A Fashionably Dead Diary: Book 9.5, A Hot Damned Series Extra
Date: 2017-11-30 18:30:00+00:00
Rights: Copyright 2017 Robyn Peterman. All rights reserved.

A Fashionably Dead Diary

Book 10.5, A Hot Damned Extra

Robyn Peterman

www.robynpeterman.com

Copyright © 2017 by Robyn Peterman

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by Rebecca Poole of dreams2media

Edited by Meg Weglarz

Created with Vellum

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Diary

1. Monday

2. Tuesday

3. Wednesday

4. Thursday

5. Friday

Diary

1. Monday

2. Tuesday

3. Wednesday

4. Thursday

5. Friday

Diary

1. Monday

2. Tuesday

3. Wednesday

4. Thursday

5. Friday

Diary

1. Monday

2. Tuesday

3. Wednesday

4. Thursday

5. Friday

Epilogue

Get Your Next Satan Fix!

Note From the Author

Book Lists

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I wrote this book on a whim and a dare. LOL It was incredibly fun to write. If you’re a fan of the Hot Damned Series this is for you! A short little ditty from my warped imagination!

However, writing the story is only part of the journey to getting a book published. There are many people to thank and I’m a lucky girl to have such a talented and wonderful support system.

Rebecca Poole—your covers are brilliant as are you. Thank you.

Meg Weglarz—your editing always makes
me look better than I am. Thank you.

Donna McDonald—a gal couldn’t ask for tougher, brilliant and more awesome critique partner. Thank you.

Wanda and Susan—you are the best-est beta readers in the world. The journey this time was extremely helpful and a ton of fun. Thank you

.

Wanda—you rock hard and this one is for you. Thank you.

My family—none of this would be worth it without you. Thank you for being mine. I adore you.

Dedication

For Wanda. I’m pretty sure you know this series better than I do!!

Prologue

Dear Lover of Lucifer, Astrid and all things Hot Damned aka Fabulous Reader,

It’s me, Robyn Peterman—the insane creator of the Hot Damned Series—with a little note for you.

This is a HOT DAMNED EXTRA! It’s short. It’s snarky, fun and it’s short. If you haven’t read Fashionably Flawed, Book 9, you will not understand this and it has spoilers in it that will mess up your enjoyment of Fashionably Flawed.

If you haven’t read any of the Hot Damned Series, this will make no sense to you whatsoever. LOL

Sooooo, there you go. This is just a little ditty that I couldn’t get out of my head and thought the true fans of the Hot Damned Series would enjoy. Astrid and Satan are two of my favorite characters and I could write about them for ev-ah.

Enjoy. I certainly did. LOL
xoxo Robyn

Diary

WEEK ONE

Monday

The first day of the scariest month of my life.

Clearly I fucked someone over and am now paying the price.

Getting blackmailed sucks. Getting blackmailed by Satan really sucks—hard.

But I’m not a weenie or a welsher. I’m a semi-materialistic, Prada lovin’ Vampyre-Demon with a bad attitude and a serious lack of skills in both cheating and writing. If I were a good cheater, I wouldn’t be in this heinous position. I lost and now I have to pay. However, the price might deplete the wavering amount of sanity I have left. Not to mention this disastrous adventure is cutting in on nookie time with the smexy dead guy of my dreams.

Lack of sex makes me a grumpy Vampyre. Trust me. I’m very grumpy right now.

So I’m turning to you, Dear Diary, to pour out my inappropriate feelings and murderous inclinations toward a family member who shall remain nameless. Who in the Hell am I kidding? I’m gonna name that son of a bitch over and over on these secret pages. It’s Satan or Lucifer or the Lord of Darkness or the Dark Angel—or, as I like to call him, Uncle Fucker.

And just so you know, I think he secretly likes being called Uncle Fucker no matter how much he protests or blows shit up. Just sayin’.

Anyhoo, the Devil is driving me nuts and according to most of my loved ones, I’m already a bit unbalanced to start with. I see this redonkulous venture with my Uncle Satan as a ginormous clusterhump that probably won’t end well. I’m prone to property destruction when I get mad. This hobby does not make me popular as you can well imagine.

If I tell my mate, Ethan, he’ll get pissed at Uncle Fucker and that will go nowhere fast—or it could go straight to Hell in a fiery explosion. Pun intended.

That’s why I have turned to you, Dear Diary. You don’t have a mouth as far as I know and if you do, I’ll remove it—violently. Please keep that in mind as I tell you all my secrets. I’ve dealt with talking books and walls and they’re a real pain in the ass. So if you turn out to be one of those, we’ll have a problem.

But honestly, I don’t like the name Diary. It sounds like dairy, which reminds me of milk—which in turn leads me to start thinking about ice cream. I can’t eat ice cream or anything for that matter since I’m dead. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. Being a little sensitive about not being able to ingest anything but blood makes me pissy, to put it mildly. If I have to call you something that reminds me of black raspberry chip ice cream, I’ll tear you to shreds. That would be unfair to you since you didn’t do anything wrong. You feel me?

Yes, I’m violent, but I’m also fair.

The reasonable thing to do here is to think of a new name for you. How about Shelia? Do you like that? Please don’t answer. I’ll have to kill you.

Shelia it is.

In order to keep at least a tenuous grip on my mental health I’m gonna spill my guts to you.

You’re welcome.

So Shelia, this is the farked up conversation that started it all…

Read it and weep. I did.

“Apropos of nothing, do you know how to write? Satan inquired. “You’re constantly reading all those trashy romance novels.”

“Okay, that was kind of random and they’re not trashy,” I told the smug butthole and added an awesome eye roll to annoy him. “They’re fun and why in the Hell would you think I can write? Because I can read?”

“Well, yes,” Uncle Fucker shot back defensively. “I’m looking for a ghost writer.”

“For?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the crazy man.

“For my autobiography. There’s so much misinformation out there on me. I thought I’d straighten the masses out, by letting them know my point of view on my favorite subject.”

“And that would be you?”

“But of course, Satan replied with his typical devastating grin. “I’m the most interesting person I know. We shall discuss this later.”

“How about we discuss it when Hell freezes over?” I suggested.

“It’s getting a bit chilly down under,” he told me with a wink.”

And that’s how we ended up playing cards. Winner takes all.

Satan won. Satan also cheated.

I lost. I didn’t cheat. I’m fucking writing his autobiography.

However, it’s a duet instead of a solo effort much to my great horror. Satan’s been showing at the Cressida House every day and dictating this catastrophe to me. Already the sticky fingered bastard has stolen more of Ethan’s office supplies than I can keep up with.

Whatever. It’s one month. I can survive one month.

Shelia… do you think I can survive a month with Uncle Fucker?

Don’t answer.

I’ll have to kill you.

xoxo Astrid

Tuesday

The second day I spent in Hell on Earth.

Dear Shelia,

Get a freakin’ load of this one. Satan wants to start every chapter with It was a dark and stormy night. I told him he couldn’t plagiarize Snoopy and he came back with a really boring lecture on the original idiot who penned the purple prose. I can’t even remember the dude’s name. That’s how boring it was. I almost fell asleep.

For your amusement and my own therapy I’m gonna give you a peek into my Hell. Make sure you’re sitting down.

It went something like this…

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

“You’ve got to fucking be kidding me,” I muttered, giving Uncle Fucker an impressive eye roll that would normally earn me an agonizing retribution. Thankfully he let it go.

“Hmm, let me think,” he said putting his finger to his bottom lip and feigning deep thought. “No. Not fucking kidding at all.”

“This just isn’t going to fly, dude,” I mumbled, scrolling through the massive manuscript and trying not to laugh or scream.

“What’s the problem?” Satan inquired, tossing his black Armani sport coat on the leather couch and gifting me with an eye roll of his own.

Secretly I had to admit his was better, but he’d had millions of years of practice. I’m only thirty.

“You can’t start every freakin’ chapter of your autobiography plagiarizing Snoopy.”

“Why not? And for your information, the original wordsmith who penned the terrible purple prose was Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his novel Paul Clifford—not Snoopy.”

“Mmmkay,” I said, squinting my eyes at him. “But still, Uncle Who-shouldn’t-be-writing-an-autobiography-at-all,” I went on, hoping to talk some sense into him—like that was even possible. “Why would you choose to start every single chapter of your memoir with, It was a dark and stormy night?”

“Because it was.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” I muttered and typed it. “Alrighty, so what’s next?”

“Should I discuss the month long orgy with the Elizabethan Court or do you think a play by play of when I served up Nero some of his own medicine—you know a little burning, boiling, stabbing and impaling—you get the drift.”

Sheila, this conversation went on for hours. I’d like to tell you all, but I’m pretty sure my instincts for self-preservation blocked out large portions from my memory. Trust me, I was shocked, appalled and weirdly fascinated. Of course when he got to the part about sawing Caligula in half every other Monday, I was done. Unfortunately he wasn’t.

“Astrid, Astrid, Astrid,” Uncle Fucker said with a sigh and a shrug. “If one chooses to saw people in half, then one shall be sawed in half on a regular basis once they reach my neck of the Universe.”

“Pretty sure I just threw up in my own mouth,” I choked out.

“Impossible,” Satan stated. “You’re a Vampyre. Keep typing.”

“Fiiinnne,” I snapped, changing the subject abruptly. Even though Caligula was getting his just desserts, I really really really didn’t want to hear the specifics. “How about we start at least one chapter with ‘It was a dark and stormy morning’,” I suggested, staring at the computer screen so I didn’t roll my eyes or set the Devil on fire—setting Satan ablaze never went over well. And damn it, he was correct. As a Vampyre, I didn’t have the luxury of puking, but his story definitely made me regret my lack of ability in the purging department.

“But it was night,” he countered—for the umpteenth time.

We were now on chapter eleven of who knew how many and they’d all started exactly the same.

“I knooooowwww,” I grumbled. “But don’t you think it might be a tad bit boring to start every single chapter the same way?”

The blast of red lightning that blew up the coffee table was alarming, but I was relieved he didn’t incinerate the couch. I love the couch.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” I mumbled, waving my hand and dousing the fire. “Alrighty then, keep going.”

“King Henry the Eighth was a fat bastard and a total ass. I explained to him countless times that the sperm determines the sex of a child, but he kept beheading his wives regardless of the information.”

“Umm… are you serious?” I asked, my mouth hanging open.

“Completely.”

“You actually want me to write that?”

“Of course, but add that he smells putrid and every Tuesday in Hell I behead the porcine shit. It’s delightful and I think the world should know that the son of a bitch squeals like a girl every time the guillotine drops. Also, it makes me look good.”

