Excerpt: A Match Made it Hell (smaller excerpt) for $3 tier (Patreon)

MinionS: Got something cool for you guys! Adrienne has a lot of story ideas lying around. When he gets inspired, he'll write parts that come to him. He had an idea for a humorous paranormal romance-y novella... A Match Made in Hell. You guys are getting the first 6 pages! (I'm going to share maybe a page in the newsletter today)

Let Adrienne know what you think of Martin and Bazil.

*****

The bus was the last thing Martin Hensley remembered.

Oh, and the coffee he held. His favorite. Vanilla bean, double shot, extra whipped.

Iced.

Hundred-degree weather in the deep south wasn’t hot beverage country.

But Martin never got to take a sip. He stepped from the coffee shop, plastic cup in one hand, his notebook tucked under his arm and walked to the bus stop.

The seven-ten weaved through traffic. The driver sped up to cut off the VW bug trying to pass him on the left.

Typical for downtown traffic.

The bus moved into position to stop at the curb. Martin put his cup to his lips, his tongue screaming for that first-morning sip to soothe his caffeine-starved brain.

And…

So the bus and the coffee, or the lack of coffee, he remembered.

Oh yes, and how the cup arched from his open hand, splattering its gloriousness over the asphalt in front of him.

That was it….

Nothing else….

Until…

Martin squinted at the ticket in his hand. The tiny white double-tailed paper sperm typically ejected from the number pickup for a queue.

He held it closer counting the digits, the commas, the additional digits.

This had to be a mistake.

His eyes had to be going bad.

Did they even make numbers this large?

People milled around him, in line, each with a ticked pinched between their fingers. Some wore robes with slippers, some in suits, club wear, more than a few who were buck naked.

Martin slapped a hand against his chest. The soft cotton of his favorite button-up pressed against his palm.

His only button-up. The rest of his shirts were pullovers.

Pants? Did he have pants?

He slid his hand downward, smoothing out a nonexistent tie, to the tails of his shirt. A strip of leather, denim.

Jeans, his favorite jeans. He owned two and these were definitely his best. He wore them today because…

“Hey.” A chubby finger pecked him on the shoulder. He turned.

The woman behind him wore her hair in curlers. Lipstick scribbled a line over her mouth. A bruise surrounded her right eye. Raw skin crossed her knuckles.

The oversized t-shirt hanging to her knees might have had a picture of a duck on it, but the food stains made it difficult to tell.

She glared. “You’re holding up the line.”

A couple of feet now separated Martin from the man in front of him. A man who stood well over six feet tall with tattoos covering his bald scalp. He wore a bright orange jumper.

Chains hobbled his ankles.

Martin’s heart stuttered. He fought the urge to step back.

“Will you move already?”

The lady behind Martin shoved him.

He scooted forward a few inches.

“Jesus Christ you fucker.”

She shoved him again.

The world tipped, Martin threw out his arms as he headed face-first toward the floor. His fingers brushed the orange jumper but before he could close his grip, the man moved out of reach.

A bolt of agony shot through his chin, copper covered his tongue. Feet surrounded him.

Voices rose up, most of it laughter. A barefoot with long yellow nails came down on Martin’s hand. Chubby fingers with bright red nails plucked his ticket from his grip.

A spitball landed near his arm. Two tails stuck out from the sides.

The lady in the curlers stepped over him. “Asshole.”

Martin stood.

His lip throbbed. He touched it, crimson stained his fingers. He wiped them on his jeans.

Several of the people sneered at him, a few continued to laugh.

“You’re going to need that.” The man beside him had the ends of his beard tucked into the waist of his pants. “They won’t let you in without a ticket. And if you don’t have one, you’ll wind all the way back at the end.”

The end?

A meadow of people swayed behind Martian. More appeared from the row of doors at the far wall. Ahead of him, nothing but people. On either side? More people.

“You better get that ticket.” The man nudged it closer with the tip of his boot.

Martin picked it up.

The roll of paper collapsed into a wet goo. He grimaced.

The man beside him shook his head. “They ain’t gonna take that all wadded up. They gotta scan the back.”

Martin picked at the mashed corners. They tore into tiny bits. He gave up.

Two rows over a clown handed out animal balloons. The line shuffled forward.

Martin leaned closer to the guy with the beard. “Um, do you know where we are?”

He cut Martin a look. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

A man in a top hat and tux held a broken bottle of wine. He stared at the thing with tears coursing down his cheeks.

