Of course, men can be witches. At least, old desperate men like me can. Especially, if you’ve been ridiculed all your life for your supposedly unnatural interest in jewelry and heels.
So when supermodel Vera Brixtom decided to OD alone in her car, a few kilometers away from the party district of Ziro, it was just after sunset, count down to New Years Eve. I took it as my personal duty to escort her to my own party, and give her a fresh lease of mountain life. Kids, these days I tell you. Have no respect for the wonderful bodies that they have. And from where I stood, it looked to me like I was actually saving her. Resusciating her or whatever. Giving her some hard needed sense.
I shoved Vera off the driver’s seat. The girl was light as a feather. Her life was probably slipping away faster than I thought. I drove off without event. That’s the good thing about Ziro, the whole place didn’t give a damn if I dragged a drugged girl some place, and surgically rehabilitated her. As long as you paid for your booze and stayed away from the raves.
I was proud of my place at East Zero. It was small, quaint and well-decorated. The puppets looked comfortable hung up on the clothing line, and I had terracotta for all the frog-legs, yak horns, chicken feet, etcetra. A clean aquarium for the frogs, and even my own chicken farm. “Witches have lives too, Vera” I said, “And don’t you love how clean all this is, darling,” . Yes, I was getting pally with her. She had such a blissful expression, like her drugged sleep was totally nightmare free.
“I’d have loved to serve you some tea, but we must be getting along, darling” I told her, as I dropped her on the kitchen slab. I was kinda excited. I never had guests over. At least not live ones. “This here is kinda my surgery ward,” I told Vera, “None of that makeshift shacks that would give you tetanus, for whatever else you want treated. Best in Arunachal, I would say. Where all the magic happens. I mean, black magic, is such a fine art, Vera.” I turned on the stove to heat the MAGIC BREWS ready-to-mix solution and proceeded to take off Vera’s clothes.
I hung it all up besides the puppets, talking all the while. “I mean, if you overlook all the chicken blood and the bad fashion sense of the practitioners, its an art form, Black Magic. A stream of science, a kind of philosophical transcendence.” I drew in a sharp breath as I perused Vera’s body. There would be no talking now. Oh my, that that was some poetic body. I would have to stop myself from compulisively jerking off mid-surgery, the bloody hard-on would be like a third appendage, getting in the way. Those breasts, oh god, they lay there like bubbly giant melons.
“Here goes,” I whispered to Vera, “I promise not to to ruin these lovelies” The cut, I made, was through her breast bone, down till her belly button. The heart was still pounding, thank the virgin mother, and I stared at the beauty that was a beating heart, pulsing, as if gasping for breath, desperate to stay alive. I pulled it out gently, whispering to it, dipped it in the solution that was steaming now. The solution was a mix of secret ingredients that I cannot reveal for ethical and aesthetic reasons. Tearing open my own chest was the easier part. I know, it sounds scary. But I had done it so many times now, I kept my chest buttoned up, and my heart in place with a nice pair of clothing pegs. Really, there can be no better magical equipment than sewing needles, clothing pegs and thread. Part of the reason why men don’t aspire much for a career in witchcraft. All that sewing and washing and knitting.
It was only a matter of a few hours now. I stripped myself down, and lay beside her, like a lover, spooning her, me the bigger spoon, my hands cupping her body. And then we slept the whole night away.
When I woke up the next morning, I was Vera. The first thing I did was hurriedly put on her clothes. I felt giddish, my hands trembling, as I slipped into her cheeky denim skirt, tied the shirt over my belly, the lacy bra, the thong-like underwear, and most of all, those god-awesome heels. Its what had attracted me to Vera. Those perfect, heel-worthy legs. Damn, when I looked at the mirror, I almost wolf-shistled at myself. No, no, I was a dainty lady now. Vera’s car was parked out. I helped myself in, and drove all the way back to party. The morning was a sleepy one, most of the shops were closed. And the party zone was deserted, everyone in their tents. The security and bouncers didn’t seem to care less.
“Vera, where have you been!” came the shout from behind. I turned around and gasped as I found myself gritting my teeth at the slurps and the suffocating kisses that were being heaped on me. I decided that if Vera’s OD waas intentional, here was the reason. “I missed you so much, darling!” came the loud growl and the accompanying mouth wind that was smelled worse than dried yak stew. I detached myself from the landslide that had collapsed over me, and perused it. “I need a beer, teddy,” I informed the rich fart that Vera was into, in what I assumed was the right term of endearment for something that looked like that. He scuttled away. The magic would wash away in twenty four hours. Twenty four hours to accomplish what I wanted. If I knew what that was.