“How in the Hell did you come to that conclusion?” I asked with a wince as I pictured the scenario.

“It will make me popular with feminists.”

I was speechless and he was clearly batshit crazy—although he did have a decent point. As my fingers hesitated over the keys, I observed the Harbinger of Evil eyeing my couch. I love my couch. I typed out the farked up mess and waited for more.

Sadly he didn’t disappoint.

Shelia, I don’t have it in me to regurgitate anymore. Thankfully I’m already dead or today would have killed me. You don’t even want to know about the month long orgy Satan participated in. Those Elizabethans were some kinky motherhumpin’ weirdos. I’ll just say this… gross greasy food and sex toys made of horsehair were involved. I’m going to have to bleach my brain to forget that one. If you want to read it you can pull it up on my laptop. BUT, do that after I leave the office. If I see you doing anything un-book like, I’ll have to kill you. Oh, and if you puke while reading, clean up after yourself. I don’t do bodily functions now that I’m dead.

Have a nice evening.

xoxo Astrid

Wednesday

I had no clue it could get worse—I was wrong.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

Motherhumpinbuttboats.

Douchecanoeswearingassjackets.

Killmenoworimgonnaripthedevilsheadoff.

Ifhesaysorgyonemoretimeimgonnablowhimup.

Buttblastingfuckedupassholesonfire.

Souleatingassmonkeyswithblacksocksandsandals.

Hedidnotjustsayheshunglikeahorse.

Yeshedid.

Ohmyhellinaugustinaparkahesinsane.

I’m sorry, Shelia. It’s been a long, long, long, long, loooonnnngggg day with the Devil. My uncle is delusional. Today he tried to list all of his paramours over the years—he’s been alive forever—like for eternity. I fell asleep about 834586437653 names in. He got all pissy and left is a huff. It was awesome.

I’m truly trying not to swear anymore because my son, Samuel, is a repeater. It’s just fucking alarming to hear a two year old say shit and asshat—you feel me? Sooooo, I’m gonna get some of my potty mouth out on paper. It’s therapeutic… kind of. I actually spoke all of this aloud as I wrote it, but I’m hiding in my closet so I’m safe. I have a fabulous closet.

If you were a real person I’d let you have at it in my closet because I’m dumping some disturbing shit on you. However, you’re a book… Right?

Well, just in case you’re not just a book, you can borrow my Birkin bag. BUT do not let me see you with it. Ever.

Thank you for listening. Don’t speak. I’ll have to kill you.

xoxo Astrid

Thursday

Just another abnormal day in my life.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy motherhumpin’ night…

Today Satan stared at himself in every shiny surface in the room as he waxed poetic about waterboarding really bad dudes and dudettes that end up in the Basement of Hell. He spoke derisively for three hours straight about Elizabeth Bathory. I’d never heard of her, but that’s no surprise, I skipped history in high school on a regular basis. History class usually fell during happy hour at Humphrey’s Hamburger House. They had that awesome rabbit turd ice in their sodas. I really miss rabbit turd ice—not as much as I miss chips and extra hot salsa, but a lot. An extra large Coke with that nugget ice was only seventy-five cents during Humphrey’s Happy Hour. I’m sure you can see my dilemma. And honestly, I could have lived for the rest of eternity without knowledge of Elizabeth Bathory and been really okay with it.

No such fucking luck…

Old Elizabeth was heinous and trust me, I know heinous. My mother and father take the cake for that honor, but skank-loser Elizabeth was truly horrid. That asswank of a sub-human being used to bathe in blood and freakin’ eat live young girls—thought it would keep her young and beautiful. If her picture on the internet is anything to go by she was smoking some serious crack. She was never put on trial so Satan now puts her on trial on a daily basis. And she has to eat herself. Gotta say as much as that makes me want to gag up my insides—which is impossible since as I mentioned earlier I’m dead—I’m kind of proud of my Uncle for that one.

Thankfully, he ended that story and went into the time he rigged the Miss Universe Pageant, the Kentucky Derby, the lottery, the NYT Best Sellers list, the Oscars, the Emmys and the Grammys all in the same year. I was definitely appalled, but at least no one ate anyone.

Heads up Shelia, the Basement of Hell is really heinous—fire and more fire and it smells like a giant butt. Do not ever go there. Not that you could, you’re a freakin’ book, but I’m just warning you because I’m nice like that. And you don’t have a nose as far as I can tell, so you’d miss out on the putrid aroma, but you are made of paper and it’s a giant fucking inferno down there.

Just don’t go.

If you do go, stay on the main floor. It looks like Kentucky.

Have a nice night and don’t eat anyone. Ever.

xoxo Astrid

Friday

Today wasn’t so bad.

Dear Shelia,

Thankfully Uncle Fucker had to go smite some bad dudes and I got the day off.

I’d tell you about my day, but I don’t have time. I’m gonna get laid.

Do not go getting any ideas here. If I show up tomorrow and you’ve given birth to a bunch of little tiny baby books, there will be Hell to pay. Just sayin’.

Have a nice evening and use condoms.

xoxo Astrid

Diary

WEEK TWO

Monday

Shooting the shit with Satan.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

Tuesday

Aaannndddd I’m back.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night… AGAIN.

Wednesday

Pretty sure I got hives from the sacrilegious reinterpretation of the bible.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…Fuck Me.

Thursday

Did you get it???

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night….

Did you like that??? I totally did a Twilight thing on the last three entries. Remember when Bella was all depressed because sparkly Edward left her and instead of writing that Bella basically stared at the wall for a bunch of months, Stephenie Meyer just wrote the months at the top of the page and nothing else. I thought that was so freakin’ cool.

Wait.

You probably didn’t read Twilight since you’re a book too. My bad. Suffice it to say it’s an awesome series that’s wildly inaccurate. I didn’t know how inaccurate it was until I bit the dust and joined the ranks of the undead.

Just so you know, Vampyres do not sparkle in the sun. We fry to a crisp. It’s not pretty and it smells like Hell on garbage day. Of course we heal, but no one I know wants to look like a charred, rotting steak for a few hours.

If I have some extra time after this month is over, I’ll read you the Twilight series. You’ll love it. I’ll also point out all of the fictional parts. I mean all of it’s fiction, but some of it is so incorrect it’s hilarious. We do not run up trees, we don’t drink animal blood and we are not a weird pasty shade of white with bizarre reddish lip-gloss. Wait. Now I’m talking about the movie. Can you watch movies?

Do not answer that.

But shades of pasty white reminds me of Fifty Shades of Gray—another fictional catastrophe that you would adore. I’ve read all of them twice and the movies are totally hilarious even thought they’re not supposed to be. You would love them.

I’m digressing and probably confusing you. Uncle God knows I’m confusing myself. What the Hell was I even talking about? Oh right, being dead… I think…

So while we’re talking about it—or rather I’m talking about it—because if you speak I’ll have to kill you… undead is such an inaccurate term. You feel me?

Isn’t that dumb, Shelia? I mean dead is freakin’ dead. Undead is completely redundant. And apropos of nothing, doornails aren’t dead. Just sayin’. They were never alive and I’m not going to use that phrase ever again.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m actually really happy being dead. I adore Ethan with everything I am and I have a beautiful baby named Samuel. I wouldn’t trade being dead—or undead as the Vamps like to call it—for anything.

Wait… I’m not sure I told you how I died. I tried to quit smoking and ended up dead. I know… how does someone die from being hypnotized at a seedy strip mall while trying to give up a disgusting habit? Well, first off, never get fucking put under at a seedy strip mall—it’s not a good idea. Hindsight is 20-20. Yes, I know it’s weird, but it’s the truth. My sorry excuse for a sister, Juliette, killed me as dead as a doornail.

Whoa, doornails are not dead. I’m dead—doornails are not. Never mind, I digress.

Not only did Juliette kill me and continues to try, she also attempted to kill a buttload of my friends and family. Currently she’s residing in a cell in the dungeon of the Cressida House. Suffice it to say, she’s not real popular.

Here’s a piece of advice. Don’t kill your family members. It never ends well unless your mother is trying to take over the world and your father is a Demon that’s so vicious and evil even the Devil hates him—then and only then you can off a few family members.

Have a peaceful evening and don’t go to the seedy strip Mall on Peabody Street.

xoxo Astrid

Friday

Shut the front fucking door. No Way.

Dear Sheila,

It was a dark and stormy night….

I can’t even explain today, so I’m not going to try.

Just read.

And don’t let your book chin hit the floor because it will—if you have one. And if you have one, don’t tell me because I’ll have to kill you. A chin connotes a mouth and a mouth would mean you could talk. This would be bad for you and I like you.

But back to my story… How do I know chins will hit the floor? I know because mine did. If I wasn’t a Vampyre, I would have needed stitches.

For real.

Hold on, Shelia. Today was a bumpy ride…

“I’m Bigfoot,” Satan said with a shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

“Shut the front fucking door,” I shouted. “You are not Bigfoot. Bigfoot doesn’t exist.”

“Do you realize what a ludicrous statement that is?” Satan countered with a raised brow and a delighted smirk. “I’m the Devil. You’re a Vampyre-Demon. My mother controls nature and pole dances. My father is a Sprite who breaks appliances in Heaven and Hell by repairing them. Fairies are real and Trolls exist. Why in the name of everything vile would you think Bigfoot isn’t alive and well and causing more conspiracy theories than UFOs?”

“You’re ruining my life. This is more devastating than when I learned Santa was a fake,” I snapped. “You have single handedly destroyed my guilty pleasure, you big butthole. I watch Finding Bigfoot on Animal Planet. I’ve seen Harry and the Hendersons twenty-two times and Yeti: Curse of the Snow Demon six times. And the movie Bigfoot starring that dude Greg from the Brady Bunch and Danny from the Partridge Family. It was the worst piece of shit I’ve ever seen. I’ve watched that cinematic catastrophe forty-six times.”

“Do you have a point?” Satan asked, looking genuinely confused.

“Not sure yet,” I admitted. “I’m not finished with my movie list. I accidentally watched Sweet Prudence and the Erotic Adventures of Bigfoot—completely disgusting—way worse than Rage of the Yeti, which I’ve seen twice. However, Strange Wilderness was awesome. These two dudes have a really bad nature show so they go in search of Bigfoot to boost their ratings so they don’t get cancelled…and they find him! And then they kill him by accident. But that wasn’t the funniest part. The one really cute guy, Steve Zahn, gets his wanker swallowed by an endangered turkey when he’s taking a weewee in the woods and they have to pull it off of him without killing the turkey. So freakin’ funny. I mean, horrible but funny. The doctors stretch his weenie all the way across the examination room trying to pull the turkey off.”

