We all have those days, right? That’s the saying, at least. But, Willow, Willow did not have bad days—she had the worst days. Supernaturally horrible days.
And this worst day began when her alarm clock exploded. Not with sound: but with shrapnel. Something inside ticked harder than it should be ticking and gears and springs and little pieces of the device went into the air and cascaded over her head. She awoke with a bolt in her hair.
“Oh lord,” she said, “Here we go—”
The bed collapsed and folded inward just enough for it to be uncomfortable. The sound woke her dog, which came into the room yipping and scratching unkempt nails on the hardwood.
She glanced at her pet as she tried to get her body out of its predicament. It was a small bulldog with a lazy eye she called Rip.
“Is it going to be that sort of day?” she asked Rip, “Should I stock up on the booze?”
Rip, of course, did not understand the question—but did bark. A little chirp of a sound. Willow nodded as if this meant something and swung her feet to the ground. Upon trying to stand, her left foot sunk right into the wood with a creak and a jolt.
She looked down as the shallow cuts on her foot leaked blood. The red soon swirled in the soft undercurrent of muddy water that apparently lurked underneath her house’s foundation.
“Oh, yeah, so much booze.”
She shook her head and then tilted it back when she heard something rumble above her.
“Curse is bad today, pipes are breaking as well,” she announced, to no one in particular, “I’ll have to deal with that later.”
Thinking for a second, she pulled out her phone and dialed. While it rang, she added underneath her breath: “Or someone will have to deal with it.”
The phone clicked to dead: the call dropped. Willow frowned but persisted. Trying a grand total of thirteen times before fate threw her a bone.
A gruff, annoyed voice came over the line. “Willow? I told you not to call me on this number. It’s kind of inappropriate.”
Willow nodded but also rolled her eyes. Neither action visible to the person on the other line. She let out a short “hmm” and clicked her tongue. “Yes, I am aware, sir: but I think my house is going to flood if I don’t do something about it. I could use someone to come over and fix it.”
A pause. “And I assume you want me to pay for this?”
Willow smirked, even as the smell of the garbage disposal backing itself up wafted down the hallway to her room. She wrinkled her nose but still carried on the conversation with little effort.
“Well, I don’t have much cash. But, if you can’t help me right now: I could invest in the stock market, maybe? Make some money that way, perhaps? How about I invest in the tech sector? Or the military? Does that sound like a good idea? How about the stock market? I mean, how long do you think it would be before it crashed?”
The reply came fast, and with a hitch and a sputter to it. “No, no, that won’t be a good idea. I can…I can send someone to handle it. Anything else you might need?”
“Yeah,” Willow said, her smirk gaining in power. “No assassins. No snipers. I know the temptation is high, sir, but trying to kill me might not go well for anyone involved. I live so close to the nuclear power plant for a reason.”
The answer took long enough for Willow to walk out of her room and get stuck in another shallow hole in her floor. The sweat pants she wore to bed ripped up to her thigh, and she inexplicably broke a nail on the opposite foot.
“Yes…I understand,” came the eventual reply.
“Good to hear it, Mr. President,” Willow said, “Thanks so much for your help. Tell the wife I thought her sitcom appearance was awesome.”
“Will do,” the president said, his voice subdued.
Willow said a quick thank you but when she tried to hang up, the phone snapped in half.