Magic, Motors, and Manure

“This isn't what I signed up for," I said, stomping around the farm, following my boss's prized pig. You would think a billionaire would have a farm aid or something. You know someone specifically hired to deal with the farm. Not me, his executive assistant. Hired specifically to answer phone calls, emails, schedule meetings and manage projects. Apparently, I've also been hired to run around picking up his fancy pants suits from the way too expensive private dry cleaners down the street from the office. Along with chasing his favorite pig. The pig named Piggsley, surprisingly enough, squeals as I try to swoop and catch it again. I was so distracted by my thoughts that I didn't realize the tiny pile of poop Piggsley was eating from when I had stopped to catch my breath a few moments ago.

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That asshole is lucky I need this job.

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I get up and wipe the poop off my face with one hand and finally decide to use my magic to grab the damn pig and lightly toss the thing onto a pile of hay near the barn. I should have thrown the fucker, but my magic prevents me from being any type of harm unless it is in self-defense. A memory from years ago rises, but I shove it back down in my mind. Choosing not to think of that dreadful day that changed my life forever. I stomp across the large expanse of land and back to the house. Aiming to take a molten lava shower that is needed in these situations. I get to the bathroom and strip off everything I have on. I hear my boss call,

“Did you catch him?”

“Yeah, I caught him,” I muttered. And a fucking headache too.

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I still don't know how the pig seems to get out every time that I am here, but stays put and acts all nice when I am not. I swear, its mission is to make me miserable. I don't know where this one-sided vendetta came from, but I promise Piggsley will be bacon and ham if I end up in another pile of poop when I come back next week.

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“Why do you need to shower? “

“It should have been a simple task. Piggsley is very friendly and polite,” Mr. Billionaire insisted.

To you.

“I fell in poop.”

“Be quick, we have a meeting at 11 that we can't be late for.”

“Got it.”

I hop in the shower and spray the water directly in my face. It's hot but still not hot enough. I feel defiled.

I wash quickly, then hop out and wipe the steam off the mirror.

I stare at my face, making sure I got everything off. My brown skin shines, and my eyes glow the bright green they usually do when I am upset. My locs twisted like ropes, trail down my back to my behind. Humans can't see my natural eye color due to the glamour I put in place to make my eyes appear the usual brown that many other African Americans have. I put on the extra office skirt and blue blouse that I keep on hand. When you are going to a farm once a week, you learn to keep extra clothes for cases like today. I walk out of the bathroom. The shower was indeed necessary because I am not trying to walk into a meeting smelling like pigs and poop. I put my heels on and my suit jacket and grab the keys for the car because the billionaire doesn't like to drive, even though he has a perfectly good license. Some of the workers in the office believe it is because he likes to be driven around, but I'm not all that sure. He had an accident last year, and I haven't seen him go near the wheel since. I get into the car and turn it on and soon we are on our way back into the city for this meeting. Mr. Billionaire or Ben, our company's CEO, is on the phone the whole car ride. When we get to the office, there are minutes to spare. I quickly get out of the car and hand the keys to the valet because, of course, the office has a valet.

​

We are up the elevator and in the meeting room almost as quickly as I drove to get here. When we got in the meeting room, everyone was just starting to sit down. This meeting is about a new project. Our investors and other members of the team are present. We are a new company that is trying to build the newest super car and market it to celebrities and athletes. The design team is still working on how the car will look. We already have all of the mechanical details figured out. It's just about creating a build that will go with what we have. The aim is to build an almost flying car. The car has to be lightweight but also contain everything needed to make this into a car that almost hovers over the road. This is difficult because the part that ensures it can hover is not a light piece of material. We have had some trouble with figuring this part out.

“Bethany can do it.”

What can I do now?

“Bethany has been working on some design sketches in her free time and can take on the task.”

I have been doing exactly that. But how does Amber know that?

More importantly, what is her game here, revealing that piece of information during this very important meeting?

“She has the time to do it while working, too.”

“She doesn't do much work anyway,” she says under her breath.

But I can still hear her. I have better hearing than most.

“Plus, it will keep her away from the CEO for a while.”

Okay, now she is projecting thoughts my way.

Nice. Really mature.

I'm not the only witch in this office. Amber is one too but instead of being nice and cordial she has hated me since I've arrived here.

“I am not exactly supposed to be working on that end of things. I am an assistant to the CEO and only supposed to be doing tasks he assigns,” I say.

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“You can do it,” Ben says.

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“Okay.” Why would he… When he knows I'm leaving.

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“Now with that matter being done, Bethany, you have 3 weeks to come up with a design that works with the machinery we have for the car on top of your normal duties,” Ben says.

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“We are also introducing another project, which is a sub-project of the car. We need to figure out what apps we want to be on the Centre Consols for this car.” Ben goes on.

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I zone out, thinking how in the world am I supposed to come up with a design for a supercar before I have to leave to go and fulfill my duties as a witch.