2: Just Call Us the 'Road to Hell Paving Crew'

Disclaimer: Definitely not by J.K. Rowling or any affiliated entity. The author of this bit of lunacy lives somewhere about the intersection of Douglas Adams Drive and Albus Dumbledore Avenue, which if you check Yahoo! Maps, is located in a nice little suburb of The Twilight Zone. You can see Rod Serling's house from there. Now that I've profaned the names of geniuses both real and imaginary by chucking them into this disclaimer, on with the yarn.

Chapter 2: Just Call Us the 'Road to Hell Paving Crew'

Within half an hour, Reggie was fully apprised of the wedding situation, full of tea (Hermione-style, not Severus' 'Attack of the Killer Tannins' version), and overflowing with determination to make sure her charges didn't back out of the wedding, which was now less than two weeks away.

"Sounds like we got here just in time, hinnies. I think it's for the best if Moto and I stay within shouting distance for the duration, just to make sure nothing gets fucked up."

"You are going to stay around to ensure everything goes smoothly. I've probably heard more profound contradictions in terms, but offhand, I can't think of when."

"Same Snarkyarse I remember so fondly, I see." Reggie shook her head at him and turned to Hermione. "How are you holding up, mi brujita? Not letting all this chingando wedding stuff get you down, are you?"

"Well, I've held out this long. It's less than two weeks to go, so I think I can hold out a little longer."

Not exactly the cheerleading enthusiasm Reg was hoping for, but it was a start. "We'll go with that for the moment, mija. Anything you want to discuss with your Godmum?"

Hermione stood up...barely. She was slumping listlessly, which Reg found most alarming (considering Hermione). She hoped it was just due to fatigue.

"Maybe in the morning, Reggie." She straightened, apparently with the assistance of the tension in her jaw. "Right now I am going to bed with a headache."

The Jarvey really couldn't help herself. "No, you're not...he's still on the couch. HEY!"

Her reflexes, as usual, were perfect. Where Reggie had been perched on the arm of the chair, there was now a nasty scorch mark. "One of these days, you'll appreciate my sense of humor, Prince Snarking."

"One of these days, your luck will run out and my aim will catch up with you, you insufferable stoat."

Hermione had other concerns. "Severus! I just re-upholstered that last month!"

Reggie hastily waved her tail over the offending spot and hurried to placate her godchild. "It's okay now, good as new. Why don't you go upstairs and let Moto fix you a new bath? If there's one thing he knows backwards and forwards, it's bathing." She did not mention how very literally she believed there was only one thing he knew well.

Moto bowed, managing not to lose quite all of the water from the reservoir on his head this time. The bathtub no longer at hand, he made a gesture with his hishaku that caused the dipper to fill with swamp water for replenishing the lost fluid. "Thank you, Reggie-san. Describing my humble skills in such a fashion is too kind of you."

"I guess that might be a good idea." Hermione still looked rather dubious about Motoyoshi, but allowed the Kappa to follow her upstairs.

They made quite a picture, Moto in his little loincloth looking like the world's ugliest toddler trailing behind his nanny. The raggedy garment worn by her apprentice was a puzzle to Reggie. Why did he need it, with his bits hidden under his ventral shell? It looked even more absurd when he was on duty and his waterlogged tutu clung to it, limp and translucent.

As soon as they were out of sight, Snape turned his attention to Reggie. "Wasn't it bad enough for you to blunder around in my life like a furry bludger? Did you really have to bring along your little helper?"

"A helper? Help? You're barking up the wrong tree, hombron. If I'd known what a pain in the arse an apprentice was, I might have decided to stay a bleeding Provisional instead of becoming a full Master. Do you know how much trouble this Moto character caused, accidentally Transfiguring some poor little skirt's kitten into a Blast-ended Skrewt?"

Snape smirked and gave an amused snort.

"It's not all that funny, you sadistic bastard!" she howled. "We were stuck for over a fucking month, wandering all over the wilds of America, on a job that should have taken a fortnight on the outside!"

Snape's shoulders twitched, and he emitted a sound that bore a suspicious resemblance to a chuckle.

"We ended up in Los Angeles. Ever heard of it? It's the place where people come from all over the world to continue observing the driving customs of their country of origin. Somehow, we got on a bloody damned sightseeing tour, and the crazy mofo got his ass stuck in the Tar Pits. I had to jaywalk Wilshire Boulevard, for fuck's sake! I'm lucky I didn't end up a smear on the asphalt!"

