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“Where is Winky? She was supposed to meet us and show us around the house.”
Figgy fluttered to the window sill next to Pixie. “Winky decided she needed one more day at the Sugar Shake Spa to prepare herself for her return to the Walters.”
Pixie raised an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”
“Must be,” said Figgy holding up roll of paper. “But, she sent these notes about last year’s events.”
“Whoa. That is a long list! What does is it say?”
“Let’s see…the first night seemed to go ok. The boys weren’t expecting her afterall. But…on the second night, they filled a bucket with slime and placed it above the window so that when Winky flew in…oh dear…”.
“What is it?” asked Pixie.
“Er…the bucket dumped all over her and she was covered in goo.”
“Well,” said Pixie brightly. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Then,” continued Figgy. “When Winky got up to wipe the slime off, she hit a trip wire and a fan blew feathers all over her.”
Pixie’s eyes bulged. “Oh dear.”
“Yes,” said Figgy. “Exactly. From there, it just got worse and more dangerous. By the end of the season, Winky checked into the Sugar Shake Spa for ‘relaxation therapy.’ She’s not been the same since.”
“We’ll just have to go in through the door then. The front door. They’ll never suspect that.”
Figgy looked doubtfully at Pixie, shrugged, then headed for the door.
“Looks like we can fit through the mail slot,” he said as he flew up. Pixie followed close behind.
“Ok,” Figgy slowly lifted the slot. “I’ll go first to check the coast is clear. Then you foll—AGH!”
Before Figgy could blink, he slid down a very slippery slide, grabbed Pixie’s foot on the way down and landed in a glass vase. It teetered, tottered and tumbled down the few stairs in the entryway and continued rolling down the long, long hall.
“Figgy! How do we stop this thing???”
“I don’t know, Pixie!!!”
After careering a few more feet, the vase hit the wall and bounced back. Figgy and Pixie scrambled out, panting and checking for injuries.
“W-well,” gasped Pixie. “That was certainly a fine greeting.”
“Uh oh,” said Figgy, holding the end of a wire they’d plowed through on their way down the hall. Eyes widening in horror, he stared over Pixie’s head at a large bucket of thick, drippy, sticky, brown goo.
Pixie spun around, but it was already pouring down.
Glug, glug, GLUG!
“Mmm,” said Figgy as he licked his lips and smeared chocolate away from his eyes. “Dark chocolate. Nice taste.”
“You have to hand it to them,” continued Figgy, oblivious to the daggers coming from Pixie’s eyes. “They are consistent.” He nodded to the bucket.
“At least it was chocolate this time,” Figgy added.
They had a lot of work to do.