“Fuck,” I hissed. My niece, who I secretly adored, was a terrifying nightmare. “And?”
“She said that she heard word on Oxford Street is that your pecker is petite. And those with pocket sized pee-pees tend to lash out at those who have much larger equipment, literal and metaphorical… like Vampyres.”
“WHAT?” I shouted. “Who said it? Which Oxford Street? My pecker is HUGE and OUTSTANDING and WONDEROUS. No one talks smack about my package.”
“Don’t know who said it. I suppose we should go to Kentucky and ask Astrid,” Lizard suggested.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” I snapped. “I shall get to the bottom of this hideous rumor immediately. Are you coming?”
Lizard laughed. “Wouldn’t miss it. Want one more drink before we hit the road?”
I considered the offer. It was practically impossible for a Demon to tie one on and the bourbon was rare and excellent… just like my fucking junk. “Yes. I’ll have one more.”
I drank the rest of the bottle. It would have been sinful to waste twenty-three-year-old Pappy Van Winkle. I was sinful, but not wasteful when it came to the good shit.
