We arrived in Philadelphia several months later. It was now September 1st of the same year. What? Hades said he would give me a ride, he didn't tell me how long it would take. I'm just super grateful for the blessings the rain Gods send my way. I don't question the rain Gods and neither should you.
I walked the building the greatest minds of America were meeting in, and I threw the doors open, gently. Full of my usual grace and poise, I tripped over the carpet on my way through the doors. The room was full of sweaty, middle aged men. A personal fantasy I'm sure we've all had at one time or another. Throwing my quills over my shoulder, I walked straight over to Alexander Hamilton. He gave me a surprised look with his eyes.
"Justice? I didn't think you were coming. It's been five months." He said. I laughed, a laugh full of good natured mockery.
"You've been waiting for me for 5 months? Where do you sleep here?"
"We haven't been waiting for you, and we haven't been here for 5 months straight, we go home…" But I interrupted him by placing my pinky finger over his lips.
"Whatever. I'm here now. Let's free the mole people. Who is the leader here so that I might usurp them?"
He pointed to George Washington, who was eight foot two and must have weighed a fucking ton.
"Scratch that." I said and took my seat next to Hamilton, one of those plastic blow up chairs from the 90s that those fucking millennials won't shut up about. (Millenials are the ancient Incan war priests who will rise again about 20 years after the 1990s are well over. They will bask in copious amounts of nostalgia, go to college and use their crippling student debt as a platform to rightfully complain on social media. They will be persecuted, and the older generations will verbally drown them all in hate and blame. But in the end, they will be more tolerant and supportive of basic social rights than their predecessors. And while trying to make the world a better place for all to live in, their parents and grandparents will still try to drag them into the void of adult misery and despair. Or so the prophecy on the back of the stone outside my house said. Whatever.)
The chair was purple and fit perfectly under the table. As I sat in it, one of my quills quickly popped it and the air slowly fizzed out making a small, somber, sad, silly sound.
Several hours went by, and the mole people weren't even mentioned ONCE. They really did not know how to stay on topic. When Washington called for a recess, I jumped out from under the desk eager to ask Hamilton to push me on the swing set that must be part of the playground where our recess was . I hit my head on the table, and when I saw Hamilton, there was only pure, liquid fear in his eyes. I noticed that I had spilled his glass of water all over his lap. I looked at him, and he looked at me, then he ran away faster than I ever could have because I was wearing my flippers. Also I don't know how to run. I never got around to that certification in my childhood. Thanks for nothin MOM.)
How I odd, I thought.
"How odd." I mumbled.
"How odd." Thomas Jefferson said. I turned to him, he was right behind my body. I needed to cause a distraction. I whipped my quills over my shoulder, intending to woo Jefferson with my girlish charm, but I only whipped them across his face and he screamed as blood poured down into his mouth and stained his white shirt.
"My white shirt!" He screamed. James Madison ran over and began frantically pouring water on our future president.
"James it's going to sTAIN" Thomas screamed.
"Perfect, just the distraction I was hopping for." I whispered loudly to myself. Using my wrist sundial as a compass, I found the approximate direction in which Hamilton ran. I ran down the hallway pausing momentarily to appreciate the Spanish baroque style paintings of the apocalypse. (UGH that's my ASTHE T I C) Going as fast as I could go, a moderate to brisk walking pace, I passed a room that had the door cracked slightly open. No one was around and the room was black as the color black. The bad instincts of a teenage girl in a horror movie kicked in and I pushed the door open and quickly shut it behind me. I really was hoping to find a malignant pagan God who would rip my arm off then share beauty secrets with me.
"Justice?' a voice from the floor asked. ' Is that you?" I inhaled breathily.
"IDK,' I began. ' Am I speaking with the demon Tuchulcha?" I began to feel flustered. The flippers were the wrong choice, I realized too late. My camo galoshes would have been a better choice.
"What?' The voice responded. ' No, it's Alexander." Alexander said.
I gave a disappointed sigh before walking to the curtains and pulling them aside.
"I was looking for you." I said with an excitement level of 2.5/ 10. He wasn't convinced I was excited to see him. He was laying on the floor, underneath the ornate rug.
"Oh, were you cold? I'm sure I have some sort of spell that could help…" I began and opened the secret compartment in my hook hand that contained my emergency spell list. He looked warily at me.
"Are you a witch?" He asked me.
I scoffed.
"No, fuck you, Alexander. I resent that." I said. Idiot couldn't tell the difference between this realm's most powerful sorceress, (aka the person with the largest collection of pigeon figurines, aka third best pokemon trainer in Brazil in 1983 ) and a garden variety witch. He shook his head.
"Nevermind, I need your help." He explained. I threw a blanket over him. He violently fought the blanket, looking like an angry baby ghost before tossing it aside.
"NOT WHAT I MEANT." HE YELLED, and pulled aside the beautifully woven rococo era rug to reveal a shimmering blue fish tale.
We looked at each other.
"Dude, you're going to need some MAJOR surgery to take care of that." I said reaching for the hand powered chainsaw on the ground. He just glared at me.
"I just need to dry off." He said.
"Shit, cotton terry cloth won't be invented till 1848. And it will be in ENGLAND of all places." I rolled my eyes. Alexander looked like he wanted to cry. But he didn't. But if he did it would have been ok because men can cry. Also, I was running low on the tears of grown men and I had a vial at the ready, just in case. I used that shit in my DIY moisturizer.
"Lucky for you I have this terry cloth robe that I am willing to rub all over your shiny fish tail." I had stolen this robe from the ambassador of sweden in 1978. (Yes, I can time travel, deal with it.) I kneeled next to him and began patting his tail. He didn't look into my amber, gray, blue, orange eyes.
"I like your seashell bra." I said in an attempt to break the silence in the same way I would break an arm.
"I don't want to talk about it." He replied.
"And I respect that. Will you be naked when you're dry?"
He pushed me and I fell to the ground. What, I thought it was an important question. I had to protect his modesty. It was then, we both heard footsteps in the hallway and then he looked into my amber, gray, blue, orange eyes in fear.