Mayor Butterman's sausage-like fingers tapped impatiently at the newspaper before her. She was leaking an oily liquid under the pressure of a fluorescent light her assistant had installed to force her to lose weight by sweating — the same reason she always had at least one aide following her around while lighting her with a flashlight. 

"How do I zoom in on this?" asked Mayor Butterman as she tapped the evening edition of the "New Orleans' Tribune" that featured her, twenty years younger, wearing a witch's costume in a Halloween party while Canadian-kissing a broom. 

For those not familiar with a Canadian kiss, it is done by sweetly whispering apologies inside the person's mouth between kisses. According to Cosmopolitan, it's one of the top twenty ways to surprise your man during hot moments, while also claiming that the number four item on said list was one you wouldn't believe. 

Mayor Butterman's Chief of Staff--which is another fancy human word for "Administrative Assistant"--one Trevor Workee, moved behind her to whisper into her ear. An odd thing, given that they were alone in her office. "That's a newspaper, ma'am, not a tablet. You have to get closer to 'zoom in', as you will."

"What, with my eyes?" said the Mayor with disgust. "I'm not paid enough to zoom in with my own eyes." 

She moved her fat index finger with the same gravitas one would use to catch a slippery duck and pushed a red button on the intercom on the desk. "Brenda, get in here!" 

A mousey, bespectacled girl appeared shortly after, with red eyes half-full of disgust, and half-full of hunger. The sight of her boss, always greasy and smelling faintly of onions, tended to give her mental images of a hefty breakfast, with lots of bacon, toast, and at least one poached egg. "My name is Sabrina, ma'am," she said before being tossed the newspaper. 

"Read that, Brenda," ordered the Mayor without paying much attention to what Sabrina had said. "I pay you to read, right?"

Sabrina bit her tongue to stop herself from saying that, in fact, she was an intern, and she didn't pay her squat. In fact, a squat would've been the last thing she could pay her, seeing that the woman hadn't done a squat in her life that didn't involve picking up an errant sausage from the floor. Still, she read the first few lines in her mind while moving her lips before being interrupted. 

"Out loud, Brenda," said the Mayor. "Sweet cankles of Mother Theresa, you better shape up, Brenda. You're never going to get that raise you want with that attitude."

Raising anything, thought Sabrina, was another thing the Mayor had never done in her life. She was even sure she couldn't rise from her bed in the morning without an assistant or two pulling at her. 

"It says: Bewitched! Another inappropriate picture of Mayor Butter-ball has surfaced, this time wearing a Witch's costume at a Halloween party in the early 2000s. The New Orleans Witches Coven(NOWC) issued a statement condemning the mayor, saying that 'Our culture is not a costume, a character, or a joke. We highly condemn Mayor Butterman and her wanton disregard for one of New Orleans' thriving minorities.'" 

"Order me some wontons, sugar," she said to Trevor before snatching the newspaper out of Sabrina's hands. "And this is a witch hunt! And actual, honest-to-goodness witchhunt! The neo-communist conservative media is out to get me again! Calling me Butter-ball--they should say it to my face! Spineless, the lot of them.

Sabrina went pale at the Mayor's outburst, covering her eyes and face while power-walking out of the room, which is known as the maddest type of walk throughout the known universe. Do not attempt if you have 18+ legs without the aid of a professional. 

"Ma'am, you can't say the W-H word!" said Trevor. 

"White House?" asked the Mayor before bitting her sweaty finger in a momentary mental lapse, thinking it was a crispy 7-Eleven hot-dog. Maybe getting a heat stroke for the sake of getting slimmer wasn't a good idea, but if we have learned one thing from human nature, is that doing stupid things is in their DNA. It started with Groog the Dumb, who after inventing the wheel decided to get drunk on ripe berries, putting four wheels on a piece of wood, and crashing it on a local lake, thus inventing drunk driving. 

"No, Witch Hunt," whispered Trevor, not before making sure no-one was around to hear them. "You know that's highly offensive to witches."

"So? I ain't no witch," said Mayor Butterman as she laid back on her reinforced office chair. "Well, not according to my husband, eh?"

