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Ursula wedged her phone between her cheek and shoulder, listening to the ring on the other end of the line as she carefully tapped ground rose petals into a glass vial.
"Yes?" came the clipped answer, delivered in a snappish British accent.
Ursula’s lips curved upwards. ”Oh, it’s you, then.”
His sneer came clearly through the line. ”And who else might it have been?”
"Well, my dear, your text message told me to ‘find my skinny hag and get down to the Castle.’ Unfortunately, I have both you and Yzma under Skinny Hag in my phonebook, and I have to always check who it is." Ursula swapped her phone to her other shoulder.
"The H should be a F."
"Mm, good point. That’s a much better name. Why do you need to go to a bar at—" She checked the wall clock. "—two PM?"
"It’s a long story. If you go where I’ve told you, I’ll share it. I’m already in the car and stuck in fucking traffic, so do pray heft your stately bulk into motion in the hopes that we can have cocktails sometime before the next ice age."
Ursula sighed. It looked like this batch of ‘cancer cures’ was going to have to wait.
"Fine, whore. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes." She blew a kiss into the phone.
Scar hung up. Ursula squinted at her phone.
By God, she did have him down with an F. She needed new glasses.
—
Yzma shedded her massive fur coat at the door of the Castle, slipping out of the skin like a starving snake. She patted her hat and snapped at one of the bartenders, flicking her wrist and pointing at her preferred table.
The big buff brute jumped to comply and she smiled thinly as she strutted over to her seat.
She wrinkled her nose as she spied her comrades. ”Ugh,” she sneered, “what are you drinking?”
"It started out as Scotch," Ursula reported, resting her chin on the back of her hand and smirking at the gangly pile of long black hair slumped on the table, clutching a champagne glass. "But his sense of humor got the better of him."
Scar forced himself to sit upright and downed the contents of his glass in one pull. ”We must drink champagne,” he insisted. ”We celebrate my sister-in-law’s joyful entry into the world of motherhood,” he growled, making a sharp gesture at one of the waiters.
Yzma slid into the booth with Ursula with a cruel little smile. ”Mm. Congratulations, Scar, you’re going to be a wonderful uncle.”
"Shut up, slag," Scar said. Ursula pushed her own drink towards him and he scooped it up and poured it down his throat.
"Did you slip anything into the new mother’s food?" Yzma said. "That’s how my family has always dealt with this kind of thing."
"Yes, but that’s because your family has been inducing abortions in women in whose houses you’ve been living," Scar said. "Those of us with even the most basic grasp of sabotage recognize that it will look ever so slightly suspicious if the hated younger brother appears one evening for dinner, shows an unprecedented interest in food preparation, and the lady of the house falls disastrously ill soon after." A waiter appeared with fresh drinks. Scar seized his, downed it, and replaced it on the waiter’s tray in a sparse three motions. "Another, if you please. The point is, there was no way to make it look like an accident."
"Excuses, excuses," Ursula said. Scar flipped her the bird. "The child is an infant. In two or three years it will be one walking accident. You can have it seem to fall out of its crib for all the effort it takes to snap a little neck, and no one will raise an eyebrow."
Scar raised his eyebrow.
Yzma sighed and blew the flame on her beverage out. ”Well, I suppose it is as good as any reason to become a day-drunk. Maybe we’ll buy you a lap dance later, dear, perk up your spirits.”
The waiter brought over an entire bottle of champagne and a bright pink crazy straw.
They had to leave when Scar shoved it up the waiter’s nose and nearly killed him.
They did manage to rescue the champagne bottle, though, and drank it in the parking lot of a 7-11, waiting for happy hour.