Souls-A-Swappin’: An Alexis Chatt Novel of Paranormal Romance as by Anita Brake, AKA J.D. Robbed, AKA Martin Ross

Disclaimer: A sequel to “Hearts A-Pfishing: A Romance as by J.D. Robbed”

Chapter 12

Atlanta, Georgia

Alexis adoringly poured Dvlknsh another cup of hemoglobin-infused Mozambique AA, stroking the spot where the Latvian mob had ripped a patch of hair and scalp from the Syburslovenian hacker to create a clone capable of doubling Dvlknsh’ plagiarized output.

The genetic doppelganger turned out to be encoded with probing psychological insight, and when it killed off half the male population of Cherry Stream (the Virgin River clone that regularly topped the Latvians’ fall list), Dvlknsh was forced to euthanize his brother from another splitter after rescuing it from his employers’ smelting furnace/clone disposal unit.

That Dvlknsh, alias "Lance," had eliminated the Latvians before they’d actually tossed D2 into the foundry raised Alexis’ suspicions that her Lil Knish may have eradicated a threat to his literary reputation rather than releasing his dupe from a living hell. But Alexis was a trusting soul who preferred to ignore the negative in a soulmate — a remnant of what she called her “cozy” former life as a New England cupcake artisan seeking her heart’s throbbing desire.

“My Knish,” she cooed, patting her mate’s prosthetic shoulder. Dvlknish made an affectionate sound that in Syburslovenian indicated either libidinous post-coffee desire or the pulsing instinct for revenge for the death of a beloved pet or parent.

Dvlknsh’ Mumsk and Popyisk had been disemboweled by Skippy the family wolfhound at a tender age, and, as they shared the same throbbing heart (installed by the underground engineer/surgeon Gepettishk during the honeymoon), Alexis just knew…

After all, after Dvlknsh nearly died after contracting vampirism at a backyard barbecue at his Transylvanian cousin’s hovel, “AI” had come to even more fully embrace life and the throbbing need to hold those precious even more throbbingly close. As long as he did not use his teeth.

She left her Knish to his coffee and, ironically, beignets — Georgians apparently did not grasp deli science. Georgia had rejoined the New Confederacy after the Carolinians had extended a joint tourism promotion cost-sharing treaty, and Alexis felt a throbbing disdain for its old-school (1927) air of Southern hospitality. But after Satan materialized in the earthly realm to wreak havoc three years previous, in an Atlanta Chik Fil A an erroneous block from the Church of the Everloving Guilt-Ridden Methodist Episcopal Evangelical Baptist Church, the newly minted paranormal investigator knew where her fortunes would lie.

The devil obviously had a sense of humor, or at the least a love for classic country. Old Weird Al’s “The Devil Went Down for Cole Slaw” became an instant Billboard hit, especially among fundamentalists who relished Beelzebub’s greatest gaffe since not offering Eve something more enticing than an apple.

Satan himself never quite recovered from his poor astral relocation skills, and after realizing pure evil was something of a redundancy in the 21st Century Renewed South (he never ventured into the Florida Panhandle), his activities these days were limited to mainly white-collar mischief.

And that’s where Lavigne Pastore came in. Alexis found Pastore in the parlor, studying a decorative Noche de los Muertos Insomnia Mask.

“From your travels?” the young woman drawled in a deep Southern patois that underlined her roots as a Des Moines design transfer student with a throbbingly intense desire for approval.

“Etsy,” AIexis intoned gravely. “It gave me many sleepless nights, at least until I translated the instructions.”

Lavigne blushed dixieshly. “I’m quite the online shopper myself, and that’s what got me in deep shit —deep hog gravy. I’m interning in feng shui for the hospitality industry, specializing in calming decor for harried Type A women trapped in stagnant work balance cycles and unfulfilling urban relationships.”

“Hey, I’m a Vermont girl, so I get it.”

“Yeaaah, well, when the new wave of COVID Delta Phi hit the region, I started getting all my food off Grub Hub and ordering everything from Amazon.”

“I went ahead and got the FSC treatments.”

“I heard bad shit about that from the Great and Powerful Oz, who used to have that show before he was elected governor, you know? Anyway, when one of the clients needed an 1840 defoliating whip, I had to go to, well, Dark Amazon. It was Black Friday, and they promised ‘blacker than black deals.’”

Alexis felt a sudden throbbing in her gut, and dropped into the Charlaine Harris throne her fondant chef Mikhail the Russian had gifted the baker and the cyberthief at their Romantic Suspense Semi-Commitment Ceremony.

“Did you have any idea what you were doing?” Alexis gasped.

“I just thought it was Amazon’s boutique for distasteful accessories with a dark backstory,” Lavigne lamented, near tears. “Besides, they put it between Kindle Romance and Religious Housewares.”

“It was the last deal Bezos made before retiring,” I moaned. “Then the devil found a loophole, and grew a lush head of hair on Jeff’s hindquarters instead.”

“The devil’s kind of a jag, isn’t he?”

“Kind of by definition. So what did you get for your soul?”