Regina stared. Her tiny pointed jaw dropped.

Snape was laughing.

Not just a sarcastic snort. Not a sardonic chuckle. Not even a demented giggle of some sort. This was a full-blown belly laugh. In fact, he was doubled over, arms folded over said anatomical feature (or over the place it would have been, had he an ounce of fat on his body), and laughing.

"What the hell?" she asked, dazed.

Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, he finally managed to gasp, "Now... now you know," before dissolving in glee again.

"Know what, you giggling git?"

"Now... you... you have to teach... " he continued, leaning on the arm of the couch for support. "Now you know what it's like... your very own dunderhead to train... " he choked out, before dissolving into hysterics again.

She glared at him fiercely. "To top it all off, the daft brush hit me with a botched translation spell, so for the last few weeks I've been periodically lapsing into a wanking Texas accent...fuck, there it goes again!...that I can't shed fer shit!"

Severus sank to the seat of the couch, panting. He would have laughed harder, but it was physiologically impossible.

"Weirdly enough, I think I like you better in 'Male PMS Mode' than convulsed with hysterics."

Oh, good. That brought back the Patented Snape Death Glare. Reggie had rather missed that look, especially considering she was naturally immune to it.

"I assume you realize that I would employ you as a source of ingredients for experimental potions if you weren't assigned to Hermione. Speaking of assignments, where's that hideous poof of tulle you normally wear?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere, you stuffy old bastard, nor will insulting that bloody useless powder puff I have to wear on duty. This is purely a social visit...no tutu. So, is there anything I should know about in order to better ensure the success of your lil' gettin' hitched party?" She cringed as the accent popped up again.

"The location of the front door, so you can leave?"

"I still live in hope that I'll figure out why you're always so damned difficult when I'm only trying to help you. Does it come naturally, or do you take potions and practice?"

Snape got up and headed for the stairs. "The only potion I take routinely is for headaches...such as the one you've so thoughtfully provided. I am going to bed now. Since I'm sure it would be quite pointless to ask that you leave, I insist that you keep your smelly little sidekick well clear of the kitchen. And if you truly want to help Hermione, remind her how to say 'no.'"

"Watch it, you Greater Large-Nosed Wanker. Moto has his faults, but he's not going to wander around farting indiscriminately. There are some very good spells out there for controlling flatulence...even in Kappas. I happen to know he's conscientious about using them."

This bit of information didn't stop Snape from wrinkling his nose as he passed the Kappa on the stairs.

"Goodnight to you, too!" Reggie yelled after him.

Motoyoshi sat cross-legged on the floor before his master, waiting for further updates and orders. Regina sighed and draped her snout over the arm of the chair.

"It's going to be tough this time around, Moto my friend. The ancient Romans said, 'Never fight the same opponent too many times,' and they weren't thinking with their arses when they said it. Now ol' Snapey's got my number... he knows I'm not officially his, and he knows my usual tactics...hurrying him, keeping him off guard, surprising him at every turn, to beat down his defenses. And Hermione is acting like we're the enemy, too, this time. Must be his bad influence. We've got to come up with some new strategies."

"How do you know so much that is not taught in Fairy Godmother classes, Reggie-san?" Moto asked.

"I have a checkered past, mijo," she replied. With that cryptic remark, she curled up to have a snooze in the wingback chair. There would be time to strategize later, when she was properly rested.

Moto conjured more swamp water and made himself comfortable for the night. In the absence of instructions to the contrary, he did so in the kitchen sink. It would have been difficult to express how very delighted Snape was to find him there the following morning.

Harry couldn't sleep.

This wasn't unusual for him. Sometimes, despite Luna's comforting presence, he succumbed to nightmares; other times, his body simply kept him awake to circumvent that possibility altogether.

Then there were times like this, when he couldn't sleep because he had the strangest feeling he was on the brink of doing something stupid.

He couldn't identify a logical reason for this feeling. The plan sounded good in theory. If anyone needed some relaxation and peace, it was Remus and Tonks. Ginny had discovered an Italian spa that sounded like the perfect place for them to shed some of the pre-wedding tension and prepare to really appreciate the day itself and the honeymoon. When Remus and Tonks happened to be absent from one of their periodic get-togethers (the twins had nicknamed them 'DA Reunions,' though not everyone who met to talk over old times was an alumnus of that organization), she suggested sending the couple there as a surprise pre-wedding gift. Everyone had oohed and aahed at the brochure, the hat had been passed with great enthusiasm, and (with the aid of a few subtle inquiries into Tonks' schedule) the reservations made. It seemed like one of those ideas that couldn't possibly go wrong.