“This was a documentary?” Satan asked in a horrified whisper, bent over at the waist in phantom pain.

“Hell to the no,” I told him with a laugh. “It was a fake weenie in a movie—at least I hope it was fake.”

“How did we digress to fake elastic genitals, endangered turkeys and Greg from the Brady Bunch?”

I paused and tried to find the answer… I couldn’t. Whatever.

“No clue,” I admitted. “What’s the worst movie you ever watched?”

“Worst best or worst worst?” Satan inquired, clearly unable to figure out how we’d gotten here either.

“Worst best,” I said.

“Showgirls—absolutely terrifying. I’ve seen it at least two hundred times. We’ve turned it into a drinking game in Hell every other Thursday. The Demons love it. They dress up like Elizabeth Berkley and perform all the dance routines.”

Digesting that piece of bizarre information took me a minute. I might have to go to Hell and experience that clusterfuck at least once.

“Bigfoot,” I shouted, pointing an accusing and sparking finger at my uncle. “You ruined my existence by telling me that you’re Bigfoot. I’ve been secretly searching for Bigfuckingfoot my whole life. I always thought I would be the one to find him and I’d become famous. I’d have a TV show and would wear designer pink Yeti-hunting gear and Prada stiletto boots. Steven Colbert would invite me on The Late Show and I’d be so funny that Saturday Night Live would ask me to host. I’d say no of course, because I’m not a comedian and I’m dead, but they would insist and beg and cry—so I’d do it and it would get the highest ratings ever. After that, I’d record an album with Beyoncé and Adam Levine about the entire experience of finding Yeti and call it Purple Bigfoot—my shout out to one of the best albums ever made, Prince’s Purple Rain—and I’d win a Grammy. In my speech, I’d make sure to name all the girls who said my haircut looked like a mullet in high school and then all my legions of loyal fans would go to their houses and give those mean bitches mullet haircuts and plaster pictures all over Facebook. But now you’ve ruined my secret fantasy.”

And the Devil was speechless—for about thirty-two and a half seconds. Then he laughed so hard I was pretty sure he was going to choke to death.

“It’s not that funny,” I hissed.

He kept laughing.

“Seriously,” I yelled over his hysterics. “Stop laughing.”

He kept laughing.

“Listen you assmonkey,” I growled. “If you don’t stop laughing at me, I’ll smite your sorry ass.”

He kept laughing.

And laughing.

And laughing.

Sooooo, Shelia, I listened to Uncle Fucker laugh for two hours and twenty-three minutes straight. Not only was the assjacket laughing—he was laughing so hard he was crying. And then as if that wasn’t mortifying enough, he started rolling around on the floor. At least fifteen pens, two staplers and a box of Post-it notes he stole from Ethan’s desk fell out of his pockets.

Of course being mature, I picked them up and lobbed them at his head. Unfortunately this only made the imbecile laugh harder. All around it was a bad day.

The only good thing was that the douchecanoe was so hoarse from laughing he couldn’t dictate anymore of his appalling autobiography to me. It’s the little things, Shelia. We must be grateful for the little things. However, if he tells anyone my secret fantasy, I’ll post the video I took of him at Christmas singing Journey songs in his sleep on YouTube.

Lucifer is tone deaf, but I’ll save that for another day. I’m exhausted from being laughed at for 239878293748237 hours. I’m sure you understand.

Have a nice night. And if you’re laughing at me do it silently or I’ll have to kill you.

xoxo Astrid

Diary

WEEK THREE

Monday

And the saga from Hell continues…

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

Today was a clusterhump of epic proportions. My baby, Samuel adores Satan and begged to play in the office while we worked. Actually he didn’t have to beg at all—all my son has to do is smile at me and I’m putty in his little hands. I’m fairly sure my child will have to attend at least twenty years of therapy because of the time spent with Uncle Fucker today. And that will be tacked on to the forty or so he’ll have to endure due to my potty mouth—which I’m working on.

However, Satan should not be allowed around children. Ever.

It went a little something like this…

“So Sammy,” Satan said as he hugged my beautiful blond baby with delight. “Have you been a good boy or a bad boy?”

“Me be baaaaddddd,” Samuel yelled as he pulled on the Devil’s hair and pressed wet baby kisses all over his face.

“That’s my boy,” Lucifer said proudly. “Today in your honor, Sammy, I will talk about children things.”

“Umm,” I said as my stomach began to churn. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I thought I’d talk about Disney,” Satan replied so innocently, my eyes narrowed to slits.

“For every bad move you make, I will zap your ass and you’ll owe me a favor,” I warned.

“Me wove Disney movies!” Samuel announced in his outdoor voice. “Me wove Wion King the best.”

“You’re driving a very hard bargain, my lovely niece,” Satan said with a put upon sigh as he bounced my happily squealing son on his knee.

“Me like Fwozen and Beauty and the Beast and Jungle Book and Wiwo and Stitch and…”

“Did you know that crazy whacked out bastard Walt Disney was an opium addict?” Satan said with raised brows and a wide grin.

Without even looking up from the laptop, I waved my hand and zapped a huge hole in the backside of Satan’s custom Armani pants.

“What the Hell?” Satan bellowed as he swatted at his flaming butt.

“Ohhhhhh,” Samuel shouted, laughing and clapping his chunky little hands. “Dat’s gotta hurt.”

“That’s one favor,” I told Satan with a smile.

“Fine,” he huffed indignantly. “But I was telling the truth—for once. What just happened here is a fine example why one should lie—all the time. Remember that Sammy, the truth is for dumbasses and suckers.”

“Dumbasses and suckers!” Samuel shouted as I flicked my fingers and blasted my uncle—again.

The Devil danced around the room shooting me looks that should have scared me to death. They didn’t. They made me laugh.

“Keep it PG,” I warned as Satan gathered himself and went back to his favorite little boy in the world.

“I don’t even know what PG means,” he griped with an enormous eye roll.

“No bad words. No drug references,” I shot back.

Satan had a few choice words for me under his breath, but if I couldn’t hear him with my undead bionic hearing, I knew Samuel couldn’t either. I gave him a pass.

I watched with amusement as Satan wracked his brain to come up with conversation that wouldn’t result in incineration.

“Tinky Winky is gay,” he whispered to my boy with an evil little smirk.

I heard him. I zapped him.

“Damn it,” he grumbled as he waved his hand and put out the rear end inferno I’d gifted him with. “That was in the news for the love of everything evil.”

“Don’t care,” I told him with my hand poised to fry another hole in his butt.

“Wanna watch a movie with me, Uncle Wucifer?” Sammy asked, gently patting his great-uncle’s face.

“What other movies do you like, Sammy?” Satan asked carefully, moving across the room so my blasting aim would be hindered.

He clearly thought he’d just won. I was reserving my judgment…

“Me wike Pee-wee’s Big Adventure,” Samuel replied.

I just closed my eyes, groaned and waited.

Satan didn’t disappoint.

“Pee-wee got in some big trouble playing with his peepee-weewee at the movieeeees,” Satan said as he quickly sat Samuel down and then dove behind the couch.

The Devil was fast, but I’m a mom and I was faster. Moms are freakin’ super heroes with eyes in the back of their heads and speed that rivals a tsunami. It also helped that I’m a Vamp.

With a flick of my wrist, I zapped his ass so hard he squealed like a freakin’ girl and then spewed off a litany of swear words that earned him six more butt blasts. His suit looked like he’d been in a war zone.

“Have you had enough?” I asked politely as I scooped Samuel up and gave him a kiss on his chubby pink cheek.

“Yesssss,” Satan hissed, doing his best to look dignified after being electrocuted—he failed. “I think Sammy needs to take a nap. Right?”

Laughing, I nodded. “Yep. It’s time for his nap. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

And you know what, Shelia? When I got back, Uncle Fucker was gone. The office was empty. Pure bliss.

I was pretty sure the Devil was appalled that he now owed me ten favors and I’d burnt his suit to a crisp. Well, too bad so sad. I’m the only one allowed to give my son reasons to attend therapy later in life.

Hope you have a lovely evening. I’m going to watch Wion King with my favorite little boy.

xoxo Astrid

Tuesday

Lovin’, Touchin’ and Restraining Orders

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night….

Today I learned some things I didn’t know. Actually everyday with my uncle thus far I’ve learned something I didn’t previously know—or want to know—or need to know. Ever. But today… was bizarrely interesting.

Shelia, you need to understand that Satan is obsessed with the band Journey—in particular, Steve Perry who happens to be a freakin’ Unicorn. Did you even know they existed? I sure as Hell didn’t. There are so many dang species of immortals, it makes my head spin. Not literally. Vamps can’t do that, but Linda Blair in The Exorcist can. If you haven’t seen that one, you have to. Totally freaked me out.

Wait.

I’m sorry. You’re a book. It’s incredibly rude of me to keep dangling things in front of your pages that you can’t do. My bad. I’ll try to do better.

I absolutely hate when people do things in front of me that I can’t do—like eat. It makes me feel stabby.

Food and head spinning aside, even though Steve Perry is a Unicorn—which is weird—he’s a great guy and we’ve become good friends. That happened because my cousins—The Facebook obsessed dumbass Seven Deadly Sins—kidnapped Steve Perry as a Christmas gift for Satan and I helped him escape. That was a fucking awful Christmas that ended up turning out okay. Cousin Jesus showed up as a lovely Asian woman. Totally freaked me out. I was expecting the robe and the beard, but he told me he’s every man and every woman and likes to change it up every now and then. You would love him… or her—kindest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met.

Suffice it to say, Steve Perry was so grateful to me for saving his talented ass, he sang in Ethan’s and my wedding. Our nuptials took place in Hell due to more blackmail from the Devil. Satan had to stay fifty feet away from Steve Perry the entire time. It just about killed him, but he succeeded for the most part.

So anyhoo, I give to you…today.

Read, giggle, and groan. I did.

Oh, and I’d just like to go on record that the Devil’s autobiography is going to reside in the same category as Showgirls and the movie Bigfoot starring that dude Greg from the Brady Bunch and Danny from the Partridge Family. It’s gonna be really, really, really sucky.

“Are you going to talk about it?” I asked, trying not to grin.

“I most certainly am not,” Satan snapped.

“I think you should—or I could call Mother Nature and get her version,” I said with a wide naughty smile and a laugh.

“Absolutely not,” he bellowed. “My mother is completely insane and lies like a rug.”

“Pot, kettle, black much?”

“Now that’s just rude,” Satan shot back with an impressed grin.

He loved my irreverence—and me even though he would never admit it.

