Chapter 95 – Don’t Mess With a Goddess’s Spicy Chicken Wings
“Waitress,” slurred the drunken goddess of witchcraft with curly dark magenta locks and a lasciviously disheveled appearance. Her journey through the teleportation rift that connected the ether to this particular mortal universe left her otherwise immaculate black and white businesswoman attire in tatters. “More beer!” she exclaimed, thrusting her emptied mug towards the bar, the goddess’s legs crossed ever so tightly.
Her skirt and stockings were so torn that if she were not crossing her legs at this exact moment, some of her pussy and her pubic hair would be sticking out for the entire public barroom to see.
“A-at once, ma’am!” the floppy eared bunny girl waitress replied, bowing deeply and taking the mug from the drunken Hecate in a respectful manner. The barmaid waitress’s ears twitched ever so slightly in a cute manner as she kept a wide eye on the drunken woman sitting at the bar stool by herself, dressed in remarkably foreign clothes.
With her trademark spectacles neatly folded and placed in her upper shirt pocket, and her lustrous deep magenta locks slightly frazzled and bushy while falling seductively onto her shoulders, the goddess of witchcraft looked a lot more sultry than usual. Perhaps it had something to do with exposure to the mortal world, as even her skin and hair color were more human-toned, her skin peachy and her magenta hair a slightly more subdued color, now that she was no longer in the presence of large amounts of divine energy and mana, like it was back in her office. To put it a different way, the mortal world felt a bit less stuffy to her, almost as if someone aired out the sauna and let in fresh cold air that was, figuratively speaking, the less mana dense environment that the mortal world presented.
Hecate took a sumptuous chicken wing from her plate, the second one out of five juicy wings on her plate, and bit into it. She licked her fingers, enjoying the spicy sweetness of mortal bar fodder, then dabbed her fingers against a wet napkin that the waitress ever so graciously provided her.
From the corner of her eye, Hecate noticed several burly men walking over to her bar stool. She did notice that the area around her was suspiciously empty, and that the other bar patrons chose to sit at the tables lining the sides of the room rather than sit in the area that she currently sat. Perhaps this bar stool area was off limits, or something?
As the group of men approached, the bar patrons at the tables glanced over and then nervously fiddled with their food, pretending to not see what was going on. In front of Hecate, the floppy eared waitress let out an eep and ducked underneath the bar counter.
The tattooed, hairy men got closer, and the one in front, an ugly brute of a man, pulled out the bar stool to the immediate right of Hecate’s seat and sat down right next to her, his leg brushing up to hers as his large body intruded upon her personal space. He had a demented smile on his face as he stared at her put down her chicken wing.
The man raised his arm and placed it near Hecate’s silver sheen plate, then, with a swift movement.
He knocked the plate off the highrise bar table, as the three untouched chicken wings and two cleaned sets of bones fell to the ground in slow motion. The dark spicy and sweet sauce flicked off of the plate and landed on Hecate’s tattered white shirt, staining it.
“This is my spot,” the smiling tattooed brute said. “Why don’t you leave now?”
A noticeable vein began to bulge from Hecate’s temple, as she clenched the wet napkin in her fist, her arm shaking in anger. Then her grip subsided, and she dabbed the wet napkin onto her white shirt, carefully wiping off some of the sauce that landed on her collared shirt.
“You’re not from around here, are ya? What kind of clothing is that… and they’re hiding great big tits as well!” roared the brute, as he leaned in with his hairy forearm and attempted to grope the magenta haired woman with peachy skin.
Hecate’s hand caught the burly man’s forearm right before it reached her breasts, and the bar patrons, the floppy eared waitress, and the burly man’s stooge henchmen all let out audible gasps.
“You…” Hecate spoke, her eyes flaring up until her pupils could pierce a soul.
[Wrath of the Witch has been activated.]
Unlike the passive that Hecate deposited into the reincarnator’s roulette called [Blessing of the Witch], [Wrath of the Witch] was Hecate’s signature active ability.