Augusta Morganti had a keen nose and a distinguished taste for expensive drinks. With a statuesque height and curves for miles, lustrous ivory skin, straight coffee-colored hair the texture of silk strands, and eyes that glowed like a tiger’s she was easily the most beautiful woman any had ever laid eyes upon.
Like most other women in our small town, I envied her beauty. But unlike them there was no way in hell I wanted to be like her.
I knew what she really was.
It was one of those Saturdays in March where the temperature hovered just above freezing – warm enough to rain, cold enough to keep the two feet of snow on the ground from completely melting, thus turning the countryside into a mud slurpee. The wetness of rain permeated my threshold, seeped into my house, into my socks somehow. I decided that if my feet were going to be cold at least my belly wasn’t so I slogged through the ankle-deep slushpuddles to McGonegal’s Bar to find some Jack Daniels or trouble, whichever came first.