Page 17

Chapter Eight

W hat in all the Realms of all The Powers That Be was happening in his kitchen?

Why did it sound like all the Denizens of Hell–not where his Mate lived but the Realm of the Underworld ruled by Lucifer Morningstar–were having a party in his home and he was the only one who hadn’t been invited?

He loved a party as much as the next guy, but why did they have to wake him?

If it wasn’t Demons, and Goblins, and Hellhounds, oh my!

then what or who was it? They definitely had stamina.

He’d been trying to ignore the chattering uproar for what seemed like forever.

Why did they have to be so Goddess be damned loud?

They had to have seen him sleeping on the floor.

After all, he was hard to miss. Nonetheless, it sounded like the Drum and Bugle Corp from Annapolis was in full swing and his brain was the bass drum.

“Surely they could keep it to a dull roar.”

Worse yet, his pleasant memory had been shattered.

The only happy dream of his One True Fated Mate had exploded into a million bits.

It was absolutely infuriating. The kind of shit that would make most men kick some serious ass and take a whole lotta names.

Instead, Hopper planned to kill whoever or whatever had disturbed his slumber then meticulously reconstruct every tiny detail of the happiest memory of his entre existence–in that order, no ifs, ands, or buts.

Oh, and he’d have to figure out what Hel was hiding in the deepest recesses of her soul…

It had been the most important discovery he’d made in a really long time.

Yes, he’d missed that very special fact all those years ago and the millions of other times he’d watched the recollection, but not on this occasion.

There was no doubt in his mind that his Mate was so much more than he’d ever imagined, and somehow, he’d find out how.

Whap! Thud! Thwap! Squuuuuiiiiishhhh! “Holy crap! Son of a motherless mongoose. Now, I’ve done it. The shit is everywhere!”

Holy crap was right! That voice sounded way too familiar to be a Demon, or a Goblin or a Hellhound, but like a whole lot of other things, Hopper was having a hard time putting a name to it.

But that wasn’t important. Some new fresh wave of Hell had exploded all over one of his favorite rooms in the Mansion, and that shit could and would not stand.

He had to wake up. Had to get his eyes open.

Had to know what was happening and put an end to it as quickly as an Omnipotent Beingly possible could.

Barely cracking open his right eye, Hopper slammed it shut as quickly and as tightly as he could, but it hurt like the dickens and then some.

It felt as if fiery arrows had slashed through the center of his pupil, travelled down his optic nerve like a race car riding the rails and landed in the very center of his brain with the force of not one, not two, but three atomic bombs.

Throwing his arm over his face, the crook of his elbow fitting perfectly over the bridge of his nose and providing a much needed darkness, he rolled to the left, away from the shine and heat of the sun’s rays, as quickly as Omnipotently possible with the mantra, ‘Do not throw up. Do not throw up. Do not throw up,’ going round and round through his mind.

Over and over he rolled, knowing that sooner or later he would reach the step leading out of his living room.

He would then tumble down onto the cool ceramic tile of the hall and be closer to the kitchen–the epicenter of what he could only assume, by the sheer magnitude of calamitous noise, was an utter disaster.

Ready to execute his ‘brilliant’ plan, Hopper came to an abrupt and agonizing stop when something thick, sharp, and unmovable made abrupt and painful contact with his gut.

It was then that he realized three very important things: (1) Yes, he was on the floor, but it was the one in his office, not the living room.

(2) The pounding in his head that sounded like Thor’s boots and those of his comrades striking the Bifrost as they ran to save the humans from yet another threat to their way of life was in fact coming from inside his head and was the sad byproduct of a massive hangover, for the second time in six weeks and not unlike what a frat boy suffered after a party following the big homecoming game.

And (3) Maybe the most important of all, his mouth was so dry that his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, thus preventing him for yelling for help.

Cautiously lowering the arm that was still wrapped over his face and perched upon his nose, he grabbed ahold of what he finally figured out was the leg of his desk with his right hand and instantly wondered why his left hand wasn’t joining the fight.

