Read Online Haunting Leigh: A Paranormal Romantic Comedy (Literal Leigh Romance Diaries Book 4) by Melanie James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melanie James
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any sign of the Kovacs. I really wasn’t too worried about the crowd itself. My fear was that I’d never find the Kovacs with only the moonlight to illuminate the faces of the spaced out eclipse worshippers.
“Excuse me. Excuse me, I hate to interrupt your…” What was this anyway? A worship service? A cult ritual? I decided on the word festival as it seemed appropriate. “I hate to interrupt your moon festival, but I’m looking for the Kovacs. Has anyone seen the Kovacs? If you see the Kovacs, please send them up here to me.”
The noise immediately changed tone. The racket from the instruments suddenly became feverish and excited. The crowd began to howl out some weird bacchanalian cry that I didn’t understand. What the hell did I do? My thoughts wondered. Did my sudden appearance to the crowd—which had likely just participated in some weird communal peyote ritual—frighten them? I hated to think that I transformed the peace loving partiers into a demonic mob.
Beyond the crowd, there was a cluster of tents. A large, very sweaty middle aged man climbed on top of a heavy wooden table. He wore a silky green robe patterned with Mayan influenced images and he had an absurdly large headdress festooned with wildly dyed feathers. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that same costume on pictures of Rio’s Carnival dancers. Only, I seriously doubt those dancers would have their robe open to display what he had to show off—a huge, sagging, globular, furry belly. Despite his flabby physique, his impressive outfit and commanding presence made it obvious that he was the Grand Poobah of these Moose Lodge washouts.
The crowd had noticed that Grand Poobah had taken to his stage. They murmured and turned towards him. He had a large staff, like a shepherds crook. I instantly recognized it as the same kind used by the guys that dress as Saint Patrick for the big parades in Chicago. He slammed the base of it down in an attention grabbing move and it made a loud thud. The crowd went completely silent as he instantaneously threw his hands out and screamed out a weird phrase. “Aye aye oh oh aye ya.” He commenced to hop around on the table like a giant green chicken trying to hop on one leg. His cape flew about and his feathers bounced around like they themselves were enjoying their own bizarre dance.
A scantily clad woman in a gold toga stood next to his stage. She threw her hands up in an obvious display of confusion at the Grand Poobah’s order, and I could see her mouth moving as she uttered a word. “What?”
He fiercely shouted, “Mutha! Fucka!”
The crowd repeated his singular words of prayer in unison, “Mutha! Fucka!”
“No, fuckheads! My fucking foot! I just ripped off my goddamned fucking toenail you idiots! Look at it! Jesus Christ! God! With this piece of shit staff your brother gave me!” He lifted up the staff and showed the bloodied shaft to the gold toga clad woman. It was obvious he had slammed the pointy wooden end right through the bed of his toenail. He must have ripped that little sucker right out of the meat of his toe when he pulled the staff back up. The Grand Poobah was overwhelmed by the excruciating pain of having just performed a crude self-administered toenailectomy—with a splintery wooden pole no less. He doubled over until he dropped to his knees. “Oh! Aye oh um fuck, fuck.”
The crowd genuflected en masse as they copied their leader’s movement. Grand Poobah heard the shuffling sound of the crowd and he lifted his head up. Through eyes squinting from pain, he could see the flock kneeling just like him. “Fucking idiots!” He shouted at them.
Toga woman ran to a tent and returned with a first aid kit. In short order, she dressed his wound. Grand Poobah returned to his position of authority and pointed his staff toward me. “The Moon Goddess has sent her daughter! Daughter of the Blood Moon, what is your name? What do you seek from us?”
“Hello...your honor.” I didn’t
“Excuse me. Excuse me, I hate to interrupt your…” What was this anyway? A worship service? A cult ritual? I decided on the word festival as it seemed appropriate. “I hate to interrupt your moon festival, but I’m looking for the Kovacs. Has anyone seen the Kovacs? If you see the Kovacs, please send them up here to me.”
The noise immediately changed tone. The racket from the instruments suddenly became feverish and excited. The crowd began to howl out some weird bacchanalian cry that I didn’t understand. What the hell did I do? My thoughts wondered. Did my sudden appearance to the crowd—which had likely just participated in some weird communal peyote ritual—frighten them? I hated to think that I transformed the peace loving partiers into a demonic mob.
Beyond the crowd, there was a cluster of tents. A large, very sweaty middle aged man climbed on top of a heavy wooden table. He wore a silky green robe patterned with Mayan influenced images and he had an absurdly large headdress festooned with wildly dyed feathers. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that same costume on pictures of Rio’s Carnival dancers. Only, I seriously doubt those dancers would have their robe open to display what he had to show off—a huge, sagging, globular, furry belly. Despite his flabby physique, his impressive outfit and commanding presence made it obvious that he was the Grand Poobah of these Moose Lodge washouts.
The crowd had noticed that Grand Poobah had taken to his stage. They murmured and turned towards him. He had a large staff, like a shepherds crook. I instantly recognized it as the same kind used by the guys that dress as Saint Patrick for the big parades in Chicago. He slammed the base of it down in an attention grabbing move and it made a loud thud. The crowd went completely silent as he instantaneously threw his hands out and screamed out a weird phrase. “Aye aye oh oh aye ya.” He commenced to hop around on the table like a giant green chicken trying to hop on one leg. His cape flew about and his feathers bounced around like they themselves were enjoying their own bizarre dance.
A scantily clad woman in a gold toga stood next to his stage. She threw her hands up in an obvious display of confusion at the Grand Poobah’s order, and I could see her mouth moving as she uttered a word. “What?”
He fiercely shouted, “Mutha! Fucka!”
The crowd repeated his singular words of prayer in unison, “Mutha! Fucka!”
“No, fuckheads! My fucking foot! I just ripped off my goddamned fucking toenail you idiots! Look at it! Jesus Christ! God! With this piece of shit staff your brother gave me!” He lifted up the staff and showed the bloodied shaft to the gold toga clad woman. It was obvious he had slammed the pointy wooden end right through the bed of his toenail. He must have ripped that little sucker right out of the meat of his toe when he pulled the staff back up. The Grand Poobah was overwhelmed by the excruciating pain of having just performed a crude self-administered toenailectomy—with a splintery wooden pole no less. He doubled over until he dropped to his knees. “Oh! Aye oh um fuck, fuck.”
The crowd genuflected en masse as they copied their leader’s movement. Grand Poobah heard the shuffling sound of the crowd and he lifted his head up. Through eyes squinting from pain, he could see the flock kneeling just like him. “Fucking idiots!” He shouted at them.
Toga woman ran to a tent and returned with a first aid kit. In short order, she dressed his wound. Grand Poobah returned to his position of authority and pointed his staff toward me. “The Moon Goddess has sent her daughter! Daughter of the Blood Moon, what is your name? What do you seek from us?”
“Hello...your honor.” I didn’t
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