Which could very well be why Harry felt so worried.

Of course, it might very well have to do with the fact that Ron had added his own little spin to the plan.

"Remus hasn't had a proper fling in ages, assuming he ever has. As his friends, we owe it to him to make sure he gets in a bit of a good time before settling down, and not at some awful low strip club, either." With that, Ron had proceeded to outline his plan for kidnapping Remus a little ahead of schedule, and taking him to what was reputed to be the classiest, sexiest, wildest exotic dancing venue in Wizarding Europe, the night before the spa getaway. It sort of bothered Harry that Ron seemed to be so well acquainted with the degrees of quality of various adult entertainment venues, but he decided to stay well away from that line of inquiry.

If Hermione had been there, she probably would have launched the counteroffensive by arguing that 'proper fling' was an oxymoron.

Hermione hadn't been there, so it had been up to Harry to put the brakes on Ron. And he couldn't bring himself to do it. Ron's argument was rather convincing, in an alarmingly Fred-and-George sort of way. Remus hadn't had an extensive social life before Tonks. As much fun as Tonks was, Harry suspected there would always be an element of 'what might have been' in Remus' thinking if he got married without having done something a bit off the deep end. That was why Harry was taking an earlier shift than usual tomorrow, dropping by Remus' place to secretly pack his bags and forward them to the spa while Ron kept him distracted with a long, leisurely lunch. They would top it off by whisking their victim off by unofficial Portkey to Amsterdam.

Harry had to admit to a little personal curiosity about their intended destination. He was pretty sure that nothing compared to being with Luna...the thought made him smile goofily without being aware of it...but it might be nice to see one of these places so that his smug belief that he was leading the best of all possible lives with the best of all possible witches could be confirmed once and for all.

That led to the thought that was increasingly the prime suspect in his sleepless nights; namely, the thought of marrying Luna.

Harry wasn't afraid of commitment. There wasn't even a question of it. Luna owned his heart completely; he knew it, and as he didn't care to go anywhere without it, he figured he was already committed. Thinking about it, he could even identify the exact moment she'd captured his love and loyalty permanently.

It was while he was in the hospital, still recovering from his physical wounds and from the emotional shock of having to live with his artificial arm. Molly and Remus visited frequently to cluck over him sympathetically, which drove him barking. The rest of the Weasleys (excepting Percy but including Ginny, to the terminal detriment of their relationship) and most of his other friends tried to pretend nothing was different, which made him irritable and depressed. Hermione tried to distract him, which he really wasn't in any mood for, especially as her distraction techniques were not a significant improvement over her motivational techniques. The memory of that talking homework planner still irritated the living hell out of him.

Luna had walked into his hospital room, greeted him, smiled in her incomparably misty manner (though with a degree of enthusiasm he'd come to discover, to his delight, was reserved solely for him) and asked, "So, how does your new arm work?" No pity, no changing the subject, no ignoring the elephant in the room. He finally started to feel normal after that.

The day he and Ginny finally couldn't pretend things were working any longer, it fell out that Luna wasn't anywhere to be found. Harry had been frantic, without quite realizing why. He'd gone to Hermione, well past three sheets to the wind, and...well, he hadn't the first clue what he'd said or done, but in the end, she'd directed him back to Luna. That was all it took. She became the island of peace at the center of his turbulent existence, and he couldn't live without her. Which was precisely why he was afraid to marry her, even though they'd been together for four years, living in the same house for most of it.

Should anyone be tactless enough to ask (and many often were), he put them off. Had Luna asked, he would have told her in a heartbeat. But with her uncanny knowledge of what made him happy and unhappy, she very seldom asked him about anything upsetting unless she deemed it essential to his well being. The truth was he had the worst fear that making her his wife would be her death sentence.

Immediately after the war, that was not an idle or superstitious fear. To be intimately acquainted with Harry Potter was to be a walking target in the eyes of the remaining Death Eaters at large. But even with that ilk rounded up or killed in the attempt, he couldn't shake the memory of the people who'd died in his presence, every one of them someone who had cared about him. His parents. Sirius. Dumbledore. He deliberately blurred the images of the many who'd fallen in various skirmishes protecting him. If he didn't allow the memories to coalesce, he could half convince himself they were still alive somewhere, injured permanently like Parvati and Neville, but alive.