More orange jumpsuits, a few striped, business suits, a scuba suit, a…

Big cartoon dog eyes turned on Martin.

“What are you staring at you, pervert?” The person waved a stuffed paw at him.

Martin dropped his gaze to the shiny red marble floor.

High-pitched feedback screeched the air. Martin winced, everyone winced.

“Attention guests. Will a Martin Hensley please come to the front?” More feedback wailed in agony. “Will a Mr. Martin Hensley please step to the front of the line?”

Murmurs rumbled across the tide of bodies.

“Move it!” A tall thin man in nothing but slippers shoved his way past. Another man followed. Voiced echoed from in the back.

The announcer cleared her throat. “A Mr. Martin Hensley, five-five, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, size nine shoe, brown hair, Caucasian, wearing jeans and his favorite emerald button-up shirt because they match his eyes, boots, and mismatching socks.

Silence slammed into place. As one the entire room turned in Martin’s direction.

He hugged himself.

Anger, rage, disgust… jealousy?

The man with the beard snorted. “Well, ain’t you special.”

Martin shook his head. “It’s a mistake.”

The man with the beard dragged his gaze from Martin’s head down to his toes. “Doesn’t look like mistake.”

It was. It had to be. It could only be a mistake. “My socks match.”

A shadow crawled over Martin.

The man in the orange jumpsuit stared down at him.

“No, I swear.” Martin tugged up the pants leg of his jeans. “See, both of them are black. They--”

Navy blue and black.

Shit.

Martin swallowed. His throat clicked. A bead of sweat dripped from his temple to his chin.

The sea of bodies parted opening a passage to the front of the room. He didn’t want to go wherever that path would take him. But he didn’t want to stay there either.

Martin walked. Angry glares pushed him faster.

“Bastard…”

“Should cut him real.,.”

“Beat the shit out of him that’s…”

“Fucker’s been kissing someone’s…”

Martin ran until his ribs ached, his breathing hitched, until the muscles in his side pulled. Up ahead a counter, he stumbled to a halt, grabbing the edge to keep upright.

The cat lounging on top, yawned.

A cat.

The woman sitting on the other side of the counter cleared her throat.

Martin stood straighter.

“Mr. Martin Hensley.” It almost sounded like a dare.

“Yes, I’m—”

She slapped a plaque with ‘closed’ engraved on the front down on the counter.

A barrage of nasty curses rose up.

“Mr. Hensley, follow me please.” She pushed her bifocals higher on her nose.

Threats joined in.

Martin rushed around the corner. Another cat slithered in front of him. He twisted to the right, lost his balance.

And once again the world tilted.

The ground punched Martin between his shoulders, his head smacked the marble. Light from the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling blurred.

The cat from the counter landed on his stomach, jabbing its paws into his gut as it springboarded away. The one he’d tripped over stepped over his head leaving long hairs stuck to his lips.

“Mr. Hensley, get up. You do not want to be late.”

Martin rolled over. His nose itched, he slapped at the hairs clinging to his face.

The woman walked, Martin followed.

They exited through a door in the back into a wide hall with short industrial carpet. It entered into a room filled with a cacophony of dings, ticks, and grinding slides.

Young people, old people, dressed in Sunday wear to mohawks and leather, sat in front of massive steel desks, typing away on archaic typewriters surrounded by stacks of manila folders..

Two spots down, a large man slumped over his desking pecking at the keys of his typewriter, crying. A fat, blue-eyed tabby cat, with its feet tucked under leaving its body in the shape of a bread loaf, looked on.

Not all the desks had cats, but a lot did.

Two sauntered down the aisle past Martin.

“Mr. Hensley.” The counterwoman stomped her food. “Now.”

He obeyed.

They headed through the rows of clacking typewriters to another door, another hall, then an elevator.

She pushed the call button.

“The supervisor is on the top floor.” She picked a cat hair off her blouse.

“Supervisor?” The supervisor of what?

“He will have questions and you will answer them.”

“What kind of—"

“It would be in your best interest not to lie.”

“I don’t normal—”

“And whatever you don’t stare. He gets very upset when people stare.”

“What would I—”

The elevator dinged. The woman ushered Martin into the lift. She hit the button. “Remember, don’t stare!” The doors closed.

Electric guitars filtered from the speakers in the back corner of the box. Black reflective walls drank away the light from the recessed fixture in the ceiling. Brass chair rail cut a line through the darkness. The only break in the perfection.

The lift hummed.

There were no buttons by the door or a floor number display.

The lift continued to hum.

