In an epic battle between Cotton Mather and Ziggy Stardust,

her money was on Ziggy Stardust. If there was any one thing Britni knew, it was that. John had spent most of dinner last night trying to convince her that she undervalued Puritan work ethic and dogged perseverance in the face of multi-colored hairdos and gender neutrality, but John had funny lips, so it was hard to take his arguments too seriously. Besides, if it came down to it, anyone with an ounce of brains would know that Ziggy could call an army of space tigers to march at his side, and what could Cotton Mather bring in return? A flaming pulpit? Lame.

Britni ran green-lacquered nails through her platinum blonde curls and smiled. It was always a good idea to smile randomly at work. It confirmed everyone's suspicion that she was a ditz, and then no one asked too much of her. Since the pay was the same whether people expected brilliance from you or not, she thought it best to kept them thinking she was dumb. After all, she could play bimbo secretary with the best of them. Kept freaking Victoria off her back for one.

She'd spent most of the morning making espresso, grinding the beans, fiddling with the buttons, staring blankly at the machine for a good half hour while she hummed her way through most of Nirvana's Nevermind. Claire had been in a few times to check on her stupid cake, but other than that, no one had given her a second thought.

Mainly out of boredom, she decided she'd check to see if Victoria needed anything. She tightened the straps on her purple porno heels and picked up Victoria's now luke-warm mocha. Maybe she should give more consideration of Cotton Mather. I mean, yeah, Ziggy could deal with fire, but would brimstone pose more threat? Dude had a wicked head of hair, too. That powdered wig could make a bad ass weapon--like if the hair wasn't hair but actually spun glass? She imagined him flinging it like Odd Job's hat, slitting a neck clean open.

She swung Victoria's door wide and looked up from the mocha to see Victoria's eyes staring blankly over their own reflection in the blood. It made her giggle, the expression on her face, its pallor. Perhaps it was the sound of her own giggle that next made her recoil and scream before dissolving again into giggles as she slipped to her knees in a puddle of spilled mocha, saying between fits of laughter, "John was right. Cotton fucking Mather."