"Harry."

He turned, taking in the glowing picture his love made in the light of her namesake, her pale hair, luminous eyes, and trailing blue silk nightgown melding into the soft nuances of silver radiance. As always, he would do anything she asked of him, and gladly, including overcoming the fear that giving her his name would somehow doom her.

"Come to bed."

Harry forgot his worries as, once again, Luna spared him having to do anything he didn't truly wish to do already.

Ginevra Weasley left the meeting feeling an incredible sense of relief. Being the financial and technical brains behind Quicksilver Communications didn't make her automatically at ease during business negotiations. Having Draco Malfoy as a business partner wasn't exactly soothing, though experience had shown that he would keep things within the boundaries of her legal advice (out of enlightened self-interest, if nothing else) without audible prompting. In light of how well the deal had gone, Ginny was glad she'd been able to restrain herself from interrupting the smooth flow of his presentation. Malfoy may not have been able to calculate compound interest worth crap, but he could sell fireworks to Bowtruckles. If he'd shown half as much charm during his school days, he could have been penniless and still been able to amass an entourage.

That didn't mean that he'd been able to sell her on the 'M' coming first in their company logo, which ultimately took the compromise form of an M and W so intertwined it was impossible to tell which was in the primary position. Nor did he seem to feel the need to favor her with any of that silver-tongued smoothness, once they were back at the office.

"I'm really impressed. You have remarkable impulse control for a Weasley," he said with a smirk.

Ginny decided to exercise said impulse control to keep her mouth shut as she advanced on him. When they were close enough for his increasing nervousness to force him a step back, she leaned in and glanced behind him. She gave him just enough time to acquire a confused expression before turning to look at him with a slight smile.

"I'm really impressed. You're a Malfoy, yet you manage not to leave a slime trail," she said.

Seeing his cheeks begin to color, she felt a pang of guilt. "Just kidding." She tried to pass it off lightly, smiling and tipping her head a little sheepishly as she brushed her hand down his arm, giving his elbow a quick squeeze.

Gack! Did I check out Malfoy's arse, then feel sorry for insulting him? she thought, aghast as she quickly turned to fuss blindly with a page in the ledger.

"Of course... " he replied, suddenly finding a set of charts on the wall exceedingly interesting. She didn't dare try to interpret his odd tone of voice.

As they busied themselves for the next five minutes with trying not to make eye contact, both were thinking something along the lines of, Were we flirting just now? And if so, how can this be prevented in the future? Ginny didn't spare much time thinking about this (not that she ever did, when such incidents occurred between them) because she had a plan.

It all came down to Hermione needing to relax. Ginny could tell the poor thing was as tense as a Gnome at a Kneazle family reunion. Who wouldn't be, contemplating marriage to a wizard who could easily be Witch Weekly's Most Intractable Misanthrope of All Time, should that publication ever choose to take such a poll? One of these days, when business matters weren't quite so pressing, she'd corner Hermione and interrogate her until she figured out what exactly it was she saw in Snape. Maybe she could bring Mum in as a consultant on the project.

Then of course, there was the fact that Tonks needed to relax as well. It was almost scary how well those two facts added up to one excellent plan. After all, how better to keep Tonks from realizing she was being sent on a surprise trip to that lovely spa with Remus than by convincing her she was actually tricking Hermione into having a slightly wild hen party? And what better way to lure Hermione into said party than by convincing her that all they were doing was preparing to spirit Tonks away on her surprise trip?

Generally speaking, Ginny didn't take time to pat herself on the back too enthusiastically. This time, she felt it was well-deserved. Then again, she shouldn't expect anything less from the witch who had gotten her hands on Draco Malfoy's money without having to put out. Speaking of whom, it was laughable how easy it was to get her business partner out of the way for the afternoon. All she had to do was wait until his instinct for skiving off kicked in, then uncharacteristically indulge it.

Yes, all was going smoothly. For once, even Harry and Ron didn't seem to want to butt in to her business. Ginny really should have worried about this, but neglected that sensible precaution in favor of feeling relieved that her plan to relax Hermione and kidnap Tonks would be unimpeded. Even the timing was perfect. Who expects anyone to do devious plotting on a Thursday night?

Draco Malfoy was on his way back up. Lucius Malfoy's survival instincts might have failed him fatally, leaving his wife and son at the mercy of unscrupulous minions; Draco vowed that his instincts would not. Soon, it wouldn't matter that he couldn't keep Mother from pursuing shopping as a vocation. The annoyance of having Ginevra Weasley as his business partner (why he had fleetingly wanted her to be checking out his arse was beyond him) was far outweighed by the advantage her financial knowledge and inventions provided.

