Free How to Rescue a Dead Princess by Jeff Strand Page A

righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death!”
    He began to lean toward her, then paused about an inch from her lips. “Wait a second—that's sick, she's dead !”
    He stood up straight. “Now, with this poison...” he said, grabbing a bottle of booze, “...I shall join thee in thy grave.”
    He drank it and grimaced. “Ugh, the fluid that would bring us together for eternal love doth taste like crap. Thy drugs are quick. With this, I die.”
    He waited a moment. Nothing happened. He tapped his stomach, then glanced around the tomb while he waited. Checked his fingernails for dirt. Sighed loudly. Then grimaced in great pain. After a second, the pain ceased.
    “Gas,” he muttered. “Forget it, I'm in a hurry.”
    He took out a meat cleaver. “O, happy meat cleaver. This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die!” He twirled it in the air several times like a professional chef, then stabbed himself. “Ooh—that's gonna leave a mark,” he winced.
    Then he died. It was fairly graceful, as such deaths go, with only a minor bit of gurgling and choking distracting from the mood.
    The image faded, but the block remained, casting a dim light upon Randall and Grysh.
    “Bummer,” said Randall.
    “Truly. I revived him, but his anger ran deep, and he left, never to be seen again. Well, not by me, at least.”
    “Bummer number two.”
    “That is what love means to me,” she said. “Loss. Sorrow. Misery. Oh, if only somebody were to find my dear Romeoo and return him to me!”
    Four shadows darted across the wall.
    “But,” Grysh sighed, “that's probably not going to happen.”
    “Probably not,” Randall agreed.
    “So I have to concentrate on physical pleasure instead of love. But I'm still enough into love that I feel we should look beyond surface beauty.”
    She snapped her fingers, transforming back into the wretched creature. Randall gagged.
    “Ready?” she asked.
    “Uh ... could we go back to that darkness motif?”
    The block of light vanished.
    “And is it possible to temporarily get rid of my other four senses?”
    “You should be more open to new experiences,” Grysh scolded. “Am I that repulsive?”
    “No, no,” Randall lied. “It's just that, well, I'm too excited, and if something isn't done to numb my senses I'll probably burst into a fit of unrestrained giddiness that won't be pleasant to watch.”
    “Kiss me,” said Grysh.
    “You mean now or sometime in the future?”
    “Now.”
    “Where?”
    “Here.”
    “There already?”
    “It's my hand.”
    “Interesting hand.”
    “Kiss it.”
    “I will.”
    “Now.”
    “I will.”
    “I don't feel it being kissed.”
    “Figured I'd practice on my own hand a few times first.”
    The witch cursed ("fiddlesticks") and illuminated the room. Randall's stomach twitched a bit as he saw that there were at least ten men chained to the walls.
    “Who are they ?” he gasped.
    “My previous love slaves.”
    “Any special reason they're chained to the wall?”
    “Purely decorative.”
    The men were all giving Randall dirty looks, which he felt rather insensitive considering that he was the one currently getting the worst of the situation. He gave them a light wave. “Hi. How's it going?”
    “They won't answer you,” Grysh told him. “They're giving me the silent treatment. They think it bugs me.”
    “Does it?”
    All of the chained men began to nod.
    “Liars!” Grysh shouted. “You think something like the silent treatment can bother a witch of my power? I laugh at your feeble attempt! Ha! Ha again! I laugh in your collective faces!”
    The men said nothing.
    “I'm still laughing in your faces,” Grysh insisted. “Doesn't bother me a bit that you won't talk. Not a bit. You hear me? Your little stunt isn't working. So you might as well quit it and start talking.”
    The men remained silent.
    “I'm gonna kill them,” said Grysh, reaching underneath the pillow and taking out a wicked-looking knife with a twelve-inch