Wiggling his hips back and forth, up and down, and in tiny circles that any hula dancer would make fun of, Hopper was immediately thankful there were no hidden cameras in his home.

Had there been, videos of his impersonation of a water logged earthworm scrambling through the weeds, searching for a hole while praying to escape the hands of a Tommy or a Billy or a Sammie Jo who was looking forward to going to the creek to catch a fish big enough to tell all his friends about at school the next day would’ve been all over Ghougle in a matter of seconds.

Again and again, he tried and failed to push himself onto his back. No, he wasn’t the strongest man in the universe, but he was formidable if he did say so himself, and he was pushing with all the alcohol-soaked strength his could muster. That could only mean one thing…

Something was impeding his progress. Something was underneath him. Something was…

“Well, shit! I am not only the Grand Poohbah of the Fraternal Order of Omnipotent Idiots and Honorary Lodge 999, but I am also an idiot. It’s my other arm! My other arm is under me.” Still unable to say anything aloud other than, “Mmmmmmmmmmmm,” he did just that but also thought the words.

On some level, the mumble inside his poor abused brain, made the whole situation infinitely worse. But Hopper was nothing if not determined and resilient. One way or another, he would figure it out, and that meant he had to start at the beginning.

Apparently, he’d fallen asleep–or passed out–with the aforementioned arm tucked under his body.

Doing that drastically slowed the supply of much-needed blood rendering the appendage ‘asleep’ as the humans called it.

Talk about a ridiculous predicament. For the love of all the little Cherubs flitting around Cloud None, he was an Omnipotent Being, not a turtle or one of those hard-shelled creeping, crawling bugs who had somehow ended up on their back and was sadly unable to get themselves right side up.

“A design flaw/ All the creatures with humped backs of any kind suffered from it. We all talked to Mother Nature about the problem. Of course, She isn’t one to take suggestions or criticism.

As a matter of fact, the last time I said anything, She looked me in the eye, stated that it was all part of the plan and walked away without so much as a backward glance.

” Groaning, something he could do without the use of his tongue, and he thought, “And that is why I stopped asking Auntie Mo Nat for advice. If I can’t give it to Her, then I don’t want it from Her. ”

Still, he had to wonder, when turtles or hard-shelled creepy crawlies found themselves in such a predicament, did they pray and wish for someone to come along and roll them over?

If they did, he never got the call. So, that meant they decided to handle it in another way.

But still, he knew they had to mentally plead and yearn to be right side up for that was exactly what he was doing at that very moment.

Then, on the heels of that consideration, he thought, “I could live with not being able to turn over if my tongue wasn’t glued to the roof of my mouth. What I wouldn’t give for a cup of water. At least then I could holler for whoever’s was in the kitchen and pray they come and help a brother out.”

Come to think of it, where was Mother Nature when he needed Her the most?

With little more than a thought She could solve the most immediate of his problems, the need for water.

But She was most likely watching from the Upper Realms and laughing Her butt off at his foolishness.

After all, it was the least he deserved for being the biggest eejit in the galaxy–for the second time.

Once again, he called out, “Mmmmmmmmmm.” And once again, his mumble went no farther than his dry, chapped lips.

Not being able to get help from whoever was tearing through his kitchen was driving him batty, but at least he knew where he was and that he hadn’t lost his left arm. It was just sleeping… Like he had been… That was something, right?

Sure, but did it matter. No, No, it did not.

The time for wondering was over. He was awake.

Someone was banging and clanging around in his kitchen apparently trying to wake the dead.

And he had to go to the restroom. Another thing he and his Cousins had trained their bodies to do that he now wished they had not.

But that was a conundrum for another day.

Hopper had to move. He had to figure out how to get his lifeless arm out from under his one-hundred-and-ninety-nine pounds. He had to get upright, and he had to get to the bathroom.

Those were his immediate needs. So, he hatched, concocted, and pretty much made up as he went along a three-prong plan. All he had to do was make it happen.

First things first, get his left arm out into the light of day.