Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: NC-17 (Patreon)

A cry of ecstatic anguish welled up and out from that place of torment. It wound through the links of dangling chains, between a demon’s curling horns, and twined with bleach blonde tendrils about a hardback chair.

He’d seemed a perfect gentleman. They hated him on sight.

“I heard your band isn’t quite so nasty as folk let on.”

Necromancer had sucked in her breath. “Who told you?” she cried, eyeliner forming two perfect circles of sudden fear. She’d been so careful! Each morning she misdirected her alignment towards the nearest convenient zombie. Each night before brushing her teeth she renewed the effect. It was all routine! The basic hygiene of a misalignment with an already-dwindling party. Had she slipped? Had she neglected the flossing and mouthwash of her hidden shame?

Yet the man was prattling on, all unwitting of the turmoil he’d brought with him. “I’ve a museum of curiosities,” he was saying. “Most of it dedicated to the history of crime and justice in the Kingdom. Lots of ‘ye olde’ in the basement. We’ve got replica iron maidens for small and medium size customers, some shame masks you can try on, a pillory for scryPhone selfies…”

Witch’s eyelid twitched. “Why,” she said, “Are you telling us about this perverse torture museum?”

“Well ye see, I’d heard what you done for those poor folk a few enchanted lands over. The one who’d been turned into flatware and such? You’re a regular bunch of heroes!”

Succubus’s resting bitch face hadn’t moved. Yet the temperature in her five-foot-square was making a steady climb. “We don’t like to use that word.”

“Call it whatever you like,” said the supremely unfortunate NPC. “Heroes or adventurers or do-gooders for hire. But the fact is I got a terrible rat problem. Little buggers chewing up all me grandad’s old racks and witch-ducking stools and whatnot. Judging by the size of the droppings in the storage cellar, I’m in truly dire need of exterminators, if ye follow me.”

Amidst the apocalyptic silence that followed this pronouncement, the honest face of the doomed curator looked from one to another of the Evil Party, appealing mutely for aid and good will.

“You want us,” said Witch, “To clear rats from a basement. Because we are heroes. And because your ancestral witch hunting paraphernalia is under threat.”

“They’re antiques!” wailed the curator.

There was a LOOK that passed then between the members of The Evil Party. It spoke of malice and untold horrors. Necromancer tried to put her mean face on. She hoped it was good enough.

“I think we can handle the job,” said Succubus. “We’ll even do it pro bono!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” continued Witch, producing from her cloak a sheaf of papers. “You have only to sign a standard service contract. Just mark all the check boxes in green and we can get underway.”