Now, Lavigne broke into ladylike mews. “Free shipping and a gift box! It was at checkout, between the Prime and Superprime delivery options! I got a lousy velveteen gift box with an evil smirk on the side.”

“That’s just the Amazon logo. Were there terms and conditions?”

“THEY WOULDN’T TAKE MY CARD UNTIL I CHECKED THE BOX!”

Alexis snapped her fingers. “You bought the whip for a client, right? Please tell me you used a corporate credit account.”

“They’re an OG firm, and Dark Amazon wouldn’t accept their Discover Business Lite card. They said they’d pay me back.” A throbbing spark of hope pulsed through her cornflower blue contacts. “Hey, once ShuiFair reimburses me, wouldn’t their souls be on the hook? Could I sue?”

“You could try, but between Turner and Tyler Perry, the Atlanta courts are very business-friendly. Even if it’s the business of small-footprint decorators or the Work of the Dark Prince. Satan, not Ted Turner. Who I believe is in an LLC with Tesla, which makes it nearly impossible to win.”

“What am I to do?” Lavigne wailed.

When in doubt, Alexis accessed her Inner Cozy. “Why don’t I pop open some chablis and nuke some popcorn, girl?”

**

The devil’s lair was in a defunct Bed, Bath, and Beyond on the even more southern end of town. A Waffle House and a Chuck E. Cheese appropriately buttressed Hades North, and as Alexis approached, she caught a whiff of sulfur and intense lavender. These places were like meth labs — you could get an EPA remediation crew in here, and the potpourri/aromatherapy stench would linger until the next extinction event. Alexis hoped the floral notes might weaken Satan’s focus and resolve.

The two-headed golden doodle began wriggling insanely as she studied the main entrance. Cerberus was eternally consigned to the Gates of Hell, and so Satan was forced to find a breeder and a dark shaman. Despite its elephantine stature, the demon doodle was incapable of even a violent impulse, but its needy, smothering, relentless affection was just as deadly, and those who dared darken (or lighten) the devil’s outlet were lucky merely to be suffocated quickly. Mauling was not an option: The beast would not relinquish the huge rubber kong it carried in each jaw.

“It is said if you can remove the kongs from both, it will disorient Scuffy, and access is yours,” Mikhail had texted between batches of his specialty buttercream delights and krav magrev classes. “Treats will not work, nor such enticements as the promise of a long ride. The Vatican commissioned Cesar Millan to breech the hell chamber, and he was, well, he wound up tugged. And witnesses testified neither dog relinquished its kong the entire time Millan was being gradually deboned.”

Alexis’ had worked out the strategy after a marathon of intense role-play lovemaking like she’d never experienced solving bake sale murders and crafting bundts. Laying in the darkness, listening to Dvlknsh’s satisfied grunts and the comforting whistle of the nostril sliced open by an irate Liane Moriarty at the Grozny Book Fair release of Huge Tiny BS, she heard a familiar, domestic sound from the apartment below. Old Mrs. Evanovich’s AI Roomba, circulating about the space seeking foreign matter and traces of illicit Oreo crumbs and chocolate it would report to Robert Lowe’s crack team of Atkins caseworkers. Alexis shared many of the same processors with the device, and during the sweeper’s charging, they’d chat about Alexis’ more interesting occult cases and carb intake and Mrs. Evanovich’s repeated attempts to disable or murder the device.

As she basked in the mildly throbbing afterglow of Dvlknsh’s efficient and orthopedically rigorous passion, listening to Kit Kat particles and churro sugar rattle below, an idea was born.

The Target was only three blocks from Satan’s Plaza, and, aided by the post-Black Friday clearance and a Cyber Monday bottomless rebate, she secured everything she would need. It was a mild fall, and the equipment rental joint behind B’bubBB&B fulfilled the rest of her needs, with a tankful of gas to boot.

She stationed herself near the Panda Express grandfathered into the plaza under a deal even the Prince of Darkness couldn’t break, and cranked the generator. The power strips chained to the infernal machine rattled on the truck bed, and diners looked up from their sugar chicken at the Boschian roar of 35 max-capacity Dysons.

Alexis eased Dvlknsh’s treasured Yugo Verkhors forward, toward the adorable behemoth guarding the Gates of Hell’s Annex. Its fluffy ears perked at the maddening cyclone of perpetual suction. It’s fluffy rump thumped against the plate glass as she accelerated to the pickup’s maximum 32 MPH, and Alexis dodged toward the canine, only to reverse at the last moment and then repeat the process, drawing closer to the fire lane with each vehicular paso doble.

Scuffy pressed against the window, whining and pawing at the air. Then it broke as two barrel-sized rubber bombs bounced off the Yugo’s composite foil-grade aluminum/particle board cab. The devil doodle loped off past the Waffle House and the Michael’s Art Angel Hobbyist’s Haven.

“Good boy,” Alexis murmured, leaving the Dysons on “Bare Floor” as she jumped from the cab.

**   

He was in the back, which seemed counterintuitive as the BBB’s office had been just beyond the front registers. Alexis strode confidently past the mini-pits of fire where once discount Egyptian cotton and coffee pods had been displayed – the Tuesday crowd was too busy rendering and screaming to notice, and the staff was occupied watching for signs of momentary relief.

