Spent bullet casings rolled down the street picking up the detritus of city living (leaves, condoms, rattles, deconstructed windshields, bits of clay, a bloated squirrel corpse, sucked on suckers, and cat vomit by volume,) clogging the storm drains. It was raining. Had been for days, but that didn’t stop the dancing. It was spring witch season and their naked gyrations and drug-garbled tongue vibrations brought the clouds rolling in over the hills and up the river. The clouds had to take numbers and sit, puffy and silent, in windless boredom before being processed as Rain Makers.
The witches never tired thanks to the frog adrenaline I had synthesized over the winter to add to their midnight stew. They were used to merely imbibing the tongue remnants, which is great for maintaining throat health according to dubious wisdom, but the adrenal secretions worked with visible power. And they would never kill them all. For every witch the police fried with tasers in the streets, or beheaded with shotguns, or set fire to in an attempt at irony, three more would spring forth from the dying woman’s loins, already speaking in incantations.
It was looking like the whole town would be inhabited by witches by autumn, all except me. I would leave, however. I would leave because they would figure out my methods and I would be nothing but a useless alchemist in a land of witchcraft, always being pulled from my lab to attend moon dependent orgies and oversee the blessing of a new looking pool. As if I cared. I already have my bag packed.
I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.