“You’re welcome. Sooooo, if I’m remembering correctly and trust me, I am, you induced influenzas, created strife amongst several popular bands, twisted a couple vocal chords and encouraged some unsavory addictions…”

“Possibly,” Satan admitted with raised brows and a wide devastatingly handsome smile.

“And umm… you also gave forty-two bands the crabs so Journey had little to no competition.”

“Your point?”

“That’s kind of weird, not to mention stalkery.”

“Again, your point?” he asked, truly not seeing anything wrong with a single thing he’d done.

“Your… history with Journey is something that doesn’t involve people who’ve been dead for thousands of years—although I do feel compelled to mention it’s completely illegal. But if you want to sell your book, you have to have a little something current in it. Although, you might want to change a few names on this one… I feel a lawsuit coming on big time.”

“You don’t think the ménage with Betty Davis and Joan Crawford is current?”

“No. I think it’s gag-inducing and you shouldn’t put that in the book,” I replied with my nose wrinkled in disgust.

“What about all the times I’ve brought Elvis with me on field trips to Earth to screw with people? I’ve single handedly kept The National Enquirer in business.”

My eyes narrowed and I stared at my uncle. “Do you happen to own the Enquirer?”

“I plead the fifth on that one,” Satan shot back with a delighted laugh. “Let’s get back to Elvis or aliens or three headed babies or the witch doctor that ate six people and then washed it down with grape soda.”

“Oh my Hell,” I shouted. “That is utter bullshit.”

“Are you certain?”

“Well… no,” I admitted. “Please tell me that’s not true.”

“It’s not true, but the tiny mermaid found in a tuna sandwich is not fiction. She was incredibly pissed. It was hilarious.”

“You’re awful,” I accused, biting back my grin.

“Thank you. I try.”

“Well,” I said, considering all of the new and heinous information my uncle had just imparted. “The Elvis one is pretty good, but leave Baby Jane, Mommie Dearest, three headed babies, cannibal witch doctors, tiny mermaid and aliens out of it.”

“How about when the aliens settled in San Francisco and crowned Tom Cruise their king?” he suggested.

“Absolutely not,” I said with a giggle and then immediately wondered if that was true.

“Fine, but I must insist that we include when I ‘helped’ Steve Harvey announce the wrong name at the Miss Universe Pageant, revealed Janet Jackson’s breast during the Super Bowl Half Time Show and promised Sylvester Stallone and Kenny Rogers that getting face lifts were excellent ideas.”

“Now that’s just mean,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“Why? Janet has lovely breasts,” he informed me.

“No, not that,” I said, shaking my head. “Suggesting to the Gambler and Rambo that they should enhance their faces—that’s mean.”

“Vanity will get you nowhere fast,” Satan replied.

“That’s kind of deep coming from the vainest dude I know,” I pointed out.

“Yes, well, I’m Satan and they’re not. I will never need a facelift and I’m hung like a horse.”

“TMI,” I choked out, praying I’d be able to remove this conversation from my memory. “Let’s get back to Steve Perry.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you want to tell me?” I countered.

“Stephen Ray Perry or as I like to call him, Steve, is the greatest singer ever born. He’s a Unicorn—very rare. My one-horned idol is an American singer, songwriter and record producer who should be prayed to by all on a daily basis. I’m having a three hundred foot monument built in the main gardens at the Dark Palace in Hell. I’ve had massive speakers embedded in the uncanny and enormous likeness. Lights and Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’ will be blasted through Hell on the hour. Clocks will no longer be necessary in the Underworld since Steve Perry’s voice will let us know what time it is.”

“Umm… seriously?”

“Yes,” Satan replied as if this was normal behavior and not that of a crazed stalker. “My Steve was born on the sacred day of January 22, 1949. I’ve made his birthday a national holiday in Hell. I’ve been trying to get Steve to come down for decades, but that pesky restraining order is a slight problem.”

“Wait. You have a Steve Perry Day in Hell?”

“Of course,” Satan confirmed—again as if this was rational behavior. “He’s five foot seven, which I can’t hold against him and is of Portuguese-American descent. His taste in clothing is appalling, but again I can overlook that due to the hit Oh Sherrie. I only dated women named Sherrie for thirteen years because of that mesmerizing tune. Of course I cheated, because I’m a randy bastard with an enormous package and voracious sexual appetite. I simply made sure all the women I bedded told me their name was Sherrie. It was an outstanding solution and then I wasn’t cheating on Steve Perry.”

I was speechless—hard to achieve, but clearly doable.

“What else would you like to know?” he asked, noticing my silence.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Definitely.”

“I could tell you about the Sherries,” he offered just to watch me gag.

He was a butthole.

“No,” I insisted in my outdoor voice.

“Your loss,” Satan replied with an evil smirk. “How about this… We’ll play a round of blackjack. If I win, you will listen to the Sherries.”

“And if I win?” I shot back.

“You won’t.”

And the jackhole was correct. I lost. I listened to the graphic story of the Sherries for two hours that I’ll never be able to get back. It was horrifying. If you want a play by play, you’re gonna have to read the book when I’m not here. Although, trust me on this one… you don’t want to read about the Sherries—it’s way worse than the ménage with Mommie Dearest and Baby Jane.

Don’t stop belivin’ till the lights go down in the city.

xoxo Astrid

Wednesday

Read the fine print.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night….

Don’t ever sign anything without reading the fucking contract. Ever. Although it wouldn’t have mattered for me since I’m dealing with the Harbinger of Evil who cheats at cards and is a gaping buttwad. However, just in case you’re more than a book, always read the fine print. And if you are more than a book, I don’t want to know. I’d have to kill you and I feel like we’ve grown close. That would suck—for you.

So today was just another day in Paradise…

Not.

“Look, this book reads like an erotic journey slash some of the most unbelievably violent shit that I couldn’t even make up slash a bad acid trip. I don’t think it’s gonna sell,” I stated the obvious, hoping like Hell Uncle Fucker would reconsider this appalling exercise in vanity.

“Of course it will sell.” Satan waved his hand dismissively. “Just put some bullshit happily ever after at the end and we can pawn it off as a romance.”

“You’re serious?” I asked with a horrified expression. That was the worst fucking idea he’d had yet—and he’d had many.

“Completely.”

“But, um… you don’t exactly have a happily ever after at the moment,” I reminded my insane uncle cautiously. “You want me to lie?”

“But of course,” he replied. “Most of what I’ve told you is fabricated.”

“Are you shitting me?” I yelled as my fingers lit up like mini fireworks. “I’ve spent a month of my life that I can’t get back typing utter bullshit that’s been flying from your deceitful lips?”

“I’d have to say that’s fairly accurate,” the Devil replied with a laugh. “However, a month is but a blip when you live forever. You shall see. And lies are always more fun that the truth.”

“The sex stuff was a lie?” I asked with a wince, trying to hide my expression of relief.

“No. That’s all true.”

And the relief disappeared.

“The violence?” I tried again.

“Again, no.”

“Then what in the ever loving Hell was made up?” I demanded, running my hands through my wild hair in frustration. I wanted to zap his lying ass so hard I could taste it.

“You’re going to set your hair on fire,” Satan pointed out as a few strands began to sizzle under my sparking fingers.

“Motherfucker in a miniskirt,” I bellowed, slapping at my head in a panic. “Do you see what this is doing to me? Are you happy? I almost singed myself bald because you’ve had more sex than the entire male population quadrupled. I do not look good bald.”

“Names,” he replied, ignoring my outburst. “I made up names. Wouldn’t want any lawsuits.”

“Shut the front door. Most of the freaks you talk about in the book are dead already and half of the species mentioned don’t even exist in humans’ minds. How can you have lawsuits?”

“You’d be surprised,” Uncle Fucker replied, pilfering a few Mont Blanc pens and a calculator. “Just make up a happily ever after and we’ll be done.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“Would you lie to me?” I asked, scrunching my nose in doubt. The truth was a foreign concept to my uncle.

“Absolutely.”

“So we’re not done, Uncle Fucker?” I asked as my eyes narrowed to slits.

“I suppose you didn’t read the fine print in the contract,” he informed me, biting back his grin with effort.

He failed. He was grinning like a loon.

“I suppose I didn’t because you didn’t give me a contract,” I snapped as my now blazing fingers melted the laptop beneath them.

Damn it, I’d now ruined six dang laptops due to the Devil’s deceit.

Pocketing a few more interesting looking gadgets from Ethan’s desk, Satan clapped his hands and produced a thick folder. “Silly me,” he chided himself sarcastically. “My apologies. Here it is.”

And then the jackass disappeared in a cloud of black glitter and smoke.

The Devil left just in time. One more second and he would have been partially decapitated by a flaming, flying laptop.

So Shelia, my friend… always read the fine print unless you get screwed into a deal by a card shark with a shitty agenda. Not that it would happen to you, but I’m just sayin’.

Have a great night. I have to go order a new fucking laptop.

xoxo Astrid

Thursday

I can’t even.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

It was a really fucking dark and stormy one today—not sure how much more of this I can talk without incinerating my uncle. Of course that wouldn’t actually kill him, but I can’t see it going over real well. You feel me?

So instead of electrocuting Lucifer, I have to suffer through a little more. I can do this.

Can I do this?

Don’t answer.

You know why.

“We have a deal. The deal is I talk. You type.”

“Nope,” I shot back, sitting on my hands so I didn’t blast the Devil through the wall. “You blackmailed me into writing your autobiography—which is a fucking oxymoron since you should be writing it yourself.”

“Your language appalls me.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Touché,” he said with a chuckle that made me grind my fangs. “Fine. I can’t type.”

“You’re kidding me. You’re the badass of the Underworld. You’re supposed to be able to do everything.”

“I tried, but it’s incredibly boring and not the least bit sexy,” Satan admitted with a careless shrug and a grin. “I did try an online class, but that horrid computer woman, Mavis Beacon, made me have a fit that caused an avalanche. If she were an actual person, I’d treat her to a day in Hell she’d never forget.”

“I feel you,” I groused. “Mavis Beacon is a total gaping butthole. That finger shit is for the birds. I threw a couple of computers across the room trying to please that hard woman.”

“Too bad she’s not real,” he mused, making himself comfortable on the couch. “I’d like to date someone like that.”

“Speaking of…” I prompted. “How’s the love life going?”

“First of all,” he corrected me in a clipped tone. “Love has nothing to do with it. I love no one but myself.”

“Liar, liar, Armani pants on fire,” I said under my breath.

“I’m going to ignore that since I do find your son amusing and making him an orphan isn’t on my agenda today,” Satan shot back with his perfectly arched brow raised high. “Secondly, I tried this love you speak of once and it didn’t work out very well. Almost ended in the Apocalypse.”

