Chapter 65 — In Which the Yandere Snow Witch is Roofied into Submission

The way was shut. The portcullis dropped, the drawbar bolted, the gatehouse entombed in ice, machicolations and murder holes loaded with venomously sharp icicles, woolly giraffes guarded the perimeter— never turn your back on those long-necked, long-legged, dreadlocked creatures of the arctic regions!They’ll bite your head clean off! In the heart of this crystalline château d’If, imprisoned deep within its frosty chambers, the Snow Witch and Peter laid across the carcass of a polar bear pancaked into a rug— the most vicious floor accessory one can buy, just don’t let those assholes from the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species find out! A spectral flame that offered no warmth danced within an icy hearth, spewing shadows upon the floor and walls that twisted like serpents.

Bizet once said ‘L’amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser.’ No idea what that means. But to the Snow Witch love was an ortolan, waterboarded with brandywine, and eaten bones and all. Forget calling out to love in vain, waiting endlessly for love to land in your birdbath! Go out into the woods and catch that little fucker in a net. Catch it again and again until the French government gets involved and says ‘regarde, madame, love is critically endangered because you keep catching and eating it,’ but in a French accent— figuratively speaking.

The Snow Witch’s fangs pressed into her ripe lip. Her murderous eyes swirled with hunger.She sized Peter up and down. Her claws skipped over his body, tiny knife-pricks walking up his leg, to his waist, to his ribs, to his neck. Hidden under his clothes, Peter was armed to the teeth with sedatives, and her greedy hands groped just shy of discovering them. Peter took out a bottle of Château Perrault and asked if she had a corkscrew. With assassin-like precision her claw slashed across the bottle neck— the glass top popped off, cork and all, perfectly decapitated.

“That works too,” Peter said.

Like a felon magician, Peter hid the roofies in his palm and reached for wine glasses, but the Snow Witch, true to her red flag nature, tilted her head back and glugged straight from the bottle. Then she yanked Peter’s hair and told him, “Open up and let the devil in.” Peter gulped grape juice and choked. He guessed he would have to spike the bottle itself. He yanked it out of her icy clutches and dropped the pills in, but rather than plunk into liquid, they clinked and rattled inside. He peered into the bottle— the wine had frozen into a Pinot popsicle in her clutches.

“Do you have any finger foods?” Peter asked.

“How’s this for finger food?”

The Snow Witch took Peter’s finger and inhaled it into her icy mouth. His flesh froze between her teeth, and she released him before his human flesh blistered her tongue. Instant freezer burn. He nursed his finger back from frostbite. Thenshe pounced upon him. As she kissed his neck and face, breathing her icy breath upon his skin, he took hold of the syringe. A moment’s courage and it would be done. She would feel betrayed, perhaps even cry, but once the Midazolam took hold she would not remember a thing. He brought the tip of the needle to her glittering white neck, aimed for the jugular, and then plunged. The lethal tip shattered against her flesh. She perked up and brushed her neck as if swatting away a mosquito.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

[NovelPhoenix NovelPhoenix ScribbleHyb Whypstopher Pippinsticks NovelPhoenix NovelPhoenix ScribbleHyb]

Oh no, Peter! You’re about as skilled at drugging girls as you are flirting with them! What an unfortunate turn of events! More unfortunate yet— what will happen to Peter’s pecker if the polar princess picks his peenie whilst stone cold sober? Have you ever seen photos of frostbite? Don’t Google it! What a horribly painful way to eunuchize oneself! Well— there’s probably no good way to be castrated, but certainly being squeezed within a snug love tunnel of dry ice was very low on the surgical tier list! And now Peter was down to his last resort. One final chance to chemically discombobulate the Snow Witch and deceive her into thinking their one-sided relationship was consummated. This was it! Don’t get scared now.

The Snow Witch, with Edward Scissorhands-like precision, snipped away at his sweater until he was bare chested before her. Her icy claws stroked up and down him like knives.

“Careful with those!” he said. And she giggled at his terrified expression.