It was neither his recent business successes nor that awkward dance he seemed to be engaging in with his financial better half that were foremost in his mind at the moment, however. He had a plan, and it was a brilliant one, if he did say so himself.

Severus needed to get out and do something. Something fun. Offhand, he couldn't think of anyone who needed to loosen up more than one Severus Snape. The man could at least benefit from doing something besides working and constantly mooning about after that frizzy-haired bundle of hostility he still seemed bent on marrying. So Draco had made a few contacts, done a little investigating, paid a bribe or two, and made some rather pricey reservations. Convincing Severus to get over his reservations would have been substantially more work than all the rest put together, so Draco also included a spot of kidnapping in the plan. Well, it was more like voluntary traveling under false pretenses. It was probably for the best that no amount of negotiation could get them into the club on a Friday. Who would expect to be kidnapped on a Thursday?

Though he did this on a regular basis, Draco took a moment to bask in self-satisfaction and grant himself yet another well-deserved pat on the back. He really felt he warranted this at least once a day, considering how he'd gotten Weasley to cut him into her incredibly sound and lucrative business without having to resort to seducing her. Though, as the appraising voice in the back of his mind noted whenever they had one of those quasi-flirtatious moments (that seemed to occur with increasing regularity), it probably wouldn't have constituted a hardship on his part.

"I don't suppose you'll be needing me for anything this afternoon?" he asked Ginny, flipping through the report she'd just finished. Not that he'd have understood more than two-thirds of it, even if he spent all night studying it diligently, but he thought it would help his case to look as if he'd been doing something besides supplying the necessary capital and charm that this venture couldn't manage without. She seemed to think it was important for him to understand how it actually worked, for some reason.

"Not that I can think of. Just remember, we need to meet to sign those contracts with our distributor at one tomorrow."

That would be easy enough, even if they indulged quite thoroughly and stayed out so late it got early. After all, that's what wake-up calls and Hangover Relief potions were for.

Draco didn't question why his normally strict partner was so amenable to him taking the entire afternoon off. It was about bleeding time one of his plans went entirely smoothly. Now, to get Severus into Wizarding Amsterdam and delay him there until evening.

"Great evening, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know, Harry. I never have gotten the hang of Thursdays."

Remus was tired and sore. It had only been two days since his transformation, and he still wasn't at his best. He certainly wasn't suspecting anything untoward from Ron and Harry, who had evolved through the years from children in his care into upstanding adults and good friends. Good friends who had just treated him to a very nice dinner and were now walking him back home through Diagon Alley.

Not to mention it was Thursday. Who does any plotting on a Thursday?

"What's wrong with Thursdays?" Ron seemed amused at the idea.

"I keep forgetting...as a Quidditch player, your schedule of practices and games is such that you're immune to the terror of Mondays and the elation of Friday afternoons."

"Wouldn't that make Tuesday the difficult one?"

Remus shook his head. "It's always been Thursday. Don't ask why, but Thursday has never worked properly for me, for some reason."

Oddly enough, Remus had the feeling Ron and Harry were waiting for just such an opening.

"I think today might change that." Harry had a wonderfully ingenuous look on his face that would have scared the life out of him had he seen it on the Weasley twins. Come to that, it was fairly frightening on Harry. "Dinner has been nice, but I think there's still room for improvement."

"What are you two..."

In a voice that could have graced an irritating program on the Wizarding Wireless, Ron interrupted. "Congratulations, Remus Lupin...courtesy of any number of your good friends, you've just won a little weekend getaway with Tonks at the Nova Herculaneum Spa in Naples. And as a special added bonus, you'll spend the evening before that little getaway at one of the premier entertainment spots on the continent...starting right about now."

Remus didn't have time to question, object, or interject profanity. Ron grabbed a perfectly innocent looking matchbox, Harry put his own hand over it, and together they shoved it into his hand. The sensation of Portkey travel overwhelmed him...though not quite enough to drown out the idea that Thursday had, once again, decided to bite him in the arse.

None of them noticed a brightly colored splotch on Remus' shoe, which close inspection would have revealed to be a very uniquely marked beetle.

"More errands, mija? Is there anything I can help with?"

Hermione gave Reggie the same slightly strained smile she'd been sporting all week. "Ginny and I are doing a little shopping. Oh, and we're going to meet Tonks to see her off on a little trip."

