REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 95: Chapter 95
You are reading REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS, Chapter 95: Chapter 95. Read more chapters of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS.
The trailhead loomed, damp with fog and bad energy. The moment we stepped out of the cars, a mosquito dive-bombed Mylene’s cheek like it was auditioning for a blood cult.
“OH MY GOD. Is this the jungle? Why are they so big here?” she shrieked, swatting at nothing and reapplying her concealer.
Joe muttered, “We’re in the foothills.”
“Foothills of hell, Joseph.”
“I told you to wear pants.”
“I did. Under my skirt. They’re designer. Don't shame the process.”
The trail wound upward, winding through trees that whispered secrets and branches that clearly had a vendetta against well-done hair. Birds chirped. A frog blinked ominously from a mossy log. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel stared at us like it knew too much.
Jhing Jhing fanned herself dramatically. “Why is everything moist? I haven’t been this damp since the hotel steam room.”
“I warned you not to wear wedges,” I hissed, yanking a vine out of her path.
“They’re hiking appropriate adjacent. Besides, I brought flats. For emotional emergencies.”
We hiked. And hiked. And then we hiked more.
I checked the GPS. Joe checked the altitude. The mercs checked their guns. Jhing Jhing checked her lip gloss like the mountain was about to hand her a modeling contract.
Three Hours In
We were sweaty. Muddy. Slightly irritated. And deeply, aggressively overdressed.
Joe remained a rock of quiet competence. I, however, was trying to ignore the fact that I’d stepped in something that might have been a cursed mushroom. Mylene had lost one eyelash extension to the wind. She declared it a spiritual attack.
Then it happened.
A snake slithered across the path.
A small one.
Like, barely the size of a fancy shoelace.
But to Mylene? Apocalypse.
She screamed. Like... opera soprano finding her ex on Tinder kind of scream.
“WHY DO THINGS HERE MOVE LIKE THAT?! Is it venomous? Joe, DO SOMETHING!”
“It’s a garden snake,” Joe muttered, unimpressed.
“Well, it can garden somewhere else!”
“Do not engage with it,” Jhing Jhing warned, pulling out her compact mirror. “They can smell fear... and insecurity.”
I couldn’t breathe. Not from fear—from laughter.
We made camp on a flat clearing overlooking a misty valley. The sun began to dip, gold bleeding into the sky like spilled secrets.
Tents popped up (thank you Joe’s elite Ikea-like folding skills). Drones buzzed overhead, scanning the area. The military phone beeped as it pinged coordinates. We were near. So close.
As the fire crackled and the coffee brewed (because caffeine is a survival essential), I looked at my team—smeared makeup, bug-bitten ankles, and sass levels through the roof.
“We look like a dysfunctional Vogue cover,” I murmured.
Mylene sipped from her wine flask. “Vogue wishes.”
Jhing Jhing adjusted her bandana and swatted another mosquito. “If we survive this, I’m demanding a documentary deal. With editing rights.”
I sipped my coffee and grinned. “Good. Because the mountain doesn’t know what’s coming.”
The wind howled softly. Somewhere ahead, buried in rock and shadow, the truth waited.
And we? We were ready.
With blush. With bullets. With sass.
The next morning greeted us with a slap of cold mountain air and the soul-jarring caw of a bird that sounded like it was personally offended by our presence.
Jhing Jhing rolled out of her tent looking like a disgruntled debutante caught in the Hunger Games. “Why is it so loud out here? Nature needs to calm down.”
Mylene emerged next, her hair in a twisted bun that somehow still screamed diva. She stared at her reflection in the side of the SUV and muttered, “We need to survive this, because I did not haul twenty pounds of skincare just to die looking ashy.”
Joe was already dressed in full tactical gear, sipping black coffee like a man made entirely of combat and sarcasm. His men, equally silent and serious, checked the drones again and adjusted their comms gear.
I double-checked my own pack: drone controller, military-grade flashlight, protein bars disguised as chocolate, extra batteries, compact mirror (not for survival, for confidence), and yes—my emergency concealer palette, because even doom looks better with coverage.
We marched deeper into the woods, where the trees grew thick, the moss whispered old rumors, and the trail began to vanish beneath layers of pine needles and bad vibes.
Four Hours Later: Sass, Sweat, and Screaming
The forest changed. Shadows clung like secrets. The air felt heavy with things that had names once but were now just whispers between tree trunks.
“We’re getting close,” Joe said, pointing to a narrow trail that definitely looked like it had hosted more ghosts than hikers.
“I don’t like that tree,” Jhing Jhing said, pausing. “It’s looking at me.”
“You’re imagining things,” I muttered.
“No, Catherine. That tree has opinions.”
Mylene kicked a rock. “Why is everything here so damp and judgmental? I miss flat surfaces. I miss room service. I miss bubble baths that don’t come with bat infestations.”