The song ended another began. Martin folded his arms, he unfolded them. He hummed along with the familiar rift born during his teenage years. He was pretty sure he’d danced to the song at his prom. Same night he lost his virginity to Tom Kirkland.

The jerk.

Not that Larry Carson, Martin’s college roommate was any better.

He’d been sure Jim would work out. Then Ray.

Wait, he and Ray were still dating.

Weren’t they?

Martin rubbed his temple. No, no a few nights ago the walking asshole had called Martin at twelve midnight to tell him it was over. Ray had to repeat himself three times because of the club music blaring in the background.

So Ray was done.

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. It was less than a week to Thanksgiving. If he showed up at his parents without a date, they’d start trying to stud him out to any eligible bachelorette they knew.

And knowing Martin’s mother, she’d spent all year collecting a line of them. She loved blonde hair and blue eyes cause she was dead set on a grandkid with blond hair and blue eyes. Or at least blonde hair.

Martin huffed a breath hard enough to pop his lips.

Shit. He needed to get laundry done. And vacuum the carpet.

Had he paid the light bill? He was pretty sure he—

The lift shuddered to a stop. The black panels parted with a ding. A large foyer welcomed Martin. Flowers spilled from the vase on a table in the middle. A white cat sat next to it washing its face.

Martin inched to the edge. On one wall, paintings of raging fires and tiny forms spilling off the corner of a flat planet earth. Another framed canvas showed a giant lizard swallowing people whole. On the other side, a portrait of a red-skinned monster perched on a throne of skulls. The accompanying painting had ocean waves of fire.

More red marble, black walls, although the light scattering from the chiseled gems of the chandelier held its own against the oppressive space.

The cat moved to wash its feet.

Martin inched over the threshold. The door closed behind him. He shuffled around the table.

The cat meowed and Martin startled.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

The cat’s long coat flowed on invisible eddies as it walked over. Martin scratched it behind the ears. The thrum of its purr traveled up his fingers.

“I don’t suppose you know where I am?”

The cat jumped down and trotted over to the door on the other side of the room. A brass nameplate read, ‘supervisor.’

Well, at least he wasn’t completely lost.

Martin followed the cat. It rubbed against his ankles, the door jam, then stood on his hind legs stretching upward and flexing its claws against the door.

“That where you live?”

The cat meowed.

“You don’t happen to be the supervisor do you.”

The cat sat and squinted at him.

“Yeah, okay, dumb question.”

The cat yawned and resumed its routine of twirling around Martin’s ankles and rubbing on the door.

Martin started to reach for the knob. Considering he had no idea who or what—

The paintings stared down at him with their images of terrible things.

The cat glared up at him.

“What?”

It looked away.

Great thrown shade by a cat.

“Fine, but if something had happens, it’s your fault.” Martin knocked.

“Come in.”

Martin cracked the door. The cat slipped through the opening.

Unlike the foyer, bright colors christened the walls, lush sofas, chairs, gentle scenes of impressionist gardens adorned the walls.

Cats lounged on pillows, graced the platforms of a multi-level cat tree, huddled at food bowls and drank water from a tiny automated fountain.

A man around Martin’s age leaned against a massive cherry wood desk. He wore a blue suit, glasses, and shiny Italian lovers. His styled hair swept to the right. Curved stumps peeked up through the waves. They followed the line of his skull corkscrewing to a stop above each ear.

“Mr. Martin Hensley?” He didn’t look up from the folder he held.

“Yes.” Martin squinted at the strange spirals sprouting from the top of the man’s head.

“Please shut the door.”

Martin did.

Was it a hat? Some type of hair clip? Light sprinkled colors over the ridges. A rainbow of hues barely outmatched by the brightly colored room.

Martin knew what they were, but his brain refused to accept it. People didn’t have horns. Goats had horns, rams had horns.

The man walked over. His short stature gave Martin a perfect aerial view.

Nope, Martin was pretty damn sure those were horns. Sparkly, glitter-bombed horns. There was no way those could be real.

Martin lifted a hand.

The man cleared his throat. His dark eyes burned from behind his glasses.

Martin tucked his hand behind his back.

“Quit staring Mr. Hensley.”

“Are those…”

“Mr. Hensley, my name is Bazil.” He held up the manila folder. “Do you know what this is?”

“Horns? I’m pretty sure those are…”

“Mr. Hensley.” Bazil’s cheeks reddened.

“I’m sorry, I just…” Horns. It’s the only thing they could be.

....