Mildred blinked, it had been a truly grueling, utterly mind numbing day.  The best thing of working for herself, she reflected, is that she no longer had to justify clearly rational daily decision making to the head Ogre (1) at the local wart processing plant, but (because in life, there is always a “but”) it did mean that she now had to talk, at length, to shiny faced yuppies who had to much time and money on their hands (money, she admitted she would gladly relieve them of).

 Stretching her long witchy fingers (would you expect a witch to have any other kind of fingers?) above her head and hearing the soft pops and clicks of a spine readjusting itself after a long day of being bent over a pile of fresh, if rather rancid, Egyptian crocodile toe jam(2)  Mildred decided that this was a days work well done and to cut out early. 

 After feeding Bang (a particularly large green cat that had in the past been mistaken for a poorly kept boxwood bush and had a random habit of exploding at the most inopportune times), Mildred shoved her wallet into her trouser pocket and eyed the contents of her broom closet (though it should be noted Mildred did not actually own a broom, rather a vast assortment of chimney sweeps).  Figuring that the pub was her ultimate destination and refusing to even think about drinking and flying she locked the door to her little house and set out on foot to the pub around the corner.

Pubs for magic folk are much like pubs for human folk, except that they require one to walk up and down roughly 5 separate staircases, 3 dingy alleyways (smelling a mixture of swamp and vodka), through 2 doorways where passwords are needed, and finally up one ladder.(4)   This was one of Mildred’s favorite places, the beer was cheap, the Naugahyde club chairs comfortable, and the music tolerable.  She never came her looking for company, but inevitably company always found her.

Just as Mildred was settling into her favorite chair tucked into the corner (a perfect spot as she could easily watch, stare, even chuckle at the weirdness of the world, and hardly ever be noticed doing so) a dull, olive green shimmer caught her eye.  It wasn’t so much olive green, as all the colors of an oil spot on the concrete, a mixture of greens, browns, yellows and red purples.  Steadily it made it’s progress toward her swerving this way and that avoiding the pubs other patrons it finally landed with a thump on her armrest. 

“Evening Mildred”. The pixie was roughly 5 inches tall by 4 inches wide (how he even managed flight was beyond Mildred), balding, (though at the same time hairy just not on his head), wearing cutoff jeans with a Hawaiian shirt (that was truly an assault on the eye, even in miniature) he walked over to Mildred’s glass and helped himself to a thimblefull of beer.   Larry(5)  was her best friend, they’d known each other forever it seemed, and though they bickered constantly she didn’t know how she would survive with out him.

“What’s new?” She asked eyeing his particularly bad imitation Hawaiian 5-0 shirt.  Even with magic she was perplexed as to how one would get that much color, and that much pattern on one tiny shirt.

“Nothing to new,” he said. Taking a big swig of his thimble and sighing, finally realizing she wasn’t about to bring it up. Sucking in a deep breath and preparing for the worst he decided it had to be said. “So, uh, what do you want do do about our” using his tiny fat pixie fingers to make air quotes for emphasis, “situation”.

Taking a long pull on her own beer,  she stared across the pub at a fairy fight breaking out, a mass of purple on yellow (which from a distance (6) was quite pretty she admitted).  “I’m not really sure Larry” looking down at him, “I guess we’d best sort it out though”.

(1)Whom ever decided that an Ogar was best suited for management must have been completely off their rocker. For, as we all know, Ogres in general are not the brightest bulbs to grace a socket.  Though it does have to be acknowledged that they possess the same verbal, technical, and ethical skills of all middle management, which is why one can only tell if the middle management they are dealing with is in fact an Ogre, is by sight alone.

(2)How one obtains Egyptian crocodile toe jam is why the price is so ungodly and ultimately why it’s the very best of all the reptile toe jam.  Obtaining a reliable supplier may not be the pinnacle of Mildred’s career, but it was definitely up there. Lets just say that it involved a cross dressing imp, a fine bottle of tequila, and the seasons hottest pair of Jimmy Choos (the ones that it was fabled weren’t even real and that the designer had sold his sole to the devil for(3)  they were so hard to come by).

(3)This is untrue, the designer had indeed sold his sole to the devil years earlier for front row Mili Vanili tickets.

(4)Though this does seem quite excessive (and often times is) but it’s magic law, always had been, and always will be.  It has, however, had the wonderful side effect of keeping Hipsters out.

(5)Larry was not his real name, but he felt that Sparkleflower Rubbytoes wasn’t really “him”.

(6)Fairy fights were the thing of legend. Every major power outage in the history of man kind has been created by two drunk 7 inch tall fairies squabbling about the perfect color of green. It was rumored that the last major brawl between Daisy The Bright and Honeydew The Tenderhearted threw the whole earth back into the dark ages for hundreds of years.