We trudged forward. The trail turned into a steep incline. Roots clawed at our ankles. Mosquitoes attempted murder. But we pushed through—sass-first.
“OH MY GOD. Is this the jungle? Why are they so big here?” she shrieked, swatting at nothing and reapplying her concealer.
Joe muttered, “We’re in the foothills.”
“Foothills of hell, Joseph.”
“I told you to wear pants.”
“I did. Under my skirt. They’re designer. Don't shame the process.”
The trail wound upward, winding through trees that whispered secrets and branches that clearly had a vendetta against well-done hair. Birds chirped. A frog blinked ominously from a mossy log. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel stared at us like it knew too much.
Jhing Jhing fanned herself dramatically. “Why is everything moist? I haven’t been this damp since the hotel steam room.”
“I warned you not to wear wedges,” I hissed, yanking a vine out of her path.
“They’re hiking appropriate adjacent. Besides, I brought flats. For emotional emergencies.”
We hiked. And hiked. And then we hiked more.
I checked the GPS. Joe checked the altitude. The mercs checked their guns. Jhing Jhing checked her lip gloss like the mountain was about to hand her a modeling contract.
Three Hours In
We were sweaty. Muddy. Slightly irritated. And deeply, aggressively overdressed.
Joe remained a rock of quiet competence. I, however, was trying to ignore the fact that I’d stepped in something that might have been a cursed mushroom. Mylene had lost one eyelash extension to the wind. She declared it a spiritual attack.
Then it happened.
A snake slithered across the path.
A small one.
Like, barely the size of a fancy shoelace.
But to Mylene? Apocalypse.
She screamed. Like... opera soprano finding her ex on Tinder kind of scream.
“WHY DO THINGS HERE MOVE LIKE THAT?! Is it venomous? Joe, DO SOMETHING!”
“It’s a garden snake,” Joe muttered, unimpressed.
“Well, it can garden somewhere else!”
“Do not engage with it,” Jhing Jhing warned, pulling out her compact mirror. “They can smell fear... and insecurity.”
I couldn’t breathe. Not from fear—from laughter.
We made camp on a flat clearing overlooking a misty valley. The sun began to dip, gold bleeding into the sky like spilled secrets.
Tents popped up (thank you Joe’s elite Ikea-like folding skills). Drones buzzed overhead, scanning the area. The military phone beeped as it pinged coordinates. We were near. So close.
As the fire crackled and the coffee brewed (because caffeine is a survival essential), I looked at my team—smeared makeup, bug-bitten ankles, and sass levels through the roof.
“We look like a dysfunctional Vogue cover,” I murmured.
Mylene sipped from her wine flask. “Vogue wishes.”
Jhing Jhing adjusted her bandana and swatted another mosquito. “If we survive this, I’m demanding a documentary deal. With editing rights.”
I sipped my coffee and grinned. “Good. Because the mountain doesn’t know what’s coming.”
The wind howled softly. Somewhere ahead, buried in rock and shadow, the truth waited.
And we? We were ready.
With blush. With bullets. With sass.
The next morning greeted us with a slap of cold mountain air and the soul-jarring caw of a bird that sounded like it was personally offended by our presence.
Jhing Jhing rolled out of her tent looking like a disgruntled debutante caught in the Hunger Games. “Why is it so loud out here? Nature needs to calm down.”
Mylene emerged next, her hair in a twisted bun that somehow still screamed diva. She stared at her reflection in the side of the SUV and muttered, “We need to survive this, because I did not haul twenty pounds of skincare just to die looking ashy.”
Joe was already dressed in full tactical gear, sipping black coffee like a man made entirely of combat and sarcasm. His men, equally silent and serious, checked the drones again and adjusted their comms gear.
I double-checked my own pack: drone controller, military-grade flashlight, protein bars disguised as chocolate, extra batteries, compact mirror (not for survival, for confidence), and yes—my emergency concealer palette, because even doom looks better with coverage.
We marched deeper into the woods, where the trees grew thick, the moss whispered old rumors, and the trail began to vanish beneath layers of pine needles and bad vibes.
Four Hours Later: Sass, Sweat, and Screaming
The forest changed. Shadows clung like secrets. The air felt heavy with things that had names once but were now just whispers between tree trunks.
“We’re getting close,” Joe said, pointing to a narrow trail that definitely looked like it had hosted more ghosts than hikers.
“I don’t like that tree,” Jhing Jhing said, pausing. “It’s looking at me.”
“You’re imagining things,” I muttered.
“No, Catherine. That tree has opinions.”
Mylene kicked a rock. “Why is everything here so damp and judgmental? I miss flat surfaces. I miss room service. I miss bubble baths that don’t come with bat infestations.”
We trudged forward. The trail turned into a steep incline. Roots clawed at our ankles. Mosquitoes attempted murder. But we pushed through—sass-first.
End of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS Chapter 95. Continue reading Chapter 96 or return to REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS book page.