Destined Fur More

ProfoundlyPerfectPancakesParentProudPeoplePleasedPlusPainfullyProgressivePurists

Yay for fun illiteration!

XD

When I woke up the next morning, my first thoughts went a little something like this: ComicCon is today. OHMYDEARGOD, COMICCON IS TODAY. HOLY. SHIT. COMIC. CON. IS. TODAY.

This immediately caused me to leap in a rare spurt of pure, unabashed GRACE. Call me crazy, but not tripping over itty-bitty pebbles, cracks, and the occasional elephant is a great feeling. Especially after living your whole life doing so.

I was hoping this was the ribbon topping my shape-shifting awesome-ness. I mean, it could've just been a lucky moment in my dismal life of complete and unabashed clumsy/ klutzy/ all around terribly-balanced life.

Fisher, I reminded myself, Back to main topic right now: THE GATHERING IS TODAY.

I was somewhere between jittery and all around freaked out. An entire convention of shape-shifting people? Just thinking about it made me head spin. Would they just walk around the place as a kangaroo or would they be in the person form? Would they wear cloaks and chant ancient curses upon me for obviously not belonging? Would they even use scissors to cut things, or just their claws?

I suppose I was about to find out.

After a few frustrating days with the attic ladder, I'd finally figured out the simply stomping extremely hard would do the trick. I also learned that it was best to shout 'GUNG HOE' before letting it descend on some grumpy, old man's head and have him curse at you for an entire half hour while a plate of bacon stares you in the face from a across the room. It's just not worth the look on his face, which was quite the equivalent to a tomato foaming at the mouth.

"THAR SHE BLOWS!" I screamed, waiting five seconds before slamming my foot onto the ladder. It slammed into the ground, harming nothing but the oak flooring. So far pleased with the way my morning had been turning out, I nearly skipped to the bar table and flung myself into a seat. Teague was sitting next to me, still sipping on the disgusting, bitter liquid some people use to get high called 'coffee'.

"Don't you ever go home?" I asked, wondering why I even sat down when I'd be the one cooking. I was slowly making my way to arising from my deathly sleep by seven to catch breakfast, but if I'd told myself a month ago I'd be waking up by eight-thirty with no school, I'd have told me to go fuck myself.

Though I can't say cooking wasn't fun. I'd officially mastered scrambled eggs and was working on how not to turn toast black. Yesterday, I even went as far as to mix pancake batter. Teague, of course, takes full responsibility for over-cooking them into crumbling ash, but I, FISHERKELLER, perfectly mixed that batter. There wasn't a person out there, a restaurant in business, an Aunt Jemima alive who mixed pancake batter out there more flawless then mine.

"Don't you ever go home?" Teague countered, taking a sip and barely glancing at me above his newspaper. God only knows how he got it; no way would anyone deliver a paper this far from town.

My eyes narrowed, but I didn't feel like arguing on a day that was so far, uneventful. And for me, uneventful is eventful. "Where's Graham?" I turned toward the measuring cup, perfectly topping off the box of instant pancakes and dumping it into the bowl.

"In town, Tuuluuwaq," Teague replied, and I realized how clichéd this situation was. The wife—figures—cooking breakfast, the husband, sipping his nasty-ass coffee and reading the paper. It creeped me out, in some calming way; how close Teague and I had become in a week. He was probably the best friend I'd ever had, though that really isn't saying much.