eggs," he said, but he did as I asked.

Pencils don’t make the best wands, but I used Lurleen’s to sketch myself into a frog princess. Might as well let the locals have a few hoots, and it would look like poetic justice if Fiona heard about it—she eats paybacks for lunch. Bubba became Rhett Butler, ears and all.

"OK, Bubba, you can look."

Bubba muttered, "Shoot fire," and walked me to a booth at the edge of the dance floor.

Still no Grizelda.

Meanwhile I scanned for a Plan B mate for the matchless redneck. Several singles sat at strategic spots around the floor, all with good views of the door and their backs to the wall: another FGM as a drag queen, my transformed prince/frog from yesterday—Griz hadn’t eaten him, and a couple of elves slumming as hobbits.

I sent a firefly messenger to her bridge—not home. Even the goats were gone. If I had a real wand...I looked at the pencil...hmmmm.

Pencils are for writing, and what you write in Faery comes true—the main reason for illiteracy on the Other Side.

I wrote on an empty booth: "Griz. Wish granted. Mav."

Back at Bubba’s table, we waited. I gave him more sassafras, enough so that I started looking good. An hour later, he wanted me just to go back home with him. It was nearly eleven; the crowd thickened, whispering about us, making book on what the deal was and who would end up on top. Fiona was getting 3 to 1 over me. The frog/prince scowled, something stewing in his little green brain.

I wrote a spell on a napkin and called Lurleen over to read it aloud: she was undercover, not under suspension of disbelief.

Grizelda came in three minutes later.

She wore a colorful gypsy persona—a trolling expedition if I ever saw one. My pencil nearly jumped out of my hand when I scanned her; she was definitely the one for Bubba...if she would have him and not eat him too. I met her at the bar with a dark and purple drink.

"You’ve got too big a butt to play green and slimy," she said.

"If I had wings, I wouldn’t need a big butt to land on." I slid onto the toadstool beside her. "You, on the other hand, have an ungranted wish."

"Where’s your wand? Something to do with the web-footed wonder following you?"

"Undercover." Only the most naive believe that I’m on their side—it’s as bad as working for the government. "So, you want to stay here and dissolve yourself in dragonsbane, or you want to try a blind date?"

"Blind would likely be the best bet."

"How about a human?"

Her persona wavered as she fought gustatory desire.

"Just don’t eat him until you have a chance to get to know him. I was human once myself."

"That’s not saying much for him. Are you going to glamour me so he won’t run screaming into the night?"

"No. If he can’t handle the real you, then have him for supper."

She shook her head and bit her bottom lip. "That’s your problem, Maven. You still think reality exists. You should have gotten over that by now—a HUMAN failing. What’s this guy’s name?"

"Bubba."

She chugged her drink. "Figures. I’ll give him an hour, and you keep wand off. After that, well, best as I remember, redneck tastes a lot like goat."

"Doesn’t everything, more or less?"

She laughed.

"That’s him." I nodded at Bubba; he smiled back.

Grizelda’s face took on an anxious look. "Sure. Give me a few minutes to freshen up."

It was more than a few; I had given her three times Bubba’s dose. He was waiting for her at her booth; her dress was laced tight to display all her "charms." I wished I’d given Bubba more sassafras. Still, he was gallant and gracious, ordering her another drink, complimenting her eyes, and holding her red-stained claw in his hand. The first half hour flew while they talked: hunting, fishing, mudbogging, surviving in the wild. Maybe Bubba would survive until midnight, when the illusions vanished. If not, well, he told me he had disappeared more than one blonde from his kitchen; his demise would be only justice. And I’d be back in the Cafe O’Lay, an old human female with no prospects. That would never do.

They talked, they danced, and all was well until 11:55 when my view was blocked by the slimy belly of the prince/frog, his crown askew on his flat head, his cape mildewy damp. "May I join you, Madame?"

"Yeah, sure. Just get out of my line of sight." Every click of the tock brought Bubba closer to Grizelda. Fifteen more minutes and I would be wand swinging and wings soaring, much to Fiona’s chagrin! Two wishes in the same story, a two-worlds record. If not, then I had to rescue Bubba and fulfill my promise to him myself.

The frog swelled up and hunkered like a boulder. "Madame," he croaked again. "I require your attention."

"Save it, Swampthing, I’m busy." I wrote small runic designs on my napkin to make good luck for my love-trolls.

The frog/prince snatched the pencil and snapped it across his bony knee. "Listen to me. You got me into this mess, and I want out. NOW!"

"You just broke my last scrap of magic, Wartface. Go find yourself a maiden to kiss."

"I tried that. Your boss says only your kiss can break your spell."

"What? I squirmed in my seat, trying to look around his bulk. "Look, I’m trying to get my wings and my powers back, and you will just have to wait. I CAN’T do anything for you right now."

He began bullfrog singing to drown out my voice. Patrons were staring. The odds scrolled up 10 to 1 for Fiona.

Grizelda and Bubba strolled toward the door, eye-locked in rapture. The tock began striking twelve. The lights dimmed to dramatize the transformation. My wand was broken and my path blocked. Would Bubba be a midnight snack when his darling’s true form appeared? Rustlings and hissings filled the room.

"Kiss me, you witch!" the frog/prince said, and swept me off my large butt and long webbed feet with his strong, if short, green arms.

Ever been french-kissed by a frog?

I remembered how long since I had been kissed, held in a passionate embrace, since I made a wish. I forgot Griz and Bubba. I forgot magic. I forgot: Fiona eats romance novels for supper. When we came up for air, not something frogs have to do often, it felt like dawn for a breathless prince and a defrocked fairy godmother. He wrapped his cape around me, offering to take me home. On the table beside us was my wand.

A dim firefly gave us a message and a dirty look. "Took you long enough. Here. No charge. Need a response."

I opened the envelope to find an invitation:

Grizelda of the Bridge of Boggy Creek and Grimshaw (nee Bubba) from the Other Side request the honor of your presents in sharing mud, blood and cud at their joining at the rising of the next full moon.

"I’ll be there, " I told the firefly. "Meanwhile, I’m taking that vacation everyone says I’ve been needing. Your castle, my Prince?"

the end

Charlotte Babb is a redneck with a couple of coats of varnish. Red mud and sweet tea flow in her veins; this "Girl Raised In The South" teaches English and computer applications at a technical college in South Carolina. She lives with her two cats, Nyx and Hex, and is working on a Maven novel between studying web design and The Craft. This is Charlotte’s second story to appear in the Steel Caves, see www.steelcaves.com achives to view Daylate and Dollarshort