Vincent had a tried and true method of staying on the broom whilst riding.
His method was glue.
"You d- you glu- you WHAT?!" spluttered Tarot.
Vincent winced, tried to turn around and look at the perfectly straight, perfectly polished, and expertly-tied broomstick, but hit a lamp post with the end, winced again, and frowned at a sloppily painted frog ornament sitting against the fence.
"WHY WOULD YOU DO SUCH A THING?" Tarot howled and stamped. "AM I JUST A PRETTY FACE? DOES MY EXTREME GROOMING AND ENTIRE COLLECTION OF CELION DION IGNITE A DESPERATE URGE FOR YOU TO PROVE YOURSELF TO ME?"
"I beg yours," Vincent straightened, winced as the end of the broomstick attached to his bottom hit the ground, and fixed this 'Tarot' with his almighty glare. "I have no such urges, as you say. I am a happily married man-"
Tarot stamped his dainty, rather shiny, boot once again. His face had turned an unhealthy shade of red that, paired with his unnaturally orange hair and orange-red clothes, made him look like the beginning of a rainbow. "MY BROOMSTICK IS SPLINTERING ON YOUR VERY BACKSIDE, NAY, THE VERY FABRIC OF YOUR BACKSIDE! I DEMAND ANSWERS! I DEMAND THIS HOLE IN MY SHOE TO BE FIXED! I DEMAND SOLACE FROM YOU AND YOUR ASTONISHING LARGE BODY!"
"Yeah alright, alright!" Vincent called over the top of him. He'd been turning and straightening for a good few minutes and non of it had gotten him anywhere. If anything, Vincent felt that his movements had caused the broom to splinter further into his behind and he was not ready for such intrusion.
"You talk back to me!" Tarot breathed furiously. "To ME?!"
"Keep it all on the table for a minute!" Vincent said loudly, with agitation and dismissal that could not be ignored. He was preparing himself mentally and physically to do something he had hoped never in his life to ever have to do.
Tarot saw this facial expression, this stance, this sudden change in demeanor. "No!" he gasped. "You wouldn't dare!"
Vincent snickered. He should never have dared get on this broom in the first place. Flying at top speed as high up as the sun was an excellent idea unless you were afraid of heights, which Vincent was. Not only was he morbidly obese, he was also morbidly afraid of riding in an airplane, looking out of a two story window, watching the numbers in an elevator increase, the thought of chimneys, daydreaming or overhearing a conversation about hot air balloons, and seeing crickets up close.
"I told you to slow down up there!" Vincent yelled in a careful and very still manner.
"Broomsticks have only one speed," Tarot said pompously.
"I was leaning so far back I saw the ring of Saturn!"
Tarot gingerly rubbed his sides. "Don't remind me."
"And all the stops!" Vincent swept his arm wide as if gesturing to a jumbled collection of tangible stops. "Who has time for all that landing and taking off? I was forced to fasten myself! In any way I could!"
"I am an errand boy!" Tarot yelled. "I run the errands and I only, ONLY, polish with Traxwax twice a day as it says upon the packaging!"
"Well!" Vincent hissed with a gleam in his eye. "WAX THIS!"
"OH WAIT!" Tarot stepped forwards with his arms up just as Vincent bent down with a rumble of a cry, reached between his legs, grabbed the broom end (which, Vincent had to admit, was extremely polished, so polished that he was firstly: afraid his hands would slide off, and secondly: reminded of his bald Uncle Barnaby who was in desperate need of a good polishing product) and pulled as hard as his jiggly arms would allow.
"PERSEPINE!"
Vincent howled in pain. In one surprisingly swift motion, the broom, his trousers, his underpants, and a small portion of his skin all went hurtling up into the air.
"Flumpering lumberjacks!" Vincent squealed. He slowly reached around and touched the patch of raw skin. "Quick!" he called out to Tarot. "Do a healing spell!"
Tarot, in a motion not unlike that of a movie villain, casually flung his hand out to the side, almost without thinking, and caught his falling, splintered, now-bent broom. "May the wrath of a thousand tiny flea-infested ants roam your body and leave you with no peace until your parting day on this earth. And what of healing ointments you must surely try? They will fail! THEY ALL WILL FAIL YOU!"
Vincent blinked in rapid succession. "That's a funny sounding healing spell."
Tarot looked as if he would snap like an overly-tall, overly-autumn, severely orange twig. His hands clenched in rage and his whole body shook with what could have been a silent curse of intent or an extreme urge to line dance, but was most likely just a fit of intense rage towards this man who had half his bum showing in public.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I HAVE NURTURED THIS FINE SPECIMEN OF WOOD?!" Tarot shouted.
"Well, err, I would guess-"
"LONGER THAN YOU HAVE EVER SPENT SITTING ON A TOILET! OR PRUNING YOUR CACTUS! OR TAKING PART IN ALL THE OTHER IMPOSSIBLE THINGS YOU DO AT FOUR FIFTY-EIGHT IN THE AM YOU ALTERNATIVE TANDY BARN OWL!"
"Pruning my-?"
Tarot raised his arms, his eyes wide, his hair flying about his head, for some reason, as if an invisible hair dryer was blowing in his face, and he opened his mouth.
Vincent cringed into himself with his hands still covering his bottom. He was sure that Tarot would spout a curse so horrible it would be like the time Vincent had to spend the summer with his Aunt Millistein in the town of Harrowsbay Shore. The entire occasion had been spent either eating boiled cabbage with cashew nuts in, or playing backgammon on a board made from an old man's termite-ridden kitchen cabinet door, and every morning Vincent would come downstairs to find disturbingly large holes chewed out where his own checkers had been.
"WHAT ARE YOU DILL BATONS DOING DOWN THERE?"
The high-pitched shrill of a woman tore Vincent out of his disturbing memory. He opened one eye. Had Tarot's curse somehow backfired and turned him into a female? Come to think of it, Vincent hadn't heard Tarot say anything at all. Maybe he was one of those accomplished lot who could do magic in their heads. Yes, that was it.
Tarot was frowning up at a woman leaning out of a fourth story window.
"AS IS YOUR ORDER, YOUNG MAIDEN FROM THE EAST-" he called up to her while performing an elaborate bow, but she cut him off.
"Oh you're so old fashioned you make my glass slippers cry!" the woman snorted and waved the drink she was holding precariously over her window ledge. "Go read a book! But before you do that, come in and watch me charm my squash tree."
*
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