Attack of the Fairytale Zombies!

  This is a work of fiction.

  Attack of the Fairytale Zombies!

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by P. J. Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover Art by: Tamra Westberry

  Please visit P.J. Jones at pjjoneswrites.com

  Or you may send fan mail (not hate mail) to pjjoneswriter@yahoo.com

  This book is dedicated to my husband for encouraging me to follow my dreams and all that sappy shit.

  Alan Nayes, thanks so much for your feedback and suggestions.

  I’d like to extend a special ‘thank you’ to M. Edward McNally, author of REAL epic fantasies, for making my manuscript sparkle. Nobody shines a turd like you do, Ed.

  Finally, all hail Heather Marie Adkins, Goddess of Formatting, ultra-cool and pretty cyber-witch, and inspiration for my heroine @ cyberwitchpress.com

  PJ Jones is a proud member of The Eclective

  “By King’s Command, make way for the last living descendant of the esteemed royal line of dragon slayers, the almighty Barthalamew Huganut the Tenth. He is the destroyer of giant winged beasties, the man with the tightest pants and the smallest lance in all the kingdom.” The old knight sputtered at that last part. Then his sputtering turned into all out laughter.

  Other knights joined in the merriment. A few even spewed ale through their noses.

  Barth strutted past them, feigning indifference. “Would you fuck off, Sir Reginald?”

  A handful of drunk pixies swarmed Barth’s head, their high pitched squeals grating his last nerve while they buzzed ‘looozzzer’ in his ear. He ducked down and flicked one of them in the stomach, sending her careening across the musty tavern. She landed spread eagle on top of a poker table.

  A growling werewolf scooped up the little annoyance with a card and dumped her on the floor.

  Gasping, her other pixie friends raced to her aid.

  Barth sat on a barstool and unbuckled his sword belt before laying his weapon across the weathered wood of the bar. That damn belt was so uncomfortable. And since there were currently no man-eating dragons inside the pub, he figured it was safe to give his midsection some breathing room for a few moments.

  As he examined his reflection in the bar mirror, Barth remembered to suck in his gut. All these years of not slaying anything were adding a little weight around his midsection. He was certain his fondness for ale had nothing to do with it. He frowned as he plucked a grey hair from the thinning dark strands on his scalp.

  Damn.

  He so was not ready for middle age. Especially considering he’d only slept with two wenches, both blind and drunk, in the past three years.

  Barth’s shoulders slumped. What he needed was a drink to get his mind off of his problems. He pounded his fist on the bar and hollered for the innkeeper to bring him two pints of ale.

  Reginald came up beside Barth and grabbed his shoulder with a wiry hand. “Kill any monsters lately?” the knight snorted.

  Sir Harold flanked Barth’s other side. He turned his back to the bar and casually leaned on his elbows. “Hey, Barf, how many dragons you lay this week?”

  “My name is Barth.” He arched a brow. “And don’t you mean slay?”

  “No,” Harold chuckled, “I mean lay.”

  Barth extended his middle finger at the two knights before refastening his sword belt and tossing his last shilling toward the bartender. He grabbed the two pints the bartender had set on the counter and strode for the exit, pretending not to notice the other patrons leering at him.

  Once outside, Barth walked past the little medieval cliché looking buildings lining the cobblestone street: The apothecary’s shop, the seamstress, the baker… most of which had gone out of business thanks to the king’s new Mega Super Value Medieval Mart. The Medieval Mart was on the opposite end of town, next to the king’s ornate castle. Barth tried to avoid that area, mostly because if the king caught him loitering, he’d put him to work.

  After walking past several thatched and a few candy cottages, and even that hideous giant shoe house with all the ugly kids running around the yard, Barth climbed the grassy knoll around the base of Lookout Point. His best friend was waiting for him with a sullen expression.

  “Is this the biggest ale they had?” The winged beast adjusted the ruffles on his purple cotton dress before sitting on his haunches and grasping the ale with the tips of two outstretched, perfectly polished, pink fuchsia claws.

