“Afterwards is a soccer Mom, eager to have Harvard graduates as kids. Kids are specifically named Mike and Sally, at least one of them going to space camp. Estimate that she works in a bank, or anywhere that deals with money. Mention ‘cash flow’, and ease into discussing her children’s future.”
As Iris prods the Wolf-girl on further, she brushes a lock of hair from her eyes, disguising the act of playfully ruffling up your hair with her finger.
“I sense something...buried.” She ‘reads’ from Wolf-girl, emulating that same silly psychic pose. You hear it all as you navigate past Iris’ cap and slide down her hair, using her gown as a rappel line to reach the ground. “Something buried. Something within you? No, not that, but definitely a desire within you. Something dark, black, even, and yet fertile. Prosperous.” Her eyes shoot open. “Oil.”
“No. Effing. Way.”
“Your family is searching for nature’s currency, are they not?” Iris milks. You’re striding across the tent floor by then. “Your father, isn’t he? Just now, I assume he’s taken to drilling somewhere?”
“YES! Yes, yes, yes, he is!” She giddily bounces back. “He’s gonna find some, isn’t he? I know he is!”
Her nose wrinkling at the question, Iris tilts her head back, squinting with her fingers tracing circles around her temples, but her eyelids furrow in pain before she takes in a few needed breaths.
“I’m sorry.” She exhales weakly. “My mind, I wish it were up to the task, but I feel such distance to scale, and too little...”
Without question, Wolf-girl smacks down ten one-hundred dollar bills.
Eyeing the cash ‘inspires’ Iris to try again, taking on that cute stance again, and this time her eyes light up. “Goodness!” She explains. “Three hundred, no...Five hundred million dollars buried beneath the very Earth, soon to be yours!”
Wolf-girl emits a squeal to high for anybody but dogs to hear.
As fun as the show is to watch, though, it doesn’t make the line any shorter, and you’re still left with so many more suckers to rake in, and Alligator woman? Without opening her mouth, she’s got a story and a half to tell.
Unlike skunk-woman ahead of her, she’s got the rippling muscles of three gator women crammed into the same skin; fat calf muscles in her legs fit to run eight marathons every morning, swollen biceps along broad, meaty shoulders that’d rip out of her tank top’s sleeves with too cocky of a flexing session in the mirror, and yet in place of a six-pack is a moderately rounded tummy and a definite set of breasts; not the starved pectorals of a true female body builder. Attested to makeup on her face that’s smeared on the same way an enraged painter would lash all their blacks and reds on a canvas to vent their inner aggression, straight black hair that’s dyed with streaks of red, likely a middle finger to the world, fate, and just dumb luck that’s tossed her a few harsh hands, and some grunge clothing that’s worn with all the frays and tears of a true metal fan, she’s got a statement to tell.
Most incriminating of all, as she protectingly covers her right hand over her left, she’s got a white band around her ring finger. She’s hopped on the break-up bus recently, likely downing her sorrows in doughnuts.
A fantastic target, but only a perfect one with a name. Much like Skunk girl, she plants her purse down on the ground, almost inviting any pickpockets to look inside and search through her belongings. How kind of her, you mentally answer as you climb up the arm loop and sneak inside!
The first thing is her wallet; a romance to break up this badly couldn’t have been settled without her still carrying photos of her old flame, and part of that hunch is right. Amongst numerous photos of her working in a garage, coated in oil whilst working on cars, motorcycles and the like, she’s still got a picture of him, her arms wrapped around a much more short, lanky gator that she looms over at a pier near a beach someplace, his head nestled happily beneath the crux of her scaly bosom, and...
Wait.
Something’s not right.
His face is scratched out, likely with a coin or a knife. Yes, it matches with your theory, and yet the little bristles of color and ink are still fresh along the scratches. This was done recently, likely before she could leave for home to have her fortune told, or even when she was standing in line.
How can this be? You observe her through the purse’s open zipper, reobserving her clothing. The tears are too old for this breakup to be recent, and the bitter looks she’s casting every which way are more subdued and dry, the result of anger that’s been held deep for a long, long time, so if her anger at him was so prevalent to deface him, why wait only until now, right before her fortune was to be told?
Oh, no.
She’s a skeptic.
Damnit...that’s why she’s such a giveaway. She’s clothing herself in red herrings, likely eager for pickpockets to sniff through her belongings. To give her the satisfaction of laughing in Iris’ face when she ‘predicts’ that she’s a mechanic in the midst of a bad breakup, likely leaping out to announce her discoveries to the guests in line, to expose us in front of all our profits.
Damnit, again. Damnit, damnit, damnit! Not now! The last skeptic to slip past Iris’ defense was at least near the end of the line, when there were enough guest that her charisma could settle the remaining crowd, but this is only the third person into the night. You can’t cancel now! What are you going to do?
In a hurry, you climb up the purse and draw a mirror from your pocket, shining it off a nearby oil lamp near the tent’s entrance. It’s Skunk-woman’s turn now, Iris churning up a show as always, but catching three glints of light from you clues her in on an emergency. Her face doesn’t change, but her ear flicks three times, prepared to really milk her next session.
With much more time to work, you dive back into Alligator-girl’s purse for clues. This time, real clues. Another of Iris’ teaching is that no matter how far one tries to keep themselves a secret, however much they may try and conceal their true nature from Iris, there is always a crumb of truth to exploit. You lay flat as low as you can in the purse and pry at the very seams of the bottom. There’s some crumbs, a few long strands of her hair, and...something else.
You tug out a few pieces of a green, leafy substance. Still damp and wet, and after brushing them along your upper lip, you determine their edible. Specifically edible, by the strong taste you encounter upon biting into them. Is there a certain origin to them, perhaps? Maybe she works in a flower shop? No. It’s not enough.
But you’re given even less time to piece anything together when the opening of the bag rustles slightly, and you duck behind her wallet for cover. Her large, scaly claw comes in to grab a tin of breath mints, but seeing her hand, the one unmarked by the ring band, you’re granted a second clue; a few scars along her thumb and fingers, specifically, a few short, horizontal cuts along their upper digits.
You’re getting somewhere, but the truth is still far from sight, and there’s only one direction left to take.
You climb out from her purse and land feet-first outside, running over to her pant legs. She’s still casting a few glances around for any spies, disguising them as miffed looks, but she’s thankfully still ruled out the idea of a human snooping around. Due to the broad, bulky legs packed into her jeans, she’s got too little slack in her pants to climb without being noticed, but with what little give they possess, you go up. On the way up, you strain your eyes in the darkness for any other hints, ascending to her very knee, likely the last amount of distance you can reach without her noticing something alive is latched onto her. You look left, and right, and...
Bingo! A faint stain on her pants, washed and dried to the point that it’d pass to the naked eye, but up close, with your eye pressed against the denim, it’s definitely not your imagination. Sadly, there’s nothing to smell off of it. Another dead end.
You can tell Iris is getting to a point where she’s about to start talking in circles. Your heart’s heavy at giving her nothing but telling her to lose out on a customer so early in the night...but then Alligator-lady’s arm drops to her side, scratching behind her left knee. Seeing her get close, you flinch and pull your legs up to avoid contact...
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