Fifi was always going to be frog. It was the deal Annette struck whenever she wanted her familiar’s assistance. If the pedicurist cut off the girl’s toes, she’d become permanent frog. If she didn’t, she’d just be weekend frog – the rest of the week, allowed to be her normal self and reflect on the consequences of her unpleasantness.
It may have struck a casual observer as vindictive, but nasty people deserved nasty treatment. And it might just teach her a lesson in customer relations.
The dentist, the doctor, the makeup artist, the plumber, a college principal, the petrol pump attendant, the insurance salesman, the librarian – and all the others who’d tried to steal her toes – all were now reformed, socially useful characters, thanks to those tactics.
Madam Fifi did not know all.
Now it was up to the pedicurist; weekend or permanent?
Reluctantly, Fifi dropped the secateurs to the floor.
And Annette breathed a sigh of relief.
Keeping both eyes on Fifi, the long magic wand in his mouth still pressed against her back. Ribbons’ paw kicked away the shears. They slid ten feet across bare wood before stopping against the pink skirting board.
‘You won’t get away with this.’ Fifi raised her hands in surrender. ‘I have lawyers, big lawyers, lawyers so big they can barely get through the door, big doors, doors so big they’re too big for their buildings; buildings too big for small cats like you.’
Ribbons was unimpressed. ‘Stow it, lady. Or I might just get nervous and pull the trigger.’ And he ordered, ‘Now, you’re gonna give this little lady the zingiest pedicure anyone ever saw.’