  Barth heaved a resonant sigh. “Drag, we go through this every week. Besides, I’m not getting any bonus checks since I’m not slaying any dragons. A pint is all I can afford.”

  “Oh.” Drag rolled his eyes. “I suppose it’s all my fault.”

  Barth groaned. “I didn’t say that.”

  Smoke tendrils escaped from the flared nostrils on Drag’s long, crimson snout. “If I’d just let you kill me, you could buy a round for everyone.” The tenor of his voice rose several octaves.

  “Drag, you’re not making any sense.” Barth shook his head. “You know I would never kill my best friend. What’s wrong with you?”

  Drag’s heavy jowls turned down in a pout. “I’m sorry I’m being a diva. It’s just that obnoxious little hobbit, Bilba TBaggins, got a new pair of red Blahniks.”

  Barth shrugged. “So what?”

  Drag clucked his tongue. “Have you seen hobbit feet? Those gorgeous shoes look so ridiculously huge compared to the rest of her body. Why can Blahnik design shoes for filthy little hobbits but not for cross-dressing dragons?”

  Barth rubbed the day-old stubble on his chin. “I imagine there’s not a big market for dragon Blahniks. Besides, you can’t afford those shoes.”

  The leaves on the trees shook as Drag stomped a paw. “I could put them on layaway. Or I could sweet talk Douchebagga into lending me the money.”

  Ominous music slowly filtered in from the background, so as to alert the reader that Douchebagga was a really baaaaaad witch.

  “Remember what Wizard Dilligaf said about Douchebagga.” Barth narrowed his eyes as his voice took on a somber tone. “She’s the nastiest witch in all of Fairytale Kingdom. She won’t think twice about cutting out your heart and feeding it to her demon dogs from hell. Or cutting off your balls and using them as chin implants so she can look like one of those cliché witches with the warts and pointy black hats.”

  “Plus,” Drag snickered, “she’s got a bad case of plaque psoriasis. She really needs to moisturize.”

  Barth folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Exactly, so you need to promise me that you’ll stay away from Douchebagga.”

  “I promise.” Drag batted long fake lashes while crossing his heart.

  Barth held out his hand. “I need a Brotherhood of the Templar Dragon Slayers’ mystical, secret handshake promise.”

  “I still can’t believe you taught it to me,” Drag giggled.

  Barth spit into his hand before fixing Drag with a stern expression. “Just shake.”

  “Heather, come here and stir this cauldron while I get a tiger eye off the shelf.”

  Heather set down her book of spells and walked toward her mistress’s cauldron. No sooner had she picked up the ladle and began stirring when her senses were accosted by a familiar sickeningly sweet odor. “Douchebagga, what is this? I’ve smelled it before.”

  Douchebagga shrugged her humped shoulders while climbing up a rickety old ladder toward the top of the dusty shelves. “You should recognize the smell from the time I fell in love with the king.”

  Heather gasped and her hands flew to he
r mouth. The ladle landed with a hiss back in the cauldron. “Not another love potion. Don’t you remember what happened to King Dump last time?”

  “Don’t worry.” The old witch flashed an insincere, nearly toothless grin. “The wizard is working on a potion to make the king’s testicles grow back.” She climbed down the ladder and held up a jar of tiger eye. “Besides, this time I’ve got it right. A little eye of pussy will do the trick.”

  True, the wizard had been working on a potion to regrow the king’s testicles, but so far their ruler had proven immune to every antidote. What if Douchebagga’s potion shrunk the balls of all the men and beasts in the kingdom? The dating pool of eligible bachelors would shrink considerably. And there would go Heather’s fantasy of some valiant knight saving her from a mundane life as an underpaid witch’s apprentice.

  “Oh, Douchebagga,” Heather groaned. “Won’t you reconsider?”

  “No!” The old witch stomped her foot. “I can’t live without Drag,” she cackled.

