Dear Reader, it occurred to my sister that some of you have not yet been introduced to Sebastian, who appears in THE GHOULS’ FARMSTAND. Having met him a number of Sultana’s soirées, I can attest that he is exactly like this, only more so. So please, head on over to the Amazon page and read about him on Kindle Unlimited. –Fitz
The Ghouls’ Farmstand
Excerpt, Chapter 7: In Which James Is in Danger of Losing His Ever-loving Mind, and Also in Just the Regular Kind of Danger.
“Are you sure this is entirely safe?” Abby Berenger yelled up at Alan Weems, who was James’s insufferable agent.
“It certainly isn’t. And that’s the point!” Alan responded insufferably. “Sebastian, start taking the pictures already. James, try not to fall to your death. And Abby? Just stay out of the way, doll.”
James Berenger, Alan’s main client and victim, was precariously balancing on the rusty railing of one of Chicago’s many, many bridges. The stiff breeze from Lake Michigan was ruffling his hair in a way that Abby thought was probably photogenic. The only thing keeping her brother from being blown off the bridge and down into the cold, dark river below was his grip on a black iron chain.
In a dense Eurotrash accent, the photographer shouted, “Sebastian says: The Sebastian, he is beside himself with the happiness. Work it, mein baby.”
His skinny jeans were a bit too skinny, and his black turtleneck and clunky shoes made sure everybody knew that he was Not From Around Here.
“The James, he is feeling of the danger. Yes, yes! Now unbuttoning of your shirt one more . . . Exactly, mein poppet!”
The photographer, whom Alan swore was the best in the business, or at least somewhere in the top hundred, grinned madly as James fumbled with the button of his shirt, while swinging over the water.
“James, be careful!” Abby shouted up at him, her voice shrill.
“I am being careful!” James responded in the same worried tone.
“Yes, yes,” Sebastian screamed, his camera clicking away. “My friends, can you be seeing how this little bit of the danger allows the James to set loose of his inner tiger? See the tautness of his lines, the sharpness of his jaw, how the muscles in his shoulders stand out as he protects his fragile mortal existence from the grasping claws of death? You are being the danger, James Berenger. Be the danger! Yes, yeeesss!” Click, click, click.
“Little bit of danger?” Abby demanded, hands on hips, and looking quite a lot like her bossy mother, whom we remind you was a genuine Faërie princess, with all the attitude that comes with it.
“Oh, yes, only the teensy bit of the danger, little American girl. In my country, a day swinging from the chain on the rusty bridge would have been at apex of the luxury, which the Sebastian would write home about, if the Sebastian, he had paper, or pen, or a home. One time, the Sebastian was hiding from the roving bands of the feral children, when—”
“Alan, look out!” James shouted, almost losing his grip as he pointed. “Keep out of the way of the traffic! Are you people crazy?” For a moment, James swung far out over the water, holding on by only one hand and pivoting on the remaining foot.
Click, click, click, went the camera. “Yes, perfect! Like the pirate in the storm! Like Tarzans on the jungle! Like Jerry Lewis at the Copa Cabana! Cry havoc! Let loose the dogs of the war! Being the danger, James Berenger!”
Abby shoved past Sebastian and dragged her brother back onto the safety of the bridge. He wrapped his arm around the steel girder and slowly, slowly slid to the sidewalk.
Sebastian seemed disappointed and bored, now that James was no longer suspended over the dark river. He began shouting something to Alan in what might have been Finnish, or maybe Hungarian, then continued on in something approaching English, “The Sebastian, he cannot work under these conditions! This uncouth woman, this amateur, ruining the . . .”
“Now, now, ‘Bast. We’ll get the shot you’re looking for,” oozed Alan. “We’ve got one more stop. Hugo, Beth, throw the lighting gear into the truck. James, you’re with me. Here, have a bottle of this. It’s smart water, if that helps with your creative process. Sebastian, stop pouting and take shotgun. I’m driving.”
To Abby, he only gave the side eye that said everything.
Sebastian, who was still shouting deadly imprecations in Finno-Hungarian, reverted to mumbling them under his breath while glaring daggers at Abby.
“Stupid American seamstresses,” he said, then fell into moody silence.
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