“We’ll go with the blonde,” you tell Blake – actually Sydney. “She’s practically a sitting target.”
Blake nods, and you both walk over to the woman inside the SUV, granting you a better look at her. She's dressed in bright pink, her face is heavily made up and her blonde hair pure, brilliant and straight from a bottle. This is going to be interesting, at the very least. You’re spotted, and the driver lowers her window.
“Hey, you two!” The driver exclaims. “What’s up?”
“I just remembered,” ‘Blake’ says, politely. “Do you have the weekend permit?”
“Do I need one?” the woman says, a look of vacant surprise on her face. “Oh, shoot. I’ll only be a moment, do you think they’re going to mind?”
“They’re clamping down,” you say, realizing where Sydney is going with this. “I saw coach Puente out here earlier. Probably has to check plates.”
“Shoot,” the woman sighs. “I was literally gonna pick up Tom then get out of here.”
“It’s no problem,” Blake says. “It’s just a dumb form. C’mon, we’ll show you where to get one.”
And just like that, your target hops out of her SUV, locks the door – but leaves the window up – and, handbag over her shoulder, looks ready to follow you two anywhere. You can’t believe how easy this is.
“So, you on the team too, hun? I haven’t seen you on the field, I don’t think.” It takes a few seconds to realize that the blonde is addressing you, and you fall in beside her. She’s attractive, in a largely manufactured way, with hair dyed blonde, nails manicured to perfection and a dazzling smile like a magnesium flame. She’s petite, too, tottering around at around five foot – even with heels – which makes her movements seem short and wiggly rather than lithe and graceful as she walks. Her body is curvy though, with large breasts under the bright pink top and an ass that you can’t help but watch jiggle under its jeans.
“Not exactly,” you say as you enter the building, trying to come up with a reason someone like you would be hanging around with the giant, muscular lunkheads of the football team.
“Will’s the mascot,” Blake interjects, barely holding in a laugh.
“We have a mascot?" the woman says, surprised. "Oh, is it a dragon? I bet that costume gets hot, huh? Especially when you do your dabbin’ and wormin’,” the woman pauses, and does her own, unique take on flossing. You laugh a little, and give Blake a signal to check the nearby bathrooms.
“I got to take a leak,” he says quickly, departing your side while you continue your conversation.
“So, I’m guessing your son’s on the team?”
“Hell yes!” she beams, puffing her chest out. You can’t help but look down briefly, wondering if they’re real or fake. She doesn’t look old enough to have had kids, and her figure doesn’t have the usual mom fill-out. “I’m Tom’s mom. Mrs Schmitz. I know you boys aren’t doing too well this season, but we’re still really proud of what you’re doing. Tom puts in so much effort, I think his favorite day is Friday! Dragon Moms!” she raises her fist in the air.
You smile, and a thought pops into your head. You had planned on creating a cult, but a cult still needs a purpose – a goal to achieve. Maybe, these Dragon Moms could be the answer. Magic, as the masks have taught you, is a powerful force. But can it influence the fates of the real world? Could it, for example, turn a high school football side into championship contenders? You've no idea how good Westside is and you don't really care either. But it’s such a small ask, and would make an ideal test...
Your thought is interrupted by Blake stepping into the hall. He gives a brief nod, and you reach into the bag for the masks.
“Hey,” Blake says, as a distraction, a quick look down the corridor to check nobody is in sight. “Mrs, uh…” he blanks out, instantly regretting the choice, but just moves on to cover his flub. “Do you know what Baphomet is?”
“Bath Omelette?” the woman says, turning to address Blake but looking at him in confusion. “You mean like putting an egg in the bath?”
“No,” Blake says, walking over. “It’s alright. You’re going to know all about it soon enough. Now, Will!” You slam the mask on her face, catching her as she begins to slump. You can barely hold her up, and end up staggering her down on the floor. Then, wordlessly, you both scoop her up and drag her into the nearest bathroom, Blake’s muscles making everything far easier. Once inside, you lay her down.