  Heather rolled her eyes. “So is that who you are pining for now?” She jutted one hand on her hip while pointing a finger at her mistress. “Douchebagga, he’s a dragon. You’re a witch. The two of you aren’t meant to be together.”

  “He’s my soul-mate. I can feel it.” Douchebagga dreamily sighed while batting her eyes, making her extremely hideous and grotesque face look one-tenth-of-a-degree less ugly.

  Heather shook her head. “Fairytale Kingdom has many eligible old, blind, desperate knights you can brainwash.”

  The witch grimaced. “Those old farts? I’ve got better things to do with my time than waste my days in this tower making erection potions. Besides, have you seen the bulge beneath Drag’s skirt? He’s hung like a dragon.” She hobbled over to her cauldron and dropped the entire bottle of tiger eye into the brew.

  “I try not to look.” Heather struggled to repress nauseating images of the old witch straddling the dragon. “How will you get him to drink the potion?”

  The witch rubbed her hands together as her dull eyes lit with a wicked gleam. “I will pour it into his water dish.”

  “He’s not a dog. He probably drinks from Swans Lake.”

  A slow smile lifted the witch’s sallow features. “I know.”

  A knot the size of a small rodent twisted itself in Heather’s gut. She assumed the knot was due to the notion that her mistress was about to poison the entire kingdom. Either that, or that triple strength laxative potion she’d concocted to battle her week-long constipation had finally started working.

  “Douchebagga, I think you’re making a terrible mistake,” she cried. “Many other creatures from Fairytale Kingdom use that water source.”

  The witch waved off Heather with a flick of her wrist. “This potion won’t harm them. Besides, the world could use a little more love.”

  Heather leveled Douchebagga with a glare. “I know this isn’t you talking.”

  “You’re right,” she squealed. “I don’t give a wizard’s dick what happens to them. I’ll do anything to make Drag love me.” Douchebagga sighed as she placed a gnarled hand across the portion of her chest where most normal people kept their hearts.

  The old witch then pulled a small flask from between the cavity of her large and sagging breasts. She dipped the flask into the cauldron, and after corking the bottle, tucked it back between her breasts.

  “This is very dangerous, Douchebagga,” Heather warned. “And if your potion is somehow flawed, think of the consequences.”

  Douchebagga simply laughed before disappearing in a puff of smoke. Her obnoxious cliché cackling could be heard from somewhere outside the tower window.

  Heather raced to the window and watched in horror as her mistress rode off into the evening sky, riding her new solar powered, turbo charged, energy efficient broom.

  Heather’s shoulders fell. She knew there was no way she could catch up to Douchebagga and stop her from poisoning the kingdom. She couldn’t afford a fast broom and had to settle for a Shilling Store, compact model with a plastic handle. If her mistress actually paid her a decent wage, maybe Heather could have afforded a better broom. One day Heather would summon the nerve to ask Douchebagga for a raise. All of the other witches in the Druid’s Union made twice her salary.

  But now was not the time to fret over money. Not when the lives of so many innocent people swimming in the lake’s infested waters were at stake. Heather knew she had to at least try to stop Douchebagga. Determination fueled her movements as she stormed toward the utility closet and yanked out her broom.

  Then that knot hit her in the gut again, and this time, Heather recognized the urge to go use the toilet.

  She dropped the broom and raced to the bathroom with only moments to spare. First, she’d take care of her own business, then she’d go save the kingdom.

  Barth and Drag were lying on the knoll, looking up at the clouds and telling dirty jokes when the wizard’s irate call blared through the forest.

  “Barthalamew Huganut the Tenth!”

  Startled, they both sat up and stared at the large, throbbing orb that had created an angry void in the clouds.

  “Uh, oh!” Drag squealed. “The wizard’s pussy is staring at you.”

  “Shut it, Drag,” Barth hissed through frozen features. “That’s a giant eyeball.” He turned his attention up toward the orb. “Greetings, Wizard.”

  The orb narrowed as dark, ominous smoke filtered across the outer edges. “You still hanging out with that dragon riff-raff?” The wizard’s voice boomed from the orb.