"But Sabrina is a witch, ma'am," said Trevor. 

"Who?"

"Brenda, the girl. You know, she is a witch, and the daughter of a very influential warlock," said Trevor. "You know, the one that controls the paranormal vote." 

"A what now?"

"Eh, a boy-witch, ma'am."

"Like that dweeb Harry Potter?" 

"Yes," said Trevor. He was so close to the Mayor that the fluorescent light was starting to affect him, too. "Like that dweeb." 

Mayor Butterman wiped the small hint of a mustache off her oily sweat, which she pretended was a fu-manchu when she needed to think, which wasn't often. "Well, nobody reads the newspaper, anyway, right? So, I think I'm good."

"It's also online in three different outlets," corrected Trevor. 

"Jostling Crawfishes," said the Mayor. "Oh, do get me some crawfish with them wontons. And well, I think it's a witch persecution thing--can I say that at least?"

"Try again," said Trevor. 

"You find me something I can say that doesn't sound insensitive, offensive, or racist," said the Mayor. 

Trevor pretended to write a memo on his phone, which he often did when his boss said something incredibly stupid, which was more often than not. He had taken the time to write a short fanfic of a fever dream he once had about Sonic the Hedgehog x Megan Markel. It had only three reads on Wattpad so far. Two of those are ours. 

"Ma'am, you have to be careful about what you say and to who. You're up for reelection this year."

"Has it been four years already?" asked the Mayor. "It has gone in a flash."

Not for Trevor, though. Ever since he was strong-armed by his father to take an important position in government, he had navigated Mayor Butterman's crisis-filled ship through hard times, oftentimes going against the will of the one in command. 

First, it was a scandal the media dubbed Wendy's-gate, in which she had been accused of taking chicken nuggets as bribery for letting Wendy's open up a location in the French Quarter. Then was Mayonaise-gate, in which she allowed schools to classify Mayonaise as a type of pudding to give children thanks to the rising costs of chocolate. Then was Gate-gate, which was that time she got stuck in the gates of City Hall, with the Fire Department having to intervene by smothering her in butter to slide her out. Hence her Butter-ball nickname. 

"Yes, it has," said Trevor. "And we have to play this by the book if we want to multiply those years by two."

Mayor Butterman slammed her hands on the table, knocking over a small statue of Saint Fabius the Awkward, patron saint of Bad Decisions. "Dammit, Workee, you know I don't believe in math!"

"It means you have to court the paranormal vote if you want to stay another four years, take a look at this."

Trevor retrieved a black folder from the desk and began to read it out loud for his boss. He took his sweet time, as it was about the only time he ever had to trash-talk her to her face. "You're polling terribly in the supernatural community. 56% of Witches believe you don't represent their interest."

"I do plenty for them! Chicken guts are cheaper than ever."

"78% of Werewolves say they wouldn't bite you. Same as 89% of Vampires."

"Joke's on them," said the Mayor, leaning on her desk to try and be seductive. She failed. "I'm delicious." 

Trevor retrieved a page full of glitter and blood, slashes and burned at random spaces, making the whole thing illegible. "I don't even begin to understand what those clowns believe in."

"If they're anything like my husband, they're not fans," said the Mayor. 

"That's another thing. You have to stop referring to your fridge as your husband."

"He is hard, cold, and makes me happy. All I want in a husband. You can't take that away from me, Trevor!" 

The sight of her quivering jowls made him drop the subject entirely. He only hoped she asked for the fridge's consent before any lascivious act. "Lastly, almost 37% of all polled believe you are, in fact, a reanimated sucking pig who can only walk by the power of Voodoo."

"What?! Is that true?"

"Yes," he said. It was a lie, of course, but we won't tell if you don't. Make it our little secret. You are now bound to the sacred intergalactic oath of keepsie-secrets. May a thousand Carvelian Toemunchers torture you for eternity if you tell. 

Mayor Butterman tried to stand up, but failed, and was content to roll around on her office chair while fondling her mustache. "I don't like these numbers at all. Fire the pollsters. Find me someone who is neither from the right or the left. Somewhere medium. Oh, be a dear and order me some medium steaks, will you?" 

