One of the cornerstones of adulthood is forming healthy, lighthearted relationships with your coworkers. The defining phrase of coworkership is, in my opinion, “Happy Friday!”. This could be taken to mean “have a great weekend”, or, for the more cynical, “I’m going to enjoy not looking at your stupid face for two days, so you should enjoy not looking at mine”.
At any rate, this is, in fact, a happy Friday. As you may know, I have in the past hinted about possible reward tiers for that Patreon that I started for *some reason*. If you have been wondering about this, wonder no more!
The following Fiction Friday post acts as the pilot for a new series, entitled “Who the Fuck is Avonlea Blake?!”. It’s a delightful urban fantasy tale about how selling your soul can go horribly wrong- even when it’s not to the devil. Further chapters will be posted once a month, and Patreon supporters who pledge $5 or more will be the ONLY ones who get to read this story.
Who the Fuck is Avonlea Blake?!
“You’re a grand old flag, you’re a high flying flag
And forever in peace shall you wave!”
Avonlea Blake rolls over, desperately groping for her cell phone.
“You’re the emblem of
The land I love”
She had gotten drunk a few weeks ago and thought that changing her alarm to “The Grand Old Flag” would be a good idea. She has been consistently drunker since, and couldn’t figure out how to change it. Nor did she ever remember that she wanted to until it was going off.
“The home of the free and the brave!
Every heart beats true for the-“
Avonlea finds her phone in the blankets and stabs at the screen with her index finger until the song stops. She sits up with a groan and removes her Holly Golightly eye mask. Her bedside table is littered with melted pints of Halo Top and travel sized bottles of booze. She grins when she notices that at least four are still full.
“Breakfast of champs,” she says as she downs them, not paying attention to what she’s mixing. Before she can finish swallowing, she feels her phone begin to buzz again. The caller ID reads “L.A.”
“Yo.” Avonlea answers, wiping a trail of whiskey-tequila-vodka off of her chin with the back of her hand.
“Don’t you dare ‘yo’ me, Avonlea Katherine Blake!” L.A. roars into her Bluetooth. Avonlea holds the phone back from her ear, the words echoing off of the walls of her bedroom.
“It’s too early for three names, L.A..”
“It’s four thirty in the afternoon, you lazy brat!”
“I can’t do three names until, like, at least 6:45.”
“The deal was if you wanted to fool around in Minneapolis that you get your ass on the plane to LA, when exactly when I tell you to be in LA! Do you understand me? Get your ass to the airport, now or so help me god you need to find another agent.”
“Ah, no, L.A., don’t say that, you’re the best agent in the business, what will I do without you?” Avonlea rattles off, picking at the chipping polish on her fingernails.
“And you better lie better than that when you get here. The execs are LIVID. You lose this project and we’re done, kid, DONE.”
Avonlea listens until her phone beeps in her ear to tell her the call was terminated. She slinks under her comforter for a moment, swears, then jumps out of bed so quickly that it takes her body a moment to register nausea.
In the shower, Avonlea sings along to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! while she brushes her teeth, taking the time to wash and condition her hair as well. When she’s finished, she doesn’t bother with a towel, since she won’t be back to this home for at least a month. As always, she talks to herself in the mirror for a moment.
“Ok, pal. Listen up. You are gonna go out there, you are gonna do this thing, and then you can come home and drink like an idiot. No more passing out on set, no more puking in wardrobe. Ok? Ok.” She finishes braiding her hair, and then makes her daily wish that people would stop comparing her to Gabrielle Union. She doesn’t look like Gabrielle Union, ok?!? All Black women don’t like alike (Although, she actually does look kind of like Zendaya now that you mention it. Yeah, a bit like Meagan Good too. Or if they had a baby who then had a baby with Lauryn Hill). After that, there is nothing left to do but grab her backpack and leave, but Avonlea always makes a production out of it. She kisses all of her furniture, drinks from the kitchen faucet, and spits it into the empty fish tank by the door on her way out.
Avonlea Blake has enough money to pay for an Uber to the airport, but she doesn’t want to, thank you very much. So instead she walks the mile to the light rail, and then takes that to the airport. On the train ride, she takes a few pictures and a few tabs of melatonin (pictures of her doing this will appear on TMZ, with the caption of WHAT IS SHE POPPING NOW? Your mouth, if she had her way). Avonlea Blake is kinda nice, the Instagram captions from fans will say.
Avonlea Blake is kinda early, the caption under her latest Instagram post says. She is sitting at the gate for her nonstop (emphasis by her agent. There have been mishaps in the past) flight to LA (The city LA. Not the agent, who is L.A., Lana Avery, of Avery Talent and Models) and is holding a cocktail in the accompanying image. She has over a thousand comments on it already, complimenting her fishtail braid, her clear skin, her earrings, disparaging her fishtail braid; asking where she got her hoodie, where she got her pants, is she wearing pants, what does she think of wearing pants to the airport, why does she fly commercial, will she marry avonlealuver22 or celebrityfan118 or sheezysheezus? As usual, she ignores them all. She takes her time with her gin and club soda, knowing that she has to be somewhat well behaved on this flight (There have been mishaps).
Avonlea catches a girl with dyed blue-grey hair and big sad eyes staring at her. She glances around to see if she’s with anyone, but she doesn’t seem to be. Fuck it, she thinks, and waves the girl over. She sits down in the seat across from Avonlea, and seems nervous (Avonlea misreads this as her being star struck, because she’s a bit full of herself).
“Are you going to LA for business, or pleasure?” Avonlea asks, smiling her megawatt smile.
The girl cocks her head to the left, then the right. She touches the table, then pulls her hands back. After this physical hemming and hawing of sorts, she answers. “Business.”
Avonlea nods. “Like me. That’s legit.”
Thinking of no response, the girl just grimaces (or smiles?).
“Ok, well, where are you sitting?”
The girl pulls out the ticket and stares at it. “A2?”
“Oh hey, seatmates. Guess that means you have to tell me your name.” Avonlea says, fluttering her lashes (Avonlea Blake is kinda into girls).
“My name?” The girl says, glancing around again.
“Yeah. That thing on your driver’s license, above your height.” Avonlea says, wiggling in her seat for emphasis. She takes another healthy sip of her drink.
“What the fuck kind of name is that?” Avonlea guffaws and collapses into giggles.
“What sort of a name is Avonlea?” The girl retorts defiantly.
“Ok, but you see, I’m famous. I’m supposed to have a weird name.” Avonlea explains to the girl, who she thinks might be slow (she isn’t. She’s quite clever).
“Among them that gave you your fame, I also am.” Carmody says, and sits back in her chair, triumphant.
The grin falls off of Avonlea’s face. “Wha-what?”
“It’s time for you to pay back that favor, Ms. Blake. And I’m here to make sure you do that, by any means necessary.”
Avonlea Blake is kinda fucked.
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