A kingpin of the Jihad Party Boys is one fat fuck. I hear him yelling into his phone as he waddles to and fro in the alley. He throws spit out like a construction guy with the word, fuck. The alley, as hot as it is, was left wet where he walked. He screamed and screamed again into his cell phone held somewhere in his overstuffed mitt for a hand. Ah yes, and right behind Hag Hideaway.
Hag hates the fucking Jihad Party Boys. She hates their spit-gibberish talk and their cheap black pants, and cheaper black shoes. Hag stayed awake for two nights searching for a potion, a spell. The spider crawled up to the top corner of the page and turned the vellum before going to the center to hold the pages back. Hag's scrawny finger scrolled across the writing. Only Hag is left to translate the ancient text, only she knows the value that the symbols etched on the pages hold.
A curse perhaps? She thought at one point. Nothing like a good curse to whip people into shape. In fact a whipping curse might be order but knowing the kinky tastes Jihad Party Boys have, decided it would do no good to excite them. Drag Queen wanted more money tossed at the eunuch after the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers but that was a tall order for Hag. The only thing harder than money to get out of Jihad Party Boys was a change in underwear.
Her finger tapped the page as she read a lovely curse. Not overbearing but an unpleasantness at the very least. A few screeches to her lizards and they left in a scurry to find what was needed for the curse of jock itch. For Jihad Party Boys, however--this was diaper rash.
How perfectly suited for those who do not want to part with their underwear for fresh clean ones. Yes, thought Hag, a perfect curse to toss at the spit-gibbering Ultra Fat Jihad Party Boy that screames behind Hag Hideaway.
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