“Alright,” you say to ‘Blake’. “A little privacy?”
“Why, Will?” Sydney retorts. “I’d kind of like to watch, see what happens.”
“That’s great and all,” you say, “but one of us needs to keep a lookout in the corridor. The last thing we need is for someone to suddenly need a piss and to find Tom Schmitz’s mom unconscious on the floor with two seniors standing over her, and for us to end up in jail.”
“You and Blake," Sydney says, sticking his tongue out. "Sydney McGlynn's nowhere near here. And who’s Tom Schmitz? I don't think I have any classes with him.”
“Hell if I know, he’s not in our year. Now get going. I’ll see you on the flip side.”
Sydney grins and steps outside. Then you get on with your work, stripping clothes with disinterested, professional detachment. The minutes seem to last forever as you pace the stalls, thinking of everything that could go wrong. What if someone comes in and Blake can’t dissuade them? You find yourself sitting squat on one of the toilets, watching with worry.
Once the mask appears, you quickly snatch it up, the floating name of DEVON LUCY SCHMITZ drifting on the blue interior. Then you take your already-prepared golem mask, slip it on the prone figure, and watch as the diminutive bombshell transforms into a lanky teen with tufts of beard and scraggy hair.
"Jesus," he mutters. "You know how fuckin' weird it is to blank out and then wake up to see yourself staring down at you?"
"No weirder than the reverse," you retort. "You know where you are? Know what's going on?"
"What is this, a pop quiz?" He gives you a black, resentful look, then casts a glance at his fingers. He raises them up in horror, waving them at you. “What the fuck, dude!”
You look with him. Glued to the beds are a set of plastic false nails, a glittery red white and blue in the shape of the star-spangled banner. You burst out laughing. It looks ridiculous.
“Fuck you! How the hell do these things come off?” you watch as the golem starts to tug at them, only to yelp as he almost rips off the nail underneath. “They’re on fast!”
“We’ll figure it out later,” you say. “Right now I need to get into character.” Then, laying down, you take a deep breath, put the mask on and…
Oh mercy did I slip! I’m such a ditz. You arch your back from the cold floor, then feel it send a chill elsewhere, too. With horror, you realize you’re naked, and scramble for your clothes. Rolling to the side, you feel something large and heavy stop you, and it takes a brief moment to realize it’s your ample, and very artificial, breasts. You gulp in a breath, and try to compose yourself.
My name is Devon Michelson. Wait! No, silly. Schmitz! only it isn’t. It’s just a disguise you’re wearing. This isn’t really me. I’m that friend of Blake’s. Except that isn’t Blake, and they weren’t friends. You grab your jeans and slide them on, wiggling your butt on the toilet floor, then haul on the pink top.
“OK, Devon. Let’s get on up, huh?” You turn, and pull yourself up from the floor, brushing blonde tresses out of your eyes, and look straight into the row of mirrors above the sinks. Dye-bottle hair. In fact, not much is real – you run your tongue over your brilliant white veneers. The world feels strange, as if the bathroom fittings have grown, and it takes a few seconds to realize that they haven’t grown, but you’ve shrunk. Oh, shoot, it's not easy bein' pocket-size.
You straighten up, adjusting your posture, and pull your emergency lipstick out of the handbag resting nearby, rubbing your pout together to get it just-so. Can’t go out without puttin’ my face on, now can I? Finally, once you’re ready you step out into the hall. Blake is there with Will, helping him scrape off the glittery, gaudy tat fastened to his hands into a trash bin. It’s coming off, but in strips and clumps. Your golem looks thoroughly pissed.
“Oh, hi, Blake, Will, hons!” you beam chirpily. “Y’know, I don’t think I’m gonna worry about that permit after all, we should all probably get back to the car.” You pause, grin, and punch the air, the wedding band on your finger glistening in the hall light. “Dragon Moms!”
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