As the Snow Witch threw away her icicle spiked veil and stripped off her dress, Peter reached for the fun sized gas cylinder hidden inside his satchel. You know— Peter’s satchel! The satchel he always carries with him. Oh it’s been mentioned so many times in the novel! Peter and his satchel, they’re practically inseparable. No, no, don’t look back at the previous pages. It’s there.

He took a deep breath, filled his lungs to burst with cold air, and held it as the nitrus-oxide invisibly filled the room. Hold your breath, reader, and see if you can hold it as long as Peter can. But then— the valve broke— the gas flushed— and the cylinder rocketed across the room— out the window— and sailed into the night sky— moonwards. The Snow Witch pulled her head free of her clothes and sexily shook her long blue hair.

Peter exhaled, long and slow, in defeat. That was it. The plan had failed. The mismatched lovers, semi-undressed, neared the precipice that no Snow Witch and human had ever crossed before— and for good reason! Her carnivorous smile was ready for a figurative feast.

“Let’s do whippits!” Peter blurted out.

The Snow Witch’s expression, full of wanton carnal desire, melted to confusion.

“Whippits?”

Ah yes, whippits, the preferred drug among middle schoolers. Peter had sacrificed many a brain cell huffing the creamy dragon in Kevin’s basement. But that was before he went straight edge. He perused the Snow Witch’s cooking chamber and regaled her with tales of the physiological and homeopathic benefits— all of them lies— of huffing aerosolized whipped cream. But what really sold her on it was his insistence that whippits possessed an aphrodisiacal power, turning lovers into sex crazed fiends— which was also a lie.

With nozzle to nostril, and with a convincing performance, Peter snooted a slurry of nitrus oxide. His eyes rolled, his whole body shivered, brain cocooned in marshmallow fluff, and he exhaled shakily. Then, to sell the lie, he lunged at the Snow Witch and smooched her. The gullible frosty girlfriend couldn’t wait to be swept away on an ice cream topping induced nymphomaniac high.

Then she too, being of unfathomable power, conjurer of ice magic, immortal of the secret frost, wielder of the old silk hat, sat down in naught but her panties and inhaled deep from the canister. The Snow Witch giggled, sniffed at the air, and then slowly looked around. Her head hung heavy and her eyes fought to remain open.

“Oh wow!” she said somewhat drunkenly. “What is… what is… huh?”

She lifted her hand, studied it, and began blinking hard and irregularly. Reality distorted itself before her very eyes. Peter watched and waited for her to pass out, but she remained conscious.

“Again!” he bellowed.

Peter took another hit, and this time the whipped cream poison shot up and into his sinuses. He wheezed, coughed, wheezed again, lungs empty, and faintly choked out, “Your turn.”

The Snow Witch took another pull— a baby whiff— just a millisecond, and her face was aglow.

“Oooh… I can feel it.” She succumbed to psychosomatic horniness. It was like filing the teeth of piranhas to an extra sharp point before jumping into the tank.

“No, no, no, no! That was nothing!”

Peter gathered the giggling Snow Witch in his arms and laid her back, and she blushed at the intimacy, and surrendered to him. He stuck the can of Puffy Fluffy Whip to her nose and shot a double-stuff blast of nitrus right up to her brain— then more gas, and more gas, and more. Holy crap, Peter, give her some air!

The Snow Witch broke free of him, staggered drunkenly, completely out of her head, and said, “I think something’s wrong with my brain.” Then, like a corpse falling from a coffin, she collapsed face first, and moved no more.

Terror gripped Peter. Nothing wakes one up quite like an accidental case of snow-manslaughter. He flopped the frigid girl onto her back and put his ear to her lips. Softly she cooed supercooled air against his flesh— alive. This is why you don’t do whippits, children. It’s all fun and games until someone goes to the morgue. The Snow Witch lay in a tangled heap— arms and legs contorted, hair wild and a mess. A broken marionette of a girl, pathetic to behold. It’s unnatural, seeing one of Odin’s lovely creatures in such an ungraceful, catatonic condition, like seeing a wise owl laid out after flying face first into a window, or a ballerina forced to dance in cumbersome, extra-long, free diving fins and weight belts.

But this was only half the plan. Now that her mind was awash with emptiness, Peter was free to fabricate her greatest desire.