“That’s kind of a defeatist attitude,” I said. “I love being in love.”

“Yes, of course you do,” my uncle replied with an eye roll. “You’re thirty years old and not as sexy or in demand as I am. Try living for a millennia. Love is as useless as…”

“As useless as a one legged man at an ass kicking contest?” I offered and then slapped myself in the head. Why in the Hell was I helping the Devil trash love?

Because I couldn’t help myself… I was full of ‘useless’ information.

“That’s good,” Satan said with a chuckle. “But not quite right.”

“Tits on a bull?” I suggested.

“No, that doesn’t explain it correctly.”

“Nuts on a heifer?”

“Nope.”

“A fart in a space suit?” I tried again.

“Now that’s just disgusting,” he chided with a wince.

“True,” I agreed. “But it’s memorable.”

“That it is. How about as useless a limp dick at the Playboy Mansion?”

“How about, no,” I said with a groan. “Try this one… as useless as a four-way yield sign intersection.”

“What an amusing idea,” Satan said with laughing approval. “Your Demon is showing, Astrid. I’m so proud of you. How about as useless as a Vampyre at a bake sale?”

“That’s mean and makes me feel stabby towards you,” I snapped.

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“This is true,” Satan agreed with a grin.

We sat in silence for a brief moment and stared at each other. I couldn’t remember what the Hell we’d been talking about.

“Umm… do you want all this in the book?” I asked, trying to get back on track.

“Sure. But add as useless as Marcel Marceau’s vocal coach as well.”

My laugh burst from my mouth and Uncle Fucker preened at my reaction to his victorious ‘useless’ quip.

“You win,” I said.

“I always do. Now let’s do a chapter on my staying power in the boudoir.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said, letting my head fall to the desk with a bang.

You wanna know what, Shelia? He was serious—totally serious. I need to take a four day shower after that one. Not to mention I’m considering a partial lobotomy to remove any memory of today from my brain.

However, Satan informed me that a lobotomy won’t work. My brain will simply grow back with all the memories in it.

He’s such a dick.

Be careful if you read the staying power in the boudoir part. You’ll want a shower and you’re a book. That would be a bad move on your part.

You have been warned.

xoxo Astrid

Friday

Is the Devil still the Devil by any other name?

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

Is a rose a rose by any other name? Do I really fucking care?

Nope. Nope, I don’t. But I have to say giving Satan a pen name was an outstandingly good time. Today, my recently discovered sister Tiara joined us. Tiara is all kinds of crazy awesome and has never tried to kill me which makes her A-OK in my book. She’s even weirder than I am. She’s a Vampyre-Demon-Fairy—extremely powerful, very profane and I adore her.

Tiara and her mate Claudia are lovely and have moved into the Cressida House while they figure out what they want to do with the rest of their immortal lives. I couldn’t be happier. Samuel is besotted with the two women and Ethan has invited them to stay as long as they want. I hope it’s forever.

Anyhoo, Satan has decided to use a pen name since a book by the Devil might not sell that well. This is also a very good idea since he doesn’t want lawsuits. Although, he’s smoking crack to think there won’t be any lawsuits. I’m going to make very sure my name is not on this farked up catastrophe anywhere—or I’ll take a pen name as well. I was thinking about Stephen-ie King or Janet Eclompovitch or Stephen (no ie) Meyer or possibly James-ie Patterson. I also am quite fond of Darynda Moans, Robyn Eaterman and Molly Larper. Although, my favorite at the moment is Charlaine Harriest.

What do you think?

Don’t answer. I’ll have to kill you.

So here it is. Read and giggle.

“We’re going to work on eliminating the moniker Uncle Fucker from your vocabularies,” Satan informed me and Tiara in an icy tone so we would know he meant business. “Besides I need to use a pen name. You will address me accordingly.”

Secretly, I was very sure he enjoyed being called Uncle Fucker. It was every kind of wrong and profane—just like him.

“Did you pick one?” I inquired, literally bouncing in my seat to give him a pen name.

“Do you have something in mind?” he asked giving me a very suspiciously raised eyebrow.

My laugh rang through the room and even Satan could hold back his grin.

“You really don’t want to let her do this,” my sister Tiara warned with an evil little smirk pulling at her lips.

“I’m offended,” I shouted in mock rage. “I read romance novels, for the love of everything bodice ripping and fabulous. I know what the ladies want.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Tiara said with a bark of laughter.

“Dirk,” I announced with wide eyes, waggling brows and an even wider grin. “Dirk D. Deemonee!”

Satan’s expression looked like he’d swallowed a lemon—it was totally awesome. I knew the name was appalling. There was no way in Hell he was going to answer to Dirk. He’d probably go with Uncle Fucker before he went with Dirk D. Deemonee.

“What does the middle D stand for?” Tiara asked, attempting to hold back her squeal of laughter.

“Dick!” I bellowed and fell to the floor in giggles.

Tiara lost a valiant battle with her composure and landed in a heap next to me.

“While I find your bonding over my emasculation amusing, I will not go by that name. Even you can’t utter the abomination without guffawing like a common peasant.”

“How about Sam Sinessssster?” Tiara suggested between unladylike grunts of glee.

“Or Vinnie Villanilicious?” I squealed.

“Or Nardel Nefariouso?” Tiara shouted as three windows in the room burst and shattered to dust.

“Or Lou Sy?” I took another appalling turn.

“Or Abe Bominable?”

“Or Dizzy Greeable?”

“Or Wick Edest?”

Closing his eyes, Satan leaned back on the couch and let us wear ourselves out. When there appeared to be no end in sight, he finally stepped in. Clearly, we could go on for days—weeks—years—centuries.

“I shall be known as Blade,” Satan announced. “Just Blade.”

“Like Beyoncé or Cher?” I questioned, pushing a still laughing Tiara off of me.

“Yes. Except I’m sexier.”

“Hmm, it’s not bad,” I mused, considering it. “But you really should have a last name. Sounds less like a male stripper that way.”

“She’s right,” Tiara agreed. “What do you love? What makes you happy?”

“I enjoy sex.”

“Blade Fornicate or Blade Boink doesn’t work for me,” Tiara said, thinking aloud. “How about Blade Boffmeister?”

“No, too literal,” I said, thinking Blade really was a good name. “What about something more obscure like Blade Nooner?”

“That’s better, but I like alliteration. How ʼbout Blade Baller or Blade Bugger,” Tiara suggested.

“How about no fucking way,” Uncle Fucker inserted just to make us stop.

“What else do you like besides bumping uglies?” I asked, still smirking and giggling.

“For the record, mine’s not ugly. And the answer is fire. I adore fire,” the Devil said with confidence.

“Blade Inferno,” Tiara said, her mismatched eyes wide with excitement. “It’s hot and dangerous. It’s very memorable—I mean not as memorable as Satan, Lucifer, Mother Humpin’ Prince of Darkness, Blade Boink or Uncle Fucker, but I think it will work.”

“It’s perfect,” I agreed with a clap of my hands.

Satan didn’t look quite as certain, but it clearly beat all the other names we’d so helpfully come up with.

“Blade Inferno it is,” Satan said, relieved we were done with renaming the Devil.

Shelia, Blade Inferno still sounds a bit male strippery, but the Devil is hot and dangerous so I think it will be fine. And Blade Boink—even though it made me laugh till I couldn’t speak—was not going to work.

I’m still in shock that this profane and offensive pile of words will become a book, but it’s not my problem. It’s his. And just so you know, I’ve narrowed my own pen name down to two choices—Darynda Moans and Charlaine Harriest. I’d love it if you could chime in on my pen name, but if you did I’d have to kill you.

Have a great night.

xoxo Astrid

Diary

WEEK FOUR

Monday

I’m in the home stretch.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

Today I barely sat through a Bible lesson that was not in the Bible—at all.

Apparently all the animals on the Ark tried to eat each other and many succeeded. I’d always wondered about that. I mean lions and chipmunks are not a good match. Sounds like a furry bloodbath in the making. You feel me, Shelia? Sometimes I forget that my uncle has been around since the beginning of time. It’s too much for my undead mind to grasp—but he has. And trust me, the dude is smart—very naughty, but very smart.

“So they all ate each other?” I asked with a shudder.

“Yes, they did—that is if you believe the Ark existed at all,” Satan replied with a careless shrug.

“Did Noah’s Ark exist?” I asked, now confused.

“Do you want it to have existed?” he countered.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Did all the animals really eat each other?”

“No. Several of the larger carnivores survived the journey.”

“Then, umm… no. I don’t like that version.”

“Pick the other one then. That’s what God did.”

I sat and chewed on that for a moment. We were getting into some majorly controversial territory here.

“You sure you want to go there?” I inquired, wanting him to and not wanting him to at the same time.

Satan sighed and rested his chin in his hands. “Think about it, Astrid. If one is to believe everything they read then they have to accept the consequences. My brother’s book was written in a language that doesn’t have clear English equivalents.”

“So you’re saying none of it is true?”

“Absolutely not. There are many truths and many untruths that man can choose to believe or reject. The Bible and the world are full of choices and my book will be as well. One can believe it or negate it as fiction.”

“You’ve read the bible?”

“No one has ever read the Bible,” he stated flatly. “No one. Not you. Not me. At the very least, if we’ve bothered at all, we’ve read a very bad translation—a translation of a translation of a translation of a dead language that was passed down by word of mouth long before it was ever recorded.”

“Kind of harsh,” I muttered.

“The truth is always harsher than fiction,” Satan replied breezily. “Which is why lying is far more fun.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“To me, the book my brother put into the world is a bunch of stories—some true, some not—that teach his deluded followers to be good people. My book will do the same except it will exemplify the joys of being bad. In the end neither of them matter. All that matters is how you live your own life. Period.”

“You’re sounding a little good at the moment,” I pointed out.

“Not at all. I’m horrible and I’m happy that way. However, I have no ill will toward the good. I’m just delighted that some have chosen the ‘wrong’ path. It keeps me busy and in business. Free will is a beautiful thing.”

“So you like the really bad ones?” I asked, needing clarification.

Satan paused and stared at me.

“No. I despise them—the murderers… the truly vile. I only like the naughty ones. The ones that didn’t hurt people other than themselves,” he replied watching for my reaction.

“You’re actually a good person.”

“Yes, well, let’s not let that get out,” he said. “Fucks with my outstandingly bad reputation. So shall I pontificate on how the honey badgers fornicated with the cows and then ate the chickens, skunks and rattlesnakes on the very first day the Ark set sail?”