  Barth repressed a grimace. He could feel the vibrations from Drag’s growls shaking the ground beneath him.

  “Quit, Drag,” he whispered before addressing the wizard. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “Get your lazy ass to the castle,” the wizard’s voice grumbled. “The king wants a word with you.” The orb shifted its menacing focus on Drag. “Alone.”

  Barth hurriedly stood and brushed pollen off his pants. “Yes, Wizard.”

  The orb blinked out and then returned, looking even darker and more menacing than before.

  “And Drag.” The wizard’s voice took on a caustic tone. “It’s NOT a giant pussy, so you can quit staring.”

  * * *

  “That was fast. I’m impressed.” Wizard Dilligaf greeted Barth with a firm handshake and a pat on the back. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  Barth couldn’t help but smile at the old guy, not just because he looked really cute and cliché with his scraggly white beard and long grey robe. For all the pretense and hoopla that Dilligaf was some vile and powerful wizard, Barth knew better.

  “Thanks,” Barth answered before sauntering across the stone floor and plopping into an oversized chair beside the hearth. “Drag dropped me off.”

  The wizard rolled his eyes.

  Barth took the opportunity to flag down a buxom blonde serving wench. He stood and took a glass of wine off her tray and downed it in one swallow.

  After he set the empty glass on the tray, she looked at him with raised brows and an expectant glare.

  He turned out his pockets and offered her an apologetic smile when he revealed nothing more than a paperclip and a bubblegum wrapper.

  The wench grabbed another glass of wine off the tray and dumped it over his head. Then, she flipped him the bird before sashaying away.

  Barth let out a low whistle as he slumped back into the chair and watched her saunter off. He’d give his left testicle for the chance to flip up her skirts and straddle her on his lance of love. It had been a while since the last time he’d been laid. Seemed the local girls only wanted to have sex with a real dragon slayer.

  He turned back toward the wizard who was staring at him with a look of derision in his tired old eyes.

  Barth burped into his fist. “Why’d the king summon me this time?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Barth.” The wizard shook his head while running a hand through his beard. “You know what this is about. H
ow many dragons have you slain this month?”

  Barth averted his gaze. “Uhhhh.”

  “Exactly,” the wizard snapped. “You need to kill some monsters or the king really will fire you.”

  A wave of shame washed over Barth. The wizard had been his family’s friend and ally for ten generations. He hated to let the old guy down. Especially since he’d witnessed the wizard’s acts of charity on more than one occasion, particularly the numerous times the wizard had saved his ass from being reamed by the king.

  Maybe one day Barth would summon the nerve to stand up for himself. Until that day came, he was sure grateful for the Wizard’s support.

  “Wizard.” Barth swallowed as he tried to think of the right words to say without coming off as a total pussy. “It’s just not in my nature to kill dragons. They’re really not bad creatures once you get to know them.”

  “So you told me,” the wizard grumbled, “after your first and only quest.”

  After Barth had been knighted, he’d been summoned to slay the beast who’d been terrorizing maidens by stealing their dresses, jewels and moisturizer. Before that night, Barth had no idea he would not have the heart to be a dragon slayer.

  He’d found Drag inside his lair, sobbing while trying to patch together lace seams on what looked to be the largest ball gown Barth had ever seen. When Barth left the dragon’s lair, he’d emerged not with the head of the winged beast, but with a long list of supplies, including silks and large sewing needles. Barth had made a promise to the dragon that if he quit stealing dresses, Barth would supply the necessary material for making gowns.

  “Your great grandfather ten times removed—the dearest friend I’ve ever had—would turn in his grave if he saw what you’ve become.”

  Barth slumped lower in his chair. “You’ve told me this already, Wizard.”

  Just then the king’s royal ass kisser made his presence known by clearing his throat very loudly. “The king will see you now.”

  Barth stood and stretched toward the ceiling while yawning. “I gotta go, Wizard.”