Reggie didn't see Hermione as the type who would thrive under retail therapy, but at this point, she was willing to try anything to get that crease out from between her godchild's eyes. Although there was something a little odd about this that she couldn't quite put her paw on. "Want me to come along?"

Hermione declined, which only exacerbated the Jarvey's suspicions. When the little Weasley brujita arrived, it was so plain she was up to something that an Apprentice could have figured it out. But Reggie would be damned if she knew exactly what. It behooved her to tag along, just in case 'a little shopping' meant one more thing that would endanger the wedding. With a flick of her tail, she was invisible and trailing after Hermione at a distance calculated to keep wee silver paws safe from big human feet.

"I was thinking we'd have dinner out while we're at it...why don't you wear something a little nicer...robes, maybe?"

Fucking shite. There WAS something going on here. No one sounded that casual without an ulterior motive.

Hermione Accio'd something with a satiny collar to put on over her regular clothes and yelled back through the house. "I'm going out with Ginny for a bit, love...if I'm not back, have dinner without me." Severus made some sort of affirmative noise from the vicinity of the kitchen.

"Did you get Tonks' bags packed?" Hermione whispered to Ginny on their way to the front door.

Reg strained to catch more and heard another sound altogether. Evidently there was a visitor at the back door, as well. A quick glance at Hermione showed she was upgrading her trainers to a slightly nicer class of shoes at Ginny's prompting, so Reggie risked a trip to the kitchen to see who was there.

"Bloody fucking hell!" This time she swore audibly, though softly enough that she wouldn't alert the subjects of her reconnaissance. She was successful. There was no sign that the Malfoy twerp, who was apparently trying to convince Snape to go somewhere with him, had heard anything amiss. If Snape had heard anything, he chose to ignore it.

"I know you've been wanting to try some of the experimental variations on that particular brew, and I know of an apothecary in Amsterdam that's authorized to sell the ingredients you needed. I have to sign some papers there this evening anyway, so..."

This was all far too convenient for coincidence. Fuck, fuck, fuck... this couldn't mean anything good, either. She experienced a moment of panic as Snape hastily scrawled out the list of items he wanted at one end of the house, and Hermione finally got her shoes in order and collected her purse at the other. Someone should keep an eye on both of them, but Reggie couldn't be in two places at once. Crap! How... Oh, right. That's what apprentices were for.

She dashed into the basement lab, where Moto was soaking in a nice cauldron of swamp water (in deference to Hermione's desire that he not put said liquid in her bathtub). "Moto! No time to explain, but make yourself invisible and go with Snape and the little blond prat. No matter what, you need to follow wherever they go, observe all secrecy protocols, and do what you have to do to keep them out of trouble. Got all that?"

"Hai! Yes, Reggie-san! Right away! Do I need my tutu?"

"Just GO!" she yelled.

With an excited wave of his Hishaku, Moto became invisible. The only sign of him was a series of damp footprints trailing up the steps. Reggie followed to make certain he successfully caught up with his targets.

In retrospect, she realized she should have sent Moto with Hermione and gone after Snarkyarse herself. It would have been a less painful insight if it had waited until the next day to occur to her, instead of flaring up the instant the unlikely trio Disapparated from the kitchen.

With a deep sense of foreboding, Reggie dashed to the front entry just in time to follow Hermione and Ginny.

Author's Notes:

Reggie's Spanish Vocabulary:

chingando= fucking (I know, I'm shocked, too)

mi brujita= My little witch

hombron= big man; connotation is somewhat negative (implies an intimidating person or a bully)

Moto's Japanese Vocabulary:

Hai= Yes

The remark about observing the driving customs of one's native country was adapted from a comedy routine by Will Durst, whose special ('The Durst Amendment') I had the great pleasure of watching on PBS in my university days. I took notes.

My mother and grandfather introduced me to the most wonderful phrase: 'Are you this difficult naturally, or do you take pills and practice?' Yes, I admit I earned the introduction. I couldn't resist tossing in a magical variant of it.

If you've done your homework and read the first two entries in this series, you know why Remus had to assert that he has trouble getting the hang of Thursdays. Once again, I apologize to Douglas Adams and sincerely hope that, wherever his comedic spirit has gone to rest, it isn't too peeved that I keep attempting to channel it.

Up next: Stags vs. Hens. Who comes out on top? (I promise not to wring any more fairly stupid innuendoes from that statement.)