Mallory Price, Mother of Her Dreams

You dazedly slip into the seat beside your absurdly improved mother, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. What's the stupid magical bullshit catch going to be? Is she like some sort of big time **** boss now, and that's where all your money came from? Are you both so hot because of creepy medical experiments, and two days from now you're going to start exploding in fly parts? Maybe Nazis rule the world; that seems to be what happens whenever Magic is too lazy to think of something original. So for now you just cautiously eye your contentedly unconcerned mother, distractedly stroