"Oooooh, such a nice place, a lovely place. Marjorie, do you think this is a nice place? Cousin Blue lives in such a nice place. Cousin Blue let Salad Fingers live in that lovely place though he didn't want to. With Glassmother. And Glassbrother. Family is family. Hubert, do you think Cousin Blue lives here?"

Salad fingers rose through the mirror-still surface of a puddle, studying the big new house made to look like an old one which loomed over him, two of his best friends staring up at it with him from the grotesque remains of what had once been his hands. (Jeremy Fisher had a hair appointment and couldn't make it.)

He ached all over.

Even more than usual.

That was because the tall man in black had kicked him.

Hard.

The tall man in black did not like failure.

Salad Fingers had failed him.

Oh dear, not good. Not good at all.

While the raven laughed, the tall man in black kicked Salad Fingers over and over again, leaving him face-down in the muck, before walking away, complaining about getting something nasty on his gleaming snakeskin boots.

No room for failure this time. Should Salad Fingers fail again, the tall man in black would kill him.

Salad fingers and his friends faded back into the safety of the trenches, of the Liminal, having taken a good recon of the house and grounds, to scheme and plan, tempted to fail.

On purpose.

God, did Uncle Mike REALLY have to drag her along on his latest shitty demolition job for Wolf and Sons?

Probably thought she'd run away or burn down the shitty little house the Steins let them live in or some shit or other.

Burn it down? Fuck yeah!

Still, running away DID have its appeal… with or without arson. Only Puck would have to fend for herself. Fending for herself was the last thing Puck wanted, unless she could convince kiss-ass Maggie and crybaby Josie to go with her to Portland. No, Seattle.

Seattle was cooler and paid better. Maggie could BJ rich perverts while Josie did the gross ones - way better than working at Daisy's by a long shot… yeah, Seattle. There was a stretch of road out by Seattle's big airport where you could strut your stuff, make big bucks… Mom was right. Why work when you can get other people to work for— "Huh?"

"We're here." Uncle Mike killed the engine of the big contractor's truck with Wolf and Sons on the door. His voice was flat, and he didn't look at her, instead choosing to stare over the steering wheel and the hood of the borrowed vehicle, huge paw-like hands gripping the wheel.

Maybe Puck'd get Uncle Mike to come with them – he'd be off to one side just out of sight and if some John gave them refused to pay, he'd beat the crap outta THEM. Yeah, and they'd leave that bossy bitch Raina behind – things got shot to shit when Raina crashed the party. She could stay behind and take care of Jeremy the retard. Better yet, Raina could fly her helicopter up her own boring ass and do everyone a favor. Yeah, only take Uncle Mike and the other two… things would go back to normal… she'd make money… not have to fuck around with work... "Huh?"

"I said, you are here to work, not fuck around. You will keep your mouth to shut because we need the money after your latest spending spree. Understand?"

Great, Puck looked out the window on her side so Uncle Mike wouldn't see her roll her eyes. Uncle Mike's using his COP voice. Salem really fucked Uncle Mike up. Made him responsible. Made him care what other people thought…

"I SAID, do you understand?"

Puck blinked and turned to stare at her uncle; train of thought derailed. "Yeah."

"Then let's do this."

Sullenly, the cat-girl climbed down from her side of the cab beside a rusted out stake-bed half-ton Ford which looked wayyyyy out of place in front of the pretentious McMansion that looked like the architect had swiped the design from the cover of one of her long dead mother's beloved shoplifted grocery store romances – minus the greased up shirtless hunk drooling over some bitch in a ripped bodice.

A faux Irish castle. How fuckin' original.

Puck stretched, the tip of her tail twitching in irritation.

Her nostrils flared: Lake Augua Clara smelled interesting.

Like fish sticks.

Or dirty underpants.

And mud.

"Yo, Schmidt!" Two large, disheveled-looking young men leaned against the skeezy truck loaded with construction supplies with big ol' cheesy grins plastered across their faces. One looked like he was about to jump off of hipster and into conventionally attractive Old Spice commercial lumberjack, while the other was wearing… a trench coat?

Puck studied them intently, one ear up, the other cocked back.

Nobody wears trench coats these days. They're like fedoras or fake glasses, hipster staples of ironic-ness overused to the point of pointlessness. Or Reddit Nice Guys (Ew, neckbeard much?). Grosser than some boojie poser with a beard pretending to be original! Puck blinked, a new thought striking her. Maybe they were school shooters.

Yeah, school shooters – LOOOOOOSERS! Puck caught this new thought before it came out of her mouth for real in front of Uncle Mike. Mr. Wolf must have raided the downtown homeless shelter for these two!

Lumberjack straightened, tossing Uncle Mike a sloppy, Benny Hill style salute. Trenchcoat echoing him with, "Mumblemumble…mumble…yo, Offisa Schmidt!" He spread his arms with a moronic grin, a gesture deliberately meant to catch Lumberjack in the gut.

"Hey!" Lumberjack dinged Trenchcoat on the ear, gaining a: "Mumblemumble fuck you, asswipe!" for his troubles as he wiped his hand on his greasy Carhart work pants, only "What'd you say, motherfucker?!" and suddenly the two were scuffling, heavy work boots digging into the soft dirt and slush at the edge of the pristine asphalt of the driveway with its outline of pink granite cobbles.

"Enough!" Frowning, her uncle lumbered past them towards the big house, buckling on a toolbelt. "We got work to do. Stop fuckin' 'round!"

"Too late Uncle Mike, they gone!" Puck giggled – grudges and grand plans temporarily forgotten. Dudes whose friendships were based solely on one-upmanship were hysterical. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber paused in their struggle, snapping their heads towards Puck on their way towards the center of the driveway

"That your niece Offisa Schmidt?"

Taking advantage of Lumberjack's distraction, Trench Coat pulled a dirty move. Lumberjack responded with a sucker punch, and the tussle was on.

HOOOOOONK! HOOOOOONK!

Puck found herself staring down a delivery truck from one of the unbelievably expensive custom furniture stores in Salem manned by some greasy-looking middle-aged guy with a belly so big it pushed against the steering wheel.

HOOOOOONK! HOOOOOONK! HOOOOOONK!

"Yo, dudes!" She turned around. "DUDES! Get outta the goddam' road!"

Nothing.

HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK! "Yo, asswipes, outta my way!"

The two young men scrambled out of the path of the big truck as it rumbled past them towards the rambling faux Irish castle with its spotlit façade and pre-crumbled battlements, followed by a Barbie pink 1950 Jaguar XK-120 with Becca at the wheel and Markus riding shotgun. Mindy was in the back seat, squished between two other girls, only the little car zipped by so fast Puck couldn't be sure who they were as Markus rolled down the window, jeering "Do-meeeeeeeee-nooooo's!", Becca laughing like a hyena behind the wheel.

Ears flat, tail lashing, Puck watched them swerve around the truck in a splatter of dirty water, torn up sod, and slush before parking in one of the faux Irish castle's six car garage's bays as the larger vehicle ground to a grunting halt near the front door.

Shitty day shittier, Puck scowled, kicking at the fresh deep ruts beside the driveway, the two dumbasses who came with the truck guffawing moronically behind her.

Dropping out of the shitshow that was Merston High wasn't supposed to be like this!