Free Undead and Undermined by MaryJanice Davidson

they’re more interested in paperwork over polite conversation.”
    “Thanks for coming so—”
    “Twice! I’ve worn those jeans twice! Not a speck of paint, which is no mean feat when you paint in them. I thought it’d be nice to give away clothing that was only ‘gently used’ as opposed to falling off me in shreds. Any gratitude, though? Hmm? Not a thanks, not even a smile.”
    “Here’s the thing,” I tried again.
    Laura was shaking her perfectly coiffed hair out of her gorgeous eyes. “Just ‘do you want a slip for your taxes?’ No I do not , but how about some eye contact?” Laura was a luscious blonde . . . close to my height, give or take an inch, with beautiful blue eyes, a perfect pink-hued complexion, and a gorgeous fall of corn-silk blond hair. Just . . . sickening.
    “I’m here,” she said unnecessarily. “What’s—oh, God!” She was pointing at The Thing That Was Jessica’s Gut, and I couldn’t blame her. “What—are you—what is that?”
    “You haven’t noticed any subtle and not so subtle weirdnesses—”
    “Is that even a word?”
    “Shut up, Marc or Marc Thing.” I hadn’t been looking, I was embarrassed to say. That sly/sneaky tone could have come from either the live Marc or the dead one. Because I didn’t. Have enough. Problems.
    “How long were you home? How’s your mom—not the devil, your other mom? Has she had a perm? Quit school? Or never went to college? Do you have another sibling? New pets? Are old dead pets alive again? Is your dad—your live one, not our dead one—still a minister? That”—I pointed, ignoring Jessica’s glare—“is the least of the scary-ass goings-on around here. Here, Dick and Jess are practically married, and are practicing living happily ever after.”
    Laura rounded on me like a gunfighter, using shrill accusations as bullets. On the whole, I’d have preferred actual lead bullets. “It’s because you didn’t feed on Nick when we were in the past! You fed on me instead, you thoughtless starving wretch!”
    “Ouch,” I said mildly.
    “I warned you! Didn’t I warn you?”
    “You were less shrill in the old timeline.”
    “That changed his future, and Jessica’s!”
    “You don’t have to make it sound like a bad thing.”
    “Excuse me!” Jessica’s Sperm Boy was waving his arms around. “First off, it’s Dick. I hate Nick, I’ve hated it my entire life,” Nick said. “Second, didn’t feed on him? Could the studio audience hear the playback on that one, please?”
    “No time. I’ll get you the blog entry later. Laura, the reason we called you here—”
    “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies.”
    “Cliché!” I said, clenching a fist in triumph. “That’s been used to death in several sitcoms, including Night Court . Night Court, Laura. Be ashamed.”
    “Except I do,” Laura said, calming down a little. “When our ministry spent a summer in Malawi, we assisted at dozens of births. There are at least three Lauras in Malawi, the moms were so nice and grateful.”
    “Getting gratitude is becoming a thing with you, but even so, you’re the worst Antichrist ever,” Jessica said. “Which is actually comforting. Stay close.”
    “It’s not why you’re here.”
    “Too bad.” Laura sighed. “It would have been neat to deliver a baby. That tends to be the opposite of evil.”
    “Depends on the baby,” Marc muttered.
    “Cheer up—anything can happen in the next few weeks. Fairfield Hospital . . . the devil’s daughter . . . if you don’t have to deal with an HMO it’s almost worth it . . .” Being dead was good for that if nothing else. Never again would I get a whopping bill because I’d dared use the gynecologist I was most comfortable with. “Sorry, you have to use our guy or we’ll charge you a zillion bucks.” Talk about soulless.
    But! Enough musing about HMOs; I felt we were getting off track. This was nothing new, just alarming. Time was not on our side . . . even