“Holy Hell on fire. Do you have to?” I asked, my stomach roiling.

“No,” Uncle Fucker replied with a devious grin. “I could talk about the time I joined the Mile High Club with twenty-six women.”

“On the same plane ride?” I asked under duress as I pressed the bridge of my nose and contemplated sealing the Devil’s mouth shut—permanently.

“Absolutely.”

I pondered my choices and didn’t like any of them. I considered offering to play a round of blackjack to get out of all of it, but that would end in tragedy—as always.

“I guess I’ll go with the horny honey badgers,” I said morosely.

“Excellent choice. We’ll discuss the flying brothel tomorrow.”

“Fucking awesome,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Pun intended?” Satan inquired with a laugh.

“Yes. Yes it was.”

Shelia, the Ark was a shit show. I have no clue if anything Uncle Fucker said was true, but if even half of it was accurate it was a motherhumpin’ mess—pun intended. I’m surprised we didn’t end up with a bunch of chimpandoggies, honeybeavers, ravengles, bearooses, puppy-monkey-babies and so many other farked up species I can’t bring myself to name them. Suffice it to say, I’m gonna go with Noah’s Ark being a fictional story to teach man to be good. My stomach just can’t handle anything else.

I probably should have gone with Satan’s Mid-air Copulation Sex Plane Escapades, but again, hindsight is 20-20. And no fucking worries—pun totally intended—I get to hear that one tomorrow. Yay me.

Try to get some sleep. I’m gonna go blow some shit up to relax before I hit the sack.

xoxo Astrid

Tuesday

For real?

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

But it was a glorious day.

Satan didn’t show up today so I was spared the Flying Sexcapades. Yayayayayayay me! He texted me and let me know there were problems with the three hundred foot monument of Steve Perry. Apparently the construction Demons got the face wrong. While Elton John’s face is amazing, he is clearly not Steve Perry. Suffice it to say, the Devil was wildly displeased with the enormous gold rhinestone sunglasses and the pink boa. However, they got the mom jeans and the leopard print midriff shirt correct.

I’m guessing all Hell broke loose. So I’m just gonna color with Samuel and then get my ass kicked by The Kev at sparring practice. He’s a Fairy. You would love him. He punches like an out of control freight train that has no brakes. Last week I got an outstanding jab in and shattered his nose. The Kev and I had a karaoke party that night celebrating my violence.

I know that might sound weird, but Vampyres are a brutal breed who like to sing Top 40 cover tunes. You’re a sweet little book, so that kind of savagery might be hard to understand. Trust me on this. We have no choice, but I have never harmed an innocent and never will.

However, I will harm you if you ever repeat any of this. I have a mean left hook and I like to blow shit up. Keep that in mind.

Have a lovely rest of the day.

xoxo Astrid

Wednesday

Happily Ever After, my ass.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

It always gets darker before it gets light. Right, Shelia?

Sweet Baby Jesus in booty shorts, I hope so. Satan wants me to make up an HEA for him. That’s a happily ever after in romance speak just in case you were confused.

Hell knows I’m confused. What exactly does a happily ever after for the Devil mean? I know what it means for me, but I’m not the Harbinger of Evil. Right now I really wish you could speak. I mean, I’d have to kill you, but I could really use some moral and creative support at the moment.

I suppose turning every single human in the world into a lying, card cheating, fornicator would make him happy, but that’s not how a romance should end. A romance ends with the guy and the girl getting together and riding off into the sunset on a white stallion named Spirit or Ken. Or it means the guy and the girl take a trip to an island made of black raspberry chip ice cream. They have sex and then they eat so much fucking cake that they have food babies. But the best part is that their adorable, cozy hut is also edible. It’s made of those really thin and extra salty chips and the private heart shaped pool is filled with hot salsa. However, the crowning jewel is the cookie dough fridge, which is full of wedding cake with no icing and Coke in glass bottles.

Wait.

That’s one of my HEA fantasies. Sorry about that. The undead not being able to eat thing still chaps my ass.

So as you can see, Shelia, I’m clearly hungry and in need of a happy ending for the Prince of Darkness—not to mention I need about a year of therapy to get over the last several weeks spent with my uncle. Should I give him a mate? Oh my Hell, who in their right mind would want to hook up with the Devil permanently? Don’t get me wrong, Satan is definitely gorgeous and he’s secretly a nice guy. However, he also lies, cheats and steals… and fornicates like a rabbit.

Maybe he should end up with that typing teacher bee-otch, Mavis Beacon. Nope, even I wouldn’t do that to Uncle Fucker. She’s mean and awful.

I could always just make up a female version of the Devil… that’s not a bad idea.

What do you think, Shelia?

Don’t answer.

You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to sleep on it. First I’m going to have six orgasms with the love of my undead life and then I’m going to sleep on it.

But before I leave you to your own bookie devices, I’d like to share the rest of my fantasy with you.

You ready? Good.

The bed in the hut is made of marshmallows and the headboard is graham crackers. Of course the pillows are chocolate so after several mind blowing orgasms you can light the bed on fire and eat s’mores. The guy and the gal, aka Ethan and me, would be buck naked the entire time and the second diamond shaped private pool is filled with whipped cream. We would go for a dip and then lick the whipped cream off of each other followed by another round of mind shattering sex.

Then if we got hungry, which we would because it’s my fucking fantasy, we could eat the floor of the hut that’s made of white chocolate covered almonds followed by a few Cokes in glass bottles. Then we would have outstanding sex again and afterward be so nutritionally deprived we’d have to eat the hut. The salty chips would replace all the water we sweated out while having aerobic sex. I know… I know, Vampyres don’t sweat, but this is a fantasy, for the love of everything edible.

Then we’d take a nap and BAM— all of a sudden it would be time for dinner. Not a problem. The crusty Italian bread tub will be filled with pesto pasta and for dessert we would eat the island as it’s made of black raspberry chip ice cream.

I do realize that we’ve now eaten our house and the land it sat on, but that’s the great thing about a fantasy. All I have to do is snap my fingers and it all comes back. Someday I’ll take you there. I promise.

Well, now I’m hungry, exhausted and horny. I’m gonna go jump Ethan’s bones, hit the hay and dream about s’mores.

Have sweet candy covered dreams, my friend.

xoxo Astrid

Thursday

Light at the end of the tunnel.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

Today was… well it was as insane as the rest of them have been.

“What’s it like to live forever?” I asked Satan as he perused the stack of boxes from Office Depot with great joy. He’d pilfered so many of Ethan’s supplies I’d had to do a huge online shop to replace them. Stupidly, I’d had the boxes delivered to the office. The excited gleam in Satan’s eyes didn’t bode well for me having much stock left by the end of the day.

Whatever. I had a free evening. I could order more. It was just stuff and Satan’s glee reminded me of a little boy on Christmas morning. At least it wasn’t the ten boxes of ceramic baby Jesuses I’d ordered. There was no telling what he would have done to them.

“Why would you ask such a question?” Satan inquired as he tore open the largest of the boxes.

“Because you’ve lived forever and I’m going to,” I replied and watched him shudder with delight when he discovered the box was filled with mechanical pencils and Post-it notes.

After a blatant and obnoxious display of loading his Hermès Porosus Crocodile Birkin 40 briefcase with stolen goods, Satan leaned on the edge of Ethan’s desk and observed me with interest.

“My briefcase cost over 45,000 dollars and I couldn’t care less about that fact. I’m more amused by an illegally gained fifty dollars’ worth of pencils and paper,” he replied.

“Your point?” I asked, not following how this might be an answer to my question.

“My point, my dear nosy niece, is that everything ceases to mean anything after excruciatingly long periods of time.”

“That’s depressing and I don’t believe it,” I told him.

“Your choice,” he said flatly. “Time is the only thing that marches on indefinitely. There is no stopping it and no going backward. Food loses its taste, people are exchangeable and beauty becomes mundane. Even sex loses its pleasure. But I don’t want to speak of this, it bores me and when I get bored I like to blow up couches.”

“Why did you share it with me then?” I asked as I dove in front of my beloved couch hoping he’d spare it. Of course if he didn’t, I’d have to singe three hundred holes in his custom suit and then all Hell would break loose. He’d have a hissy fit and there was a good chance I’d have to get the Cressida House rebuilt.

That would suck. I quickly stacked a bunch of the boxes of office supplies on the couch. He’d never incinerate stuff he wanted to steal.

Satan paused for a few moments then grinned and shrugged. “I shared because you asked and because I plan to steal most of the contents in the boxes today. I thought it equitable to exchange some half truths for staplers and paper clips.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his fucked up candor, but I wondered which of his statements were true and which were lies. Was living forever a gift or a curse? Would I really cease to feel pleasure at some point?

“Half truths?” I questioned.

“Actually, no truths at all,” he replied as he tucked about fifteen neon yellow highlighters into his breast pocket. “Sex is still outstanding especially when you’re as good at it as I am. Beauty is always in the eye of the beholder so that one is a choice.”

“People?” I pressed for more.

“People are a necessary evil—humans, I mean. However, they fascinate me. I need them and they adore me—everyone does.”

I rolled my eyes and then got to the most important question. “Food?”

“Do you really want the answer to that?” Satan asked, giving me a skeptical look. “I don’t want you going all stabby on me.”

“It’s still good?” I choked out trying hard not to feel stabby.

“Fabulous,” Uncle Fucker confirmed.

I failed at the stabby thing. My fingers lit up like fireworks and Satan quickly moved behind the boxes. His suit was now off limits since I’d start a massive inferno if I tried to blast him behind the cardboard. I went for the end table instead. I didn’t like it much anyway.

“Feel better?” Satan inquired, cautiously stepping out from behind the boxes.

“Much. However, you forgot something,” I told him.

“And what would that be?”

“Love.”

“This love you speak of is for fools and dreamers. I’m neither of those,” he replied easily.

“You’re missing out,” I told him.

“You’re thirty,” Satan informed me with an eye roll. “I’m not sure how old I am anymore—stopped counting millions of years ago. You come talk to me ten thousand years from now about love and we’ll see if you haven’t changed your optimistic mind.”

“I won’t,” I replied with confidence.

“Why?” he countered, tossing a stapler in the air and then pocketing it. “Why do you think you’re different, Astrid? Because, trust me… you’re not.”

“I am,” I disagreed with the Devil. “I have something you don’t.”

Satan’s laugh bounced through the room and he squealed like a girl when he discovered a calculator and hole punch.

“The only thing you have at the moment that I don’t is a beautiful array of office supplies. I will have this delectable booty in the next hour, so I have no clue what you speak of, Vampyre.”

