Celebrity Fender Bender

“No, Cyntha, I do NOT want you to sell the – SHIT!” I screeched into the phone. I heard my PA squawk indignantly as I dropped my cell, slammed the car into park, and flung open my door, all in one seamless movement. “The hell did that car come from?” I muttered to myself, already revising history as the other person became the obvious reason the accident happened. I was stalking up to the other car, patented lecture on safe driving forming on my lips, when I saw the other driver sinuously extract herself from the black mini cooper. I froze, mouth open to deliver the scathing report I suddenly couldn’t remember.

I recognized her. As I was the leading professor of history at the only university worth mentioning, of course I recognized her. It was just impossible. “Please tell me you just look like her,” I breathed. She simply smiled and shook her head.

“You’re really her. And, I just parked my Buick in your car.” She should have been annoyed by the restating of obvious facts, but she wasn’t. If anything, she was amused. “But… how? You’re dead! By, like, a long time dead!” I didn’t care that I was rambling. I didn’t care that I probably wasn’t making sense. I didn’t care that I couldn’t even speak grammatically correct sentences. I was speaking to one of the ten most evil women in history. Someone who was reported to have been hung in 1945. Someone who hadn’t changed from the picture taken of her at her sentencing. There could be only one explanation. Before I could voice the impossible, the hatch door popped open, and a body slowly plopped onto the street.

Tearing my eyes from the body, I whispered, “you’re a vampire, aren’t you.”

“How about I cut you a deal,” she asked in heavily accented English.


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