“It’s Spriggan-Galchobhar. But my friends call me Sprig.” He squeezed the stuffed goat next to him, talking like a speeding train. “Pam has other pet names for me, like honey, honey biscuit, honey cake, honey bear—though I don’t like that one. Bears freak me out. Also, she calls me honey plum, honey stick…ohhh I’m hungry. Is there going to be food here? I mean it has to be breakfast time. I love the honey pancakes at Izel’s. Can we get those?”
“It’s nighttime,” Opie responded.
“Oh, good. Pancakes for dinner. And churros for dessert. And honey covered mango chips to hold me over. No bananas…I hate those. I hate that people assume, just because I look like a monkey, I’m going to like those squishy things. Death in a yellow peel. Not even if they are covered in honey. Oh, like Bhean’s honey tits. Those things produce sugar sweetness of the gods. Praise the honey tits!”
“Stuff it, monkey, or I’m gonna force another type of banana down your throat.” Cal, rubbed at his head. “Juniper crackers. I am too sober for this. There’s an open bar, right? I came on the assumption there would be juniper juice here.”
“I never said that.” Opie shook his head.
Chirp!
“No, I never said there would be mushrooms either.”
“Mushrooms? I could do those too.” Cal nodded his head.
“All egits.” Grimmel, the raven squawked, looking down at the sub-fae and sub-minds around him.
“Can we get back to why we are here.” Opie stomped his foot in a huff, his needle dress flaring up angrily with the movement. “Let’s finish roll call.”
“There’s six of us! Look around we’re all here.” Cal tossed his arm out.
“Seven. You can’t forget Pam.” Sprig wiggled her around. “She gets very upset when she’s left out. Gives me the silent treatment for days.”
“Wish you would,” Cal muttered, his hands patting down his pockets, yanking out a tiny barbie-size flask. “Oh look! Now this is nectar of the gods!” He slugged down a gulp.
“Okay, back to the play. This is my first directorial debut. I will also be doing costumes, casting, and well everything. Today I wanted to start casting. First we need a Scrooge—”
“Screw-uge?” Sprig blinked. “Is this going to be like those Spanish soap operas I like?”
“Scrooge.” Simmons mechanical wings kept him hovering in the air. “It’s his name, but it’s become synonymous with uptight, mean, and a curmudgeon.”
“Oh, you mean a Viking!” Sprig’s eyes went wide. “I got one of those. Ryker is totally one of these Screw-agers then.”
“No. It’s pronounced Scrooge.” Simmons huffed, lowering himself closer to the ground.
“That’s what I said. Screw-ge. He certainly does that a lot with Bhean.”
“Have you never read or watched The Christmas Carol?” Simmons exclaimed.
“Who’s Carol? If I don’t know her, why would I watch her?” Sprig tipped his head.
“Not Carol, but carol. Like a song.”
“Carol sings? Does she have a pretty voice?”
“She is the song! I mean her name also means hymn.”
“So, you know Carol?”
Simmons’s face turned a deep red, frustration bringing him toward the ground for a landing, though his robotic wings kept moving, even as his feet touched the floor.
“Ahhhhh!!” Simmons’s skidded across the stage.
“Take your thumb off the button, Simmons!” Cal yelled at his friend. Cringing, he saw Simmons go headfirst over the stage, landing in the orchestra pit with a crash. Cal shook his head and continued drinking.
“Surrounded. Dimwits.” Grimmel fluffed his feathers.
Chirp! Bitzy nodded along with the raven, both of them feeling they were surrounded by less superior beings.
“Think we found our Tiny Tim.” Opie scribbled down on his notepad.
“Wh-wh-what?” Simmons climbed out of the pit, pulling at his 1960s fighter pilot outfit, once worn by a Ken doll. He puffed up with outrage, stomping back up onto the stage. “Did you just cast me as Tiny Tim?” “How dare you sir! I’ll have you know I am a Captain! The best flyer in the kingdom. He was aghast at the insult.”
“Clearly not the best lander,” Opie muttered under his breath to Bitzy.
Chirp!
“Oh, you can’t bring that up. Total misunderstanding.” Opie felt heat blushing his cheeks. “The vacuum broke my fall.”
“Is it because I no longer have my wings?” Simmons continued his rant. “You see me as disabled?” Simmons placed his hands on his hips, feeling annoyed. “I may have some issues to work out with my new wings—”
“Twenty years later…” Cal hiccupped. “You couldn’t land even when you had real wings.” Cal wiped at his brow, staring down at his Woody the Woodpecker t-shirt and jeans. “Is it getting hot in here? It feels hot.” He started to strip. “My wee-bits feel suffocated.”
“Cal.” Simmons folded his arms. “Stop taking off your clothes. Again. You know how my lady gets when you leave butt prints everywhere.”
“Let the man express himself.” Opie held up his hand, his attention on the pixie getting naked. “It’s a free space here. Master Fin never let me go nude…though that one time he called me into his office to reprimand me… I can never look at a rake the same again.”
“A rake?” Simmons blinked.
Opie peered around, all eyes wide and on him. “Total misunderstanding. Let’s move on, shall we?” He cleared his throat. “So, for the Ghost of Christmas Past, the part will be played by Bitzy. I will be narrator for the whole play, so we need the Ghost of Christmas Present, Future, Jacob Marley, Scrooge, and Bob Cratchit.” Opie glanced over the room pointing at the raven. “You might be a good Marley. Cryptic. A bearer of bad news and darkness if Scrooge doesn’t change his way. And a real grouch.”
“Grimmel sees only darkness and emptiness here.” The raven tilted his head, scanning the room.
“See, you’re already in character.” Opie motioned to him, turning to the drunk pixie. “Cal, I think you’d be a perfect crotch-it…I mean Cratchit.” Opie shook his head with a nervous laugh, forcing his gaze away from the naked pixie starting to do snow angels on the floor.
“Does he get to drink juniper juice and have his wee-bits free?” Cal’s Scottish accent grew thicker with every word.
“Sure.”
“Then spank me and call me Bobby.” Cal downed more from his flask.
Chirp! Bitzy wiggled her fingers.
“Yeah, good possibility he will like that too.” Opie nodded. “Okay, next one on list. Ghost of Christmas Present. This character needs to be a little naïve, absent minded, with a short attention span…”
“Is it lunch time yet?” Sprig cut Opie off. “I’m really hungry. Like I will die soon if I don’t get fed. Not a little die, but like die, die. Like the cruelest most painful death ever!”
Chirp!
“Yep. Think we found him.” Opie glanced at Bitzy with a head dip. “Sprig, you are Ghost of Christmas Present.”