“A mate, Devil. I have someone to love with everything I am.”

The Devil shook his head and gave me a pitying glance. “That too shall pass, child. Nothing lasts forever except the fucked up concept of linear time. You will see.”

“If I truly believed that, I’d end myself now,” I told him.

“Nice try, but you can’t,” he said breezily. “You’re a True Immortal, as am I. Our deaths have far reaching consequences for all of mankind. Would you really choose your own pathetic happiness over that of the Universe’s existence?”

Well, he certainly had me there. I would never choose myself over mankind. I wouldn’t choose myself over my family either. I would always put others first. Always.

But wait… wasn’t that what Satan was doing as well? The Devil was such a lying sack of shit—but what did I expect? He was the Devil after all…

If he wanted to, he could just stay away from all of this. He could quit his job and let chaos take over. If he was so sick and tired of living forever, he could seclude himself in his tacky Dark Palace and never come out—just let the world go to Hell in a hand basket. Literally.

But instead he was here… blackmailing me into writing his autobiography slash romance. Stealing pencils and playing with my son—well, a loose definition of playing if you consider giving a child nightmares playing…

He stalks Steve Perry. He hosted my wedding in Hell. The Harbinger of Evil loves my cousin, his daughter Dixie, and tolerates his others, the Seven Deadly Sins. He’s spared the lives of many lesser evil beings and only truly punishes the unredeemable.

The Devil visits his batshit crazy mother every couple of decades and spends time with his father on a regular basis. He helped us chase down the evil Vampyre, Vlad, and had a wonderful time ruining Samuel’s first Christmas. He loves me too, but would never admit it. Ever.

And I love him. I love the good and the bad parts of the Dark Fallen Angel. I will never agree with his methods, but there was no good without evil. Balance of the two maintained the status quo that let time march on. Satan was a necessary evil—for lack of a better word.

But the loneliness he would never admit to broke my undead heart.

I wouldn’t dare tell him of any of this. It would not end well. I would most certainly lose office furniture and he hadn’t blown up my beloved couch yet. I’d simply keep my very accurate observations to myself.

Well, most of them.

“You need to find real love. You know… with someone who likes to lie and blow shit up” I said and quickly held my hand up so he couldn’t interrupt. “Life—even a short human life—is empty without love. An immortal life is really motherhumpin’ sad without someone to watch Showgirls with.”

“Blah, blah blah,” Satan said, admiring his stack of stolen goods. “Are we done with the soul searching? I don’t have one so this is an exercise in tedium for me.”

“We’re done,” I replied, tearing open a few more boxes for him to pilfer from.

“Son of a bitch,” Satan shouted as he read a text on his phone. “Those imbeciles put a recording of the fucking Spice Girls in my Steve Perry monument. I hate the Spice girls—I mean I’d bed them, but I simply can’t listen to them. Unacceptable. Heads are going to roll.”

He stomped around the room throwing offices supplies everywhere.

“Astrid, could you move about three feet to the right?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, holding my ground in front of my couch.

“You do realize I could move you with a wave of my hand,” he pointed out. “I was simply being polite.”

“You’re not good at polite,” I told him. “Rude fits you better. And if you even look at my couch, I will shrink your underpants to a child’s size extra small.”

“Touché,” he replied with a laugh. “I’m not wearing any.”

On that repulsive note, he waved his pinky finger, levitated me and blew up the couch. With a naughty grin, he bowed and left in a blast of magical black smoke and glitter. He didn’t even remember to take his booty-laden, outrageously expensive briefcase with him.

Shitballs on fire, that assmonkey was going to pay. Quickly calling Mother Nature, I cut a deal that ensured the three hundred foot statue of Steve Perry would play the same heinous elevator music that played in Purgatory. Permanently. Mother Nature had no real clue what I was babbling about, but promised to make my wish come true. Of course I had to agree to a month of pole dancing classes with her, but it would be totally worth it.

My couch was toast, Satan would be furious and I was going to hump a pole with my grandmother. All was good in my world. But most importantly, I knew how the book would end.

I was going to give my uncle love. Real love, whether he wanted it or not. And you know what? I think he does secretly want it.

So Shelia, there it is.

I want Uncle Fucker to have what I have—well, not exactly. That wouldn’t work. But he should have someone—someone just as rude and appalling as he is so he can have a happily Hellish ever after.

I need to write now. This is going to take a while because I have to use my own brain instead of just jotting down the horrifying escapades of the Devil. I want Satan to ride off on a white, or possibly black, stallion named Ken… or Jarvis.

Tonight I’ll leave you next to a bunch of other books just in case you get lonely when I’m not here. As a little girl, I used to make sure all my stuffed animals were sitting together when I had to leave them to go to school. I also used to cover them with paper towels so they wouldn’t get cold in the winter. Pissed my evil mother off like nobody’s business, but everything pissed that freakin’ woman off.

I’m sad this is our second to last night together. I’ll miss you and I’m going to miss my time with Uncle Fucker even as destructive and as horrifying as it’s been. However, it’s probably good I won’t see him for a bit. I’m quite sure the elevator music isn’t going to go over well.

Tough shit. I loved that damned couch.

Have a good sleep. I’ll leave you next to my copy of A Wrinkle in Time. It’s one of my favorites. I’m going to read it to Samuel soon.

xoxo Astrid

Friday

Oh. My. Hell.

Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night…

Here it is, Shelia—the end of the book. I have no clue if Satan will ever read it. Part of me hopes he does and part of me hopes he doesn’t.

The first part of the ending of the story is the truth of how a fallen Angel came to be the Lord of Darkness. It’s from Satan’s own lips. A note was delivered to me by a buzzard late last night. That almost ended up culminating in a bloody clusterfuck. No one was quite sure why an enormous buzzard was flying through the mansion during our sacred Finding Bigfoot TV time. Ethan was ready to behead the ugly thing when our son, Samuel, stopped him. The buzzard dropped the note in my lap along with some truly nasty buzzard poop and then cuddled with our son for a brief moment.

I suspected the buzzard was Satan in disguise. However, I was truly convinced that it had been Uncle Fucker when I went back to the office and realized all the office supplies were gone. He’d clearly come back for his ill-gotten booty.

Honestly, I was glad he was in buzzard form. I figured getting pooped on was retribution for the elevator music. If he’d been in human form, I could have lost all the furniture in the Cressida House.

So Shelia, I’ve used the note verbatim in the ending of the book. It’s mesmerizing. Unfortunately it was also covered in buzzard poop. Again, I was sad I couldn’t hurl, but whatever.

The fictional part is at the end… from my own warped mind and loving heart. Truth is always stranger than fiction, but it would be all kinds of awesome if my fictitious wishes for my uncle were to come true.

You feel me, Shelia?

The sun rises. The sun sets. And the Earth still spins in shock on its tilted axis in reaction to the day that darkness was forever catapulted from the Heavens.

The battle was epic and the craters left behind eventually became the oceans. In its sheer violence, the bloody clash created mind-boggling mountain ranges and lush vistas that would eventually leave man breathless with awe. Beauty created in fury and rage is still beauty.

Or is it…

In the beginning there were two Angels bound by blood. One was created to lord over the light and one the dark. However, Fate had a devastatingly destructive sense of humor and had not made the destiny of these divine beings clear.

The irony of this injustice was not lost on the angelic brothers, but they were connected by a love so great no one believed their fierce loyalty could be severed.

They were wrong—very wrong. For only one was meant for goodness and light.

One brother eventually emerged as the victor. He would be revered and adored. Always.

The other would fall from grace in a spectacular tumble from the Heavens that tore a rift between the brothers for eternity.

So one Angel came to rule the light. He was good, kind, and righteous. This Angel had wings of gold and was beloved by all.

The other lived in the darkness. His wings were as coal black as his soul and he was feared by every living creature. This particular Angel was thought of as evil personified. However, to know true evil, one must have first experienced grace…

Lucifer had known grace. Lucifer knew evil. But most of all, Lucifer knew how to have an outstanding time doing outrageously bad things.

Fate was a bitch, but she usually got it right.

So Shelia… that was the truth. Here’s the fiction. Or maybe it will become the truth. One can only hope. I’m gonna be hoping like Hell.

Then one glorious day amongst the many that faded into each other with their never ending monotony, something rare and beautiful happened to the Angel of Darkness.

He fought it with everything he had because he didn’t believe he deserved it. However, Fate knew differently.

The Angel of Darkness was certain he had no soul and that his heart was dead… but he was wrong. He was very wrong indeed. Every heart and every soul has a perfect match somewhere and he was about to meet his.

The woman was as fair as he was dark. She was equal in physical beauty and could lie, cheat and steal with a panache that made the Devil seem like an amateur. Their meeting would be fiery and this fire would also be their salvation. Her love for him would surpass reason and rhyme and she would trade her existence for his in a heartbeat—as he would for her.

Both of the lovers bore scars from lives filled with violence, pain and sin, but both had tried to change their ways. Fate seemed to have waited until the Dark Angel and the woman were ready for each other.

The journey would not be an easy one for these very naughty star crossed lovers—but nothing worthwhile was ever simple or neat—or in their case, filled with fire and passion.

They would come together and be torn apart many times in this immortal lifetime, but they would always find their way back to each other because two wrongs can make a very good right.

Time, for the Dark Angel, was now something to look forward to, not something to simply pass.

Good things can happen to very bad people—especially when the bad people involved aren’t quite as evil as they’ve lead the world to believe.

So in the end, there is a happily ever after for even the most unexpected. It makes life worth living and makes one who has all the time in the world wish for more. Because being with the one who was meant for you is the most magical gift one can receive.

Pretty sure they didn’t ride off together on a black stallion named Buzzard Poop or Scary Spice or Carlos. However, I’d lay money down that they probably drove into the sunset in a cherry red Ferrari LaFerrari Aperta and lived happily, yet illegally, ever after.

So there you have it, Shelia.

I gave Satan his own, slightly left of center, happily ever after. Take good care of yourself. I should probably burn you so no one ever finds you, but I can’t bring myself to do that. You mean a lot to me. Helping me get through this last month couldn’t have been an easy job even for a book.

Thank you. Instead of burning you, I’ll hide you in my closet. No one goes in there. I’d have their ass in a sling if they did.

I’ll leave you with a blanket and a tiny pillow and I’ll let you keep my copy of A Wrinkle in Time. I can get a new one for Samuel.

Till we meet again and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll kill you.

xoxo Astrid

Epilogue

Dear Astrid,

It was a dark and stormy night…

I hope you’re seated. And before you get your designer panties in a wad, just know that I will never betray your confidence. However, all bets are off if you try to kill me.

