the air, I tossed her bony butt onto a chair.
“Thanks, Gigantic Globes,” Martha said.
“No problem, Jiggly Puffs,” I said, laughing.
Martha let it rip, calling everyone’s lady bits in the room so many names, I was doubled over laughing. Anastasia was flabbergasted and giggling uncontrollably.
“Fine!” Anastasia shouted. “You win.”
“You get one last shot,” Martha dared Anastasia. “One last chance to win the Mammary Championship.”
“Also known as Queen of the Knockers,” Jane added.
Anastasia wiped the grin off her face and got serious. “And if I win?”
“You won’t,” Jane stated.
“But if I do?” she pressed.
Martha and Jane exchanged glances. This was some serious shit.
“If you win, we will perform a full-length, six-hour and thirty-two-minute private concert for you in your home,” Martha promised.
“That’s worth seventy-five dollars without tips,” Jane explained. “The only other person we’ve done it for was Simon Cowell. He cried for two weeks afterward.”
“And he never paid us,” Martha chimed in.
“Umm… not sure the prize is worth it,” I told my sister-in-law. “Your eardrums won’t survive.”
“I think the prize is outstanding,” Anastasia countered with a wink. “I will go for it.”
I shook my head. She’d never heard the old bats sing. She was in for a tragically horrifying surprise. “It’s your hearing.”
Rubbing her hands together and eyeing the two imbeciles who were probably hoping to lose so they could perform a concert, Anastasia cleared her throat and dove in.
“Mango McMauMaus, you have picked the wrong dead gal to compete with,” she began, much to the delight of Martha and Jane. “Noogie Pumpkins who challenge me are little more than Squishy Shirt-Potatoes looking to lose. But Tatas LaSkin-Sacks rarely know when they’ve met their match. Meatloaf Mounds who claim unfounded victory should accept that they are merely Lady-Lumps LeBlubber-nuts. And in conclusion, I shall leave you with this…”
Anastasia clasped her hands in front of her chest and began to sing. Her voice was wondrous. She sounded like the Angels on High. However, the lyrics? Not so much. I would never hear “Mary Had A Little Lamb” the same way again.
“Martha had a little boob. Little saggy nube, squishy ice cube. Jane too had a tiny bumpy tube, the flesh was floppy as dough. And every bra that Martha bent, Martha sent, with Jane’s consent. Every bra that Martha lent, the torpedo tubes were filled with woe.”
Jane turned purple, she was cackling so loud. Martha fell off the chair and rolled all over the office. Anastasia pumped her fists over her head in victory.
“And the winner is… Anastasia,” I announced over the hysterics. “However, I am going on record that you will regret winning, since the prize is terrifying and nightmare-inducing.”
“Don’t care,” Anastasia said with a giggle, pointing at the incapacitated Martha and Jane. “Totally worth it. I haven’t laughed like that in decades.”
Her statement made me sad. “You’re not included in Ethan’s order for Wilhem to leave.”
Anastasia sobered quickly and nodded. “I thought not. I don’t know what happened between my brothers, but it is none of my business unless either of them wants to share. Wilhem has always been jealous of Ethan, much to the dismay of our father.”
“That sucks for him,” I said. “Jealousy can be a fatal disease.”
“Correct,” Anastasia conceded in a weary tone. “Wilhem feels that way about all of our male siblings. Sad use of time if you ask me.”
“Just the males?” I asked, wondering how sexist the man truly was.
“Yes. And I agree with your thought,” she said.
My brows shot up in surprise. Could everyone crawl into my head? This was going to be a problem. “Can you hear my thoughts?”
“No,” she assured me. “I can read your face. You are a very expressive person.”
My relief was palpable and we both laughed. “Will Wilhem leave peacefully?”
Anastasia walked across the room and picked up Martha, who’d gotten herself wedged under the desk in her fit of hysterics. “Yes, he will leave without a fight. His gal pal will throw a fit, though.”
Following Anastasia’s lead, I dislodged Jane from under the carpet. She had twisted her bony little body into a pretzel. With a snap of my fingers, I de-pretzeled the idiot. “What the heck is her deal?”
Shrugging, Anastasia placed Martha in a chair and straightened what little there was of her hair. “She has visions of wearing a crown on her head. If you ask me, it will never work.”
“Why?” I questioned, seating Jane next to Martha and making sure her knockers were still tucked into her jog bra. As silly as the boob talk had