Pushing through the stockroom doors, the paranormal troubleshooter came face to face with a Lovecraftian creation of tentacles and nodules and eyes darker than the ink of unknown galaxies near the end of time and space.

“Cthulhu?” Alexis demanded.

“Shit,” the Elder God spat. “I thought you were Musk. For some reason Scuffy is mortally – well, immortally – terrified of him, and His Highness just seems to love the pop-in. Here, let me show you my true face.”

Alexis braced, gripping the holy water in her uncozily snug jeans. Satan seemingly melted and folded into himself, finally coalescing into a major disappointment.

“Yeah, David Schwimmer, right. OK, A.I. Chatt, paranormal investigator robot.” He reached for a nearby chalice of something effervescent and iridescent.

“Sentient cyberintelligence, dweeb.” Despite giving up the Cuisinart for a cross and runes, Alexis still had a tough time with obscenity. “Lavigne Pastore. We want a refund.”

“Tracking number? Oh, shit, nobody ever has the tacking number. Reconditioned instrument of torture/beauty aid, right? Nice. Sorry, read the legal disclaimer. You know the old schtick about hell and lawyers. It’s all airtight, I guarantee. What, are you here to challenge me to some battle of wits or something? The Devil and Daniel Webster much?”

“The what and what?”

“Stephen Vincent Benet?”

“The guy who wrote the Prada thing?”

“Webster, the dictionary guy?”

“Wiki?”

Blue flames roared to either side of Satan’s throne. “Read a book!” the dark overlord roared. “One Drew Barrymore didn’t recommend!”

“You’re the devil,” Alexis stated. Mephistopheles gave her a resting ‘dah’ face. “I did read the terms and conditions, in fact. As my client points out, you’re a bit of a jag. Section V of the Dark Amazon purchase agreement specifies you bear no responsibility for product replacement or refund in the case of theft before the customer takes receipt of a delivery. I knew you’d be too much of an asshole to provide quality customer service.”

Satan frowned. “Okay, you know we track every package from distribution center to doorstep. Order 6666666-05 was delivered this afternoon at 1:07. We emailed your client, complete with a timestamped photo of her order on the stoop.”

“Yeah. I know. I was on stakeout across the street. Until 1:07:30. And I think you’ll find my lover—“

“Yeesh.”

“-- my partner deleted the confirmation at both your end and from Lavigne’s account. She has no idea the order was fulfilled or that I pirated it. And I disposed of the wretched whip – go ahead and check.”

The devil squinted, Alexis suspected, for effect, then cursed something that might have been more shocking had he not just created it for just this situation.

“And Lavigne’s decided to go a different way, so she won’t be reordering. Yes, I know – you’re the devil, you can find another loophole, have every lawyer in Hell scouring for an exception. But you might consider this. You wonder why I ventured out shopping today, at the height of a pandemic that for all I know you started.”

“I didn’t have to,” Satan snorted. “Morons.”

“Nonetheless. You know COVID has evolved into a zoonotic disease? In other words…”

“Daniel Webster, remember?” Faux-Ross sneered. “It can transfer between humans and other animals. So?”

“Well, over the last several coronavirus variants, scientists have discovered that cats have developed essential new antibodies that make the species virtually invulnerable to the virus. And have developed feline stem cell therapies that make humans immune.”

“A COVID cure? No self-respecting pharmaceutical company would sign off on that.”

“Why it cost me an arm and a leg in Chechnya. Luckily, my partner has overseas connections and publishing money. And Lavigne Pastore has some of that sweet Iowa hog money. Pastore Pure Pork Sausage? She should be setting down on the continent right about now, with a Latvian escort eager to please their top romance author.”

The devil’s laugh echoed through the warehouse. “So what’s your point? She’s gotta die sometime, of something.”

“You might be waiting an awful long time,” Alexis advised. “See, I’m a paranormal investigator, and a former Cozy. The same Chechnyan scientists who developed the COVID therapy have also found other feline traits playing out in their ‘clinical’ subjects. I talked to one fellow FSC patient who’s survived four complete heart failures, a near-decapitation on the Autobahn, a skiing accident, a car-bombing courtesy of Estonian separatists, and a direct, close-range shot to the stomach from his girlfriend’s husband. Just pretty much walked away each time. Eight times. Eight out of nine.

“Under Dark Amazon’s terms and conditions, you can only take possession of Lavigne’s soul at the end of her natural lifetime. She’s not an Estonian government official in the mob’s pocket who loves steak and vodka and cigars and fast cars and screwing mob wives. The nine lives thing is considered urban legend only because cats are constantly getting into reckless shit and we don’t pay attention. Trust me, if there’s one thing us Cozies understand besides cupcakes and quilts and innkeeping, it’s cats. I’ll bet you a shiny gold fiddle that you won’t cash in on Lavigne for a good 100 or maybe 150 years, if you feel it’s worth the trouble trying to enforce her unenforceable contract.”

And Alexis did what she’d been crawling out of her skin to do for the last 10 minutes, sweeping the devil’s chalice to the floor. These Chechnyans never tell you about the side effects.