My given name is The Fru Fru—which completely sucks. My mother was a dumbass. Not murderous like yours, but a total jackhole nonetheless. I’m a cursed Fairy that has to live in inanimate objects for twelve hundred-ish years because I had a horrid little habit of bitch slapping the wrong people—a lot.

I’m going to go by The Shelia now. I like it and it fits me. My mother can bite my ass.

I’d like to address a few of your alarming questions slash observations. You had a lot, which is an understatement, but since I’m polite I’ll leave it at a lot. You’re welcome.

I’d first like to point out that you have an unhealthy obsession with threatening death. You should work on that along with cleaning up your poop language. Just a suggestion. However, using the word fuck as a noun, verb, pronoun and adjective is wildly impressive. I’d like to congratulate you on that.

Yes, your uncle does secretly like being called Uncle Fucker. I saw him grin with delight when you weren’t looking. Keep up the good work. If you want to vary your endearments try Uncle Fester. That would be hilarious.

You could have easily gotten out of writing your uncle’s autobiography, but then I wouldn’t have had this bizarre and wonderfully strange month with you. Cheating at cards is easy. Tape twelve aces under the table before you play and then yell, ‘What the ever lovin’ fuck?’ while pointing across the room at an invisible object when you’re losing. You can quickly retrieve the cards when everyone is looking the other way. This works. I know. It’s what Uncle Fucker did to you. He also marks the cards. That is time consuming. I’d go with taping cards under the table.

I kind of like starting each chapter with ‘It was a dark and stormy night’. It’s fabulously redundant. And just so you know, the book will sell millions. I know… it’s a dreadful book. Doesn’t matter. I, too read Fifty Shades of Gray. ʼNuff said.

Yes, Satan will now be wildly popular with feminists for regularly sending that fat royal bastard to the guillotine. As a feminist myself—albeit a very horny feminist who worships male genitalia—I find the beheading Henry the Eighth very arousing. Also, I did take you up on your offer to read about the Elizabethan orgy—and I threw up. Gross is an understatement. I’m truly sorry you can’t puke. I hurled in your honor. It was awesome.

Don’t kill me.

You are correct. Your closet is incredible. I took the Birkin bag with me. I’ll return it in about six hundred years.

Again—don’t kill me.

Thanks for the heads up on the Basement of Hell. Giant fucking infernos are not my thing.

Being stuck as an inanimate object, I haven’t gotten laid in centuries. When the damned curse is lifted I shall make up for lost time. Returning to my natural form of a Fairy with extremely loose morals is appealing at this point. I will be back to borrow your black stiletto Prada boots when the time comes. Pretty sure they will get me laid.

And congrats, you totally got me on the Twilight thing you did! I was so curious after our one sided conversation that I watched the movies on your laptop so don’t be surprised when you see your bill. They sucked. I certainly hope the books are better. They usually are in my humble Fairy opinion.

As far as killing family members goes, I can’t promise you anything. My assmunch fourth cousin on my mother’s side put this curse on me. I’ll be gunning for her ass in a thousand years or so.

Umm… Not sure what to say about your secret Bigfoot fantasy other than I laughed harder and longer than Uncle Fucker. You are one warped dead girl. And I too thought Strange Wilderness was hilarious. I’m a huge Steve Zahn fan. I plan to do him till his eyes cross when my curse is lifted. I hear he’s a Phoenix. They’re supposed to be really good in bed.

Your son is adorable. I could eat him up, but I wouldn’t do that because I’m not a cannibal or Elizabeth Bathory—she was certainly a sick whack job. Glad to hear she has to eat herself. Turn about is always fair play when dealing with the batshit crazy. And I dated Tinky Winky. He is not gay—trust me on that. Those Telly Tubbies can go for weeks without stopping. Weeks.

For your information I do know Unicorns exist. I dated one for eighty-three years and twelve days—but not Steve Perry. They’re very sensitive and suck in bed. If you repeat that I’ll deny it. But I will say even though I’m no longer into guys with horns, I’d probably give Steve Perry a shot. I like his mom jeans and his midriff shirts.

I feel you about the contracts. I signed a whopper without reading it and now I’m stuck as an inanimate freakin’ object for twelve hundred years. I thought I was signing up for a new cell phone plan. What the ever lovin’ fuck? Right?

I’m still unclear if Mavis Beacon is real or fictional. I’d be pleased to rip her a new ass for you when my curse has been lifted. This past month in your warped company has been the most fun I’ve had in centuries and I want to do something nice for you. If this dastardly woman is real please trap her and put her in a cell for the next thousand years and then I will take care of her free of charge. You’re welcome.

And I have to say I really thought you won in the useless contest with your Uncle Fucker. I’m still laughing and completely grossed out by as useless as a fart in a space suit. However, I should point out I have the humor maturity level of a fourth grade human boy even though I’m four thousand years old. So take my congratulations with a grain of salt… or a bag of poop… or a big fat hairy butt. Your choice.

As far as Satan’s staying power in the boudoir, I found it riveting. I read it sixty-nine times. Chalk that up to the fact I haven’t gotten laid in a few centuries.

On to the pen names… Blade Inferno is totally a male stripper name. I love it. As for you… I’d go with Darynda Moans—but then again my judgment might be swayed by the fact I’m horny. However, I must admit that a book by Blade Inferno ghost written by Darynda Moans would probably make a very good porno movie. Just a thought.

I’d also like to put in dibs on your sister Tiara. I need to find a Fairy to be a Fairy Godmother to and she sounds perfect. Violent and profane are attributes I admire—which is probably why I like you so much. Since Tiara’s a lesbian we won’t be competing for men. I won’t have to bitch slap her and that will work for me. Let her know I will look her up in a thousand years.

Noah’s Ark is one I’ll have nightmares about. Thank you. You suck. That’s all I have to say on that one.

I’m glad you train with The Kev. What I’m going to tell you now might shock you so sit your ass down. The Kev is my brother. He tried to save me from my inanimate punishment, but alas it was my own fucking fault for not reading the fine print of what I thought was a steal of a deal on a cell phone plan. The Kev is a wonderful person and I love him dearly. You can tell him this and let him know I owe him dinner in about a thousand years. I can’t cook, so I figured I’d take him to that hamburger joint you talked about… Humphrey’s Hamburger House. I’d like to try that rabbit turn ice you spoke so fondly of.

As for visiting your ice cream island, I’m in. And just so you know, I can make that happen. You’re going to have to get someone else to give you dispensation to eat since you’re dead, but I think your grandmother, Mother Nature, can do that. I’d also like to clearly state, I’m not going to have sex with you—you’re not my type—but I can make you a food island with a blink of my eye. Put it on your calendar for about a ten centuries from now.

Moving on, I’d like to address the living forever conundrum. I’ve been around for about 4000 years. And while I have to spend the next fucking thousand inside inanimate objects I still say life is good. It’s what you make of it. Now some would say I’ve made a mess of mine, but I’ve enjoyed the Hell out of it and you should too. Just refrain from bitch slapping the wrong Fairy. It doesn’t end well. Trust me on this.

Thank you for leaving me with A Wrinkle in Time, while it wasn’t as satisfying as getting laid, it is indeed a wonderful book. Your thoughtfulness is greatly appreciated and will be repaid when I get the fucking curse lifted.

Astrid, the end of the book was perfection. Don’t be surprised if it all comes true. Good things do indeed happen to bad people—especially those who aren’t as bad as they want you to believe. Furthermore, don’t be shocked if this alarming tome becomes a movie. I know, you think I’m batshit crazy, but I watched Fifty Shades of Gray on your laptop and… well, you get my drift.

I won’t be staying in your closet for the next thousand years so your secrets are safe. I’m thinking about becoming a bed at a brothel for a while. It might subdue some of my horniness—or not. I’ll let you know how that works out when we meet someday.

I will miss you and your warped mind and your potty mouth.

Take care of yourself, your mate and your beautiful son. Life is good. All of it is precious even when you live for eternity.

Oh, and ask The Kev to find out if The Dave has a mate. I’m hoping that hot piece of ass is still available when I get sprung from my inanimate Hell. That Fairy is all kinds of sexy and all kinds of mine.

Be good my friend or I’ll have to kill you.

Just kidding. I’m not into bloodshed except for maybe offing my fourth cousin on my mother’s side and anyone who thinks they can have The Dave.

xoxo Shelia

Get Your Next Satan Fix!

The next book in The Hot Damned series is now available for Pre-Order!!!

Coming to an e-reader near you—March 12, 2018.

Pre-Order your copy of Fashionably Forever After!

Note From the Author

Thank you for reading A Fashionably Dead Diary!

If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a positive review or rating on the site where you purchased it. Reader reviews help my books continue to be valued by resellers and help new readers make decisions about reading them. You are the reason I write these stories and I sincerely appreciate each of you!

Many thanks for your support,

~ Robyn Peterman

Want to hear about my new releases?

Sign-up for my newsletter to be notified.

Book Lists

(in correct reading order)

HOT DAMNED SERIES

Fashionably Dead

Fashionably Dead Down Under

Hell on Heels

Fashionably Dead in Diapers

A Fashionably Dead Christmas

Fashionably Hotter Than Hell

Fashionably Dead And Wed

Fashionable Fanged

Fashionably Flawed

A Fashionably Dead Diary

Fashionably Ever After

SHIFT HAPPENS SERIES

Ready to Were

Some Were in Time

No Were To Run

Were Me Out

MAGIC AND MAYHEM SERIES

Switching Hour

Witch Glitch

A Witch In Time

Magically Delicious

A Tale Of Two Witches

HANDCUFFS AND HAPPILY EVER AFTERS SERIES

How Hard Can it Be?

Size Matters

Cop a Feel

If after reading all the above you are still wanting more adventure and zany fun, read Pirate Dave and His Randy Adventures, the romance novel budding novelist Rena was helping wicked Evangeline write in How Hard Can It Be?

Warning: Pirate Dave Contains Romance Satire, Spoofing, and Pirates with Two Pork Swords.

About the Author

Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won’t leave her alone until she gives them life on paper.

Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke Zero Cherry with extra ice in a Styrofoam cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her super hot hubby and collecting stray animals.

A former professional actress with Broadway, film and TV credits, she now lives in the South with her family and too many animals to count.

Writing gives her peace and makes her whole, plus having a job where you can work in your underpants works really well for her.

You can leave Robyn a message via the Contact Page and she’ll get back to you as soon as her bizarre life permits! She loves to hear from her fans!

Want More Info About Robyn? You can find her here…

www.robynpeterman.com
robyn@robynpeterman.com

Facebook

Twitter