Eat My Broom Dust!

There I was in my kitchen, standing on my tiptoes and stirring matzo-ball chicken soup in my favorite cauldron, when the Morse code machine began clicking.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Pause.

A strip of paper began crawling out of it, covered in dots and dashes.

I translated the message.

I REQUIRE YOUR ASSISTANCE.

Señor Raven.

Another message followed.

THE HEART RECOVERY MISSION HAS BECOME TECHNOLOGICALLY COMPLICATED.

Señor Raven had expected to fly low to the man’s house, knock on the chamber door, slip inside, recover my heart, and make an Irish exit before anyone noticed.

Instead, the man had converted his garage into a fortress.

Cameras.

Motion detectors.

Rodent cages.

Traps baited with peanut butter.

Other traps baited with dollar bills, in case Mr. Porcupine and the rest of the gang came back.

And then there were the laser beams.

According to Señor Raven, they were powerful enough to pulverize a broom and turn any bird that crossed them into rotisserie chicken.

The neighborhood had already renamed the street:

Rotisserie Lane.

I stared at the message.

Then came the final message:

I CANNOT DO THIS ALONE.

I immediately Googled 24-hour vehicle repair near me and found a shop that advertised:

Guaranteed work in 30 minutes or 10 days.

Good enough.

I parked the broom in the designated repair area and began pacing around the lobby.

The mechanic eventually came back inside with his hands covered in Cheeto dust and informed me that the engine I needed could take weeks to arrive from Salem.

Fortunately, he claimed he could install a long-distance engine using nothing but a wrench, a bale of hay, and prayer.

I could believe in the wrench and the hay, but not the prayer. God was already overwhelmed by requests and would probably dismiss one coming from such a small town.

So I booked a flight to Los Angeles and planned to take an Uber from the airport, then have the driver drop me off within fifty miles of the man’s house, the maximum distance my broom could still manage.

However, I had forgotten about the chicken. I couldn’t just leave him at home throwing wild-animal parties. He was a well known party animal.

Unfortunately, he had surpassed the airline’s age limit for lap travel and required his own seat.

He spent the entire flight singing and annoying the baby seated in front of us.

Once I arrived at the man’s house, I parked my broom directly in front of his mailbox, temporarily suspending the delivery of his fan mail. Then I disguised myself as a door-to-door chicken salesperson in a black cloak.

I knocked.
One of his bats opened the door.

“May I speak to your handler?”

The man emerged almost immediately.

“Sorry,” he said. “I already bought solar panels, Girl Scout Cookies, and three magazine subscriptions. I even invited the Mormons inside for tea and other caffeinated goodies.”

He stared at me.

“What are you actually selling? Blueberry muffins? Or... wait. Did you lose your cat?”

“You don't recognize me?” I asked.

His eyes drifted downward.

“You do look familiar,” he said. “Sorry, I just can't place you.”

“Maybe this will refresh your memory.”

I smacked him across the forehead with my broom.

He collapsed onto the porch.

I stepped over him and walked inside, making sure my combat boots landed on him at least twice on the way in.

He smiled.

“This is exactly my type of woman,” he whispered. “Wild.”

Then he passed out.

Señor Raven followed close behind, stepped over him without looking down, and helped himself to the Girl Scout Cookies on the entryway table.

We heard a scuffle.

Wings.

Lots of wings.

It was his army of bats… his loyal disciples, and, more importantly, his home alarm system.

“What do we do?” Señor Raven whispered.

“I have an idea.”

I pulled out my phone, opened the Bluetooth settings, and connected to the man’s speaker system.

Apparently, his password was still 1234.

“Monster Mash” began blasting through the house.

The bats formed two perfectly straight lines and began their choreography.

The chicken joined them.

Left wing out.

Left wing in.

Right wing out.

Right wing in.

Turn.

Twerk.

Jazz wings.

They looked so cute that, for a moment, I forgot why we were there.

Señor Raven pulled a strand of my hair to remind me.

We made our way to the door connecting the house to the garage. Once again, a password was required.

This time, I started with 0000.

It didn’t work.

Then I tried 1234.

Voilà.

The door unlocked and granted us access to the garage.

I could hear my heart beating faster from across the garage.

I opened the freezer and unloaded a mountain of frozen food.

Buried deep beneath it was my heart.

I carefully extracted my heart and placed it inside a velvet pouch.

Señor Raven and I walked out without stepping on him. I didn’t want him enjoying the view up my cloak again. After all, witch tradition calls for wearing absolutely nothing underneath.

We ran toward the parked broom, only to find a citation for breathing the city’s fresh air.

The man and his bats came running after us.

I started the broom, looked back at him, and shouted, “Eat my broom dust!”