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How motivational.

Anyway, as soon as Lily spots the vacation hut in the distance, Every slows his trot to a stop and shakes her off his furry back before using another total of five minutes to morph back into a human from his brown bear form.

“Shit, I’m naked,” the former bear announces. He, with the help of his girlfriend, then scavenge the area for wearable materials before discovering a knockoff slogan shirt of Nirvana and some spandex swim trunks two sizes too small for him.

Both stink of weed.

“Looks like my Armani suit, multi-million heirloom watch, and handmade Italian loafers are gone for good.” He shrugs.

“Not good,” Lily disagrees, “for bad.”

“But at least my hair is still intact.”

“You’re wearing a wig?” Lily gasps, feigning surprise for a more dramatic scene, and completely changing the subject.

“Of course not. I meant the gel. My gelled hair.”

“Oh,” Lily mutters, sounding horribly dumb, like a girl who can’t just mind her own business and is now facing the ugly consequences of her actions.

Wait, this ain’t making any sense.



It sure comes as a shock to Lily that the interior of the hut, unlike the beach-vibe paradise architecture of the exterior, is one unkempt mess of hoarded belongings which look very much like they once belonged in the landfill outside.

In the dirty hut—again, emphasize on the dirtiness—that’s more cobwebbed than her attic bedroom, Lily spots an old crone and an equally ugly ghoulish guy smoking cigarettes together. They both lounge on faded rainbow-striped recliners, as if they are roleplaying as the trailer park king and queen.

Upon seeing Every, the ghoulish guy smiles. “Ah, Ev, my man. Ya want a beer? Ma’ Elma got a couple o’ good ole Buds in the cooler. Nah? Kids these days sure love their Jack Daniels. Stronger, they say.”

“That’s Elma and her spouse, Elmo, the ancient gatekeepers,” Every proudly presents the two seniors to his new girl.

“Wow, you guys really are ancient,” Lily comments.

Elma, the old crone mentioned above, studies Lily Lystra Limponica carefully, and after a beat, she opens her wisdom-filled mouth. “Bitch, you look uglier than dog shit.”

Lily starts to cry.

The old hag laughs.

He-he-he.

Her hubby also cackles along.

She-she-she.

As Lily gets a hold of herself and ceases her sorrow-laden weeping, a rat scurries from under a dusty pink go-kart in the corner. Its two friends, also fat rats, whiz after it.

“Fucking freaks,” Lily mutters, tears still in her eyes. She pulls a face identical to a disgusted child’s, giving herself a slight double chin.

Actually, she doesn’t. As the heroine, it is a must that she remains perfect at all times—her demeanor, her countenance, her posture, as graceful as a Regency-era mistress. Or a governor or widowed duchess or even a twenty-something spinster, common tropes for fictional historical heroines.

So no double chin for her, not even a slight one.

Elmo, the pseudo trailer park king whose name sounds strikingly familiar, quite similar to a certain childhood cartoon character, pipes up. “Ya know, they’ve been lots o’ rats down ’ere lately. Dunno wha’ caused ’em.”

“Rats?” Every gasps. “Well, looks like the mouse king strikes again.”

“Nah,” Elmo—who lives in a fucking dump yard and not one hundred twenty-three Sesame Street—answers, “could be just wild rats, ma’ man. Ain’t everythin’ got to do with tha’ bastard.”