"Yes, ma'am," said Trevor. He did none of those things, and all Mayor Butterman had to eat was half a Cesar's Salad, and a diet Water. 

For those unfamiliar with the iconic Cesar's Salad, it was not, as many believe, created by Roman Emperor Julius Caesar. For one, it doesn't involve the salad getting stabbed sixteen times in the back by their closest friends, although it does make it tastier if you yell at it for at least thirteen minutes. That's a pro-tip for you. 

The Mayor began to chew on the end of a Splenda-flavored pen, accidentally swallowing the cap in the process as she fiddled with a few papers on her desk. They were the permits for a new project Trevor had pestered her about to boost her standing in the paranormal community. 

"You sure this Zombie Gras thing is gonna fly with the weird folk?" she asked. She wondered if the ink of the pen also tasted like Splenda. It didn't  

"Yes, ma'am. It polled terrific with everyone. 80% said it was a step in the right direction, while a whopping 96% said it would boost the standing of the paranormal community in the city."

"I hope you're right on this one. It's your skin on the line if this turns out to be a dud. Do get me some Milk Duds, hun."

"My skin?" asked Trevor. "I wasn't the one who proposed it."

"That would be me," said a sweet, mousey voice from the door. Sabrina stood just outside, in the hallway, with her eyes red from crying in the bathroom about her crappy internship and her crappy boss while pinching a bootleg Voodoo doll of Mayor Butterman all over with a needle. "Well, it was my father's idea. I just passed it onto you."

"Well, it's your skin on the line then, Brenda," said the Mayor. "Also, what did I tell you about not being all creepy and appearing outta nowhere? Gotta put a bell around your neck."

Sabrina dug her nails into her palm, the only way she could snap out of a sudden murderous rage. "Sorry, ma'am, I was in a hurry. Just wanted to say that your 3 o'clock meeting is here Superintendent Lennin called. Again."

"Who's here again?" said the Mayor.

"One DJ Scratch, ma'am," said Trevor. "You know, the event planner. The one the very influential, ahem, 'boy-witch' recommended?"

"Ah, yes. The planner," said the mayor. "Let him in. And tell Lennin to leave a message."

"She already did," said Sabrina, taking a post-it note from a notebook. "She said, and pardon my french: What the living tit-hell, you obese hag. What's this communiss plot about me f-ing pulling all my men to guard some f-ing communiss fairy carnival of crap. Holy s-word on a Graham cracker, you must have a major malfunction on that soggy tofu meat you call a brain if you think I'm gonna make my men guard a bunch of leprechauns and s-word. At least have the ovaries to answer my calls. You b-word a-word s-word."

"Always a charmer," said the Mayor. "Call her back, tell her to woman-up and do her damn job."

"She told me she was tired of using the phone, because, and I quote, 'those damn 5g towers are giving me uvula cancer,' and she was coming over as soon as she could."

"S-word," whispered the Mayor. "See, Trevor? I can keep my fucking mouth calmed. Where is that useless Scratch fella, anyhow?" 

"I'll send him right in," said Sabrina. 

"Okay. Trevor, go get my food. Brenda, your job will be to keep Superintendent Lennin away from us. You're a pretty, young witch, aren't you? You just charm her any way you want, and we are peachy."

"Are you trying to magic-pimp me to some crazy cop?" asked Sabrina. 

Trevor moved quick on his feet and placed himself between the two women. There were sparks flying between her, mostly out of Sabrina's magic spilling out for her anger. It had the nice side effect of charging every phone in the room. "No, no, no. Of course not. What the Mayor is trying to say is that you are a talented, young woman who can be very resourceful. Just keep the Superintendent away from us."

"Yes, that," reassured Mayor Butterman. "Totally what I meant." She then undercut her whole saved by making a big, unsubtle wink at Trevor.

He let out a big sigh. It was going to be a long day. He left the room, and almost at the same time, a man entered the room. We think. The man was best described not as a human, but as a crime against fashion and good taste. 

He had a black and yellow striped top hat, with a blue and orange suede vest and pants. His shoes were made from the hairs of baby seals, and his mouth shined from all the gold teeth he had. Why humans would take their most valuable material and shove them in their most disgusting cavity is beyond us. Feel free to contact us if you have practical information about this rare human behavior. 

"Mayor Bu-tter-man, my girl, where y'at?" said the man as he leaped from the entrance to the desk to embrace the Mayor.

She, on the other hand, pushed the man away and clasped his hand hard. "DJ Scratch, so nice to see you. And on time, as well."

The man shot her some finger-guns while clicking his tongue, which, had the Mayor been from the Frotulan Galaxy, it would've signified that he was ready to mate as well. This is why this story is rated 21+ on the Frotulan Galaxy. "Hey, hey, you know The Scratch is early to rise, late to rest, keeps all them crazies away, you dig?" 

"I suppose that's a good thing?" asked the Mayor, but only got a finger gun as a response. "Well, let's begin. What do you have for me?" 

The DJ sat opposite to the Mayor, retrieved a fold of papers from somewhere we dare not mention, and cleared his throat. His voice changed from a Saturday morning local DJ to a skivvy, almost controlling businessman. 

"We are calling this hypothetical holiday 'Zombie Gras' to illustrate the city's deep and historical attachment to the Hoodoo Voodoo tradition, while also shining the spotlight on other magical ethnicities. Not to mention this will be a nice source of revenue for the city. We would like to set this date to the night between April 30th and May 1st, also known as 'Walpurgisnatch,' the night of the witches, and the night where the magic is most strong. That way, we can stay in theme, celebrate the magic culture of the city, and appease the witch and warlock demographic, which my research tells me is the group you're struggling with the most." 

The Mayor was taken aback. Not because of the sudden change in the DJ, but because Trevor came in with a tray of mini-sandwiches. "Excuse me, dear. Just my second pre-lunch. Continue. And don't sound so formal. We are among friends here, right, Trevor?"

"Sure, friends," said Trevor with not a hint of friendship magic on him. "I'll get the drinks."

The DJ adjusted his voice again and returned to being an annoying DJ, which is an oxymoron at this point. "Alright, cats, listen to DJ Scratch, 'cuz he ain't speaking twice. We gotta make some weird stuff, ya dig? We start with a huge seance, then, a huge parade, with floats and shit. Then some kids shows, you know, for them little munchkins. But the best thing is, at the end of the night, yours truly, DJ Scratch himself, is gonna throw a bom-bas-tic hootenanny rave with all them music those crazy kids get giggly with @ City Park, the biggest outdoor party this city has ever seen, ya dig?" 

Everyone remained quiet, mostly because they couldn't understand anything he had said. 

"Also," said the man, "DJ Khaled is gonna play."

"Well, I'm sold," said Mayor Butterman. "If DJ Khaled is playing, I don't think there's any problem here. He is the voice of a generation, after all."

Trevor, about the only grown up in the room, stepped in. "But how much will this cost us? Sounds expensive." 

"Oh, you won't be paying with money, if you know what I mean," said the DJ. 

Anyone with a keen eye would've seen the vacant eyes behind his glasses. Or his unusually long and sharp tongue. Or maybe the tail that he was trying to hide beneath his coat. Sadly, the only eye that could be considered keen was eyeing her fifth mini-sandwich. 

"So, you saying it's free?" said the Mayor. 

"No, not quite," said the DJ. 

"But, we ain't gonna pay with money," says the Mayor, or at least tries to say between mouthfuls of beef and cheese. 

"Well, no, but-"

"Then, you got yourself a deal," says Mayor Butterman. "'Cuz we ain't got no money." 

"Very well," says the DJ. "Just need to shake your hand and all is well." 

The Mayor shook the bread crumbs off her hand — but not the mustard, for some reason — and shook the man's hand. 

Then, the room trembled. It was only for a second, a blip, if you will, as if the whole room just had one too many burritos, and there was no bathroom in sight. But just as it came, it went away. 

The deal was done.

"Whoops, I think I just sharted, pardon my french," said the Mayor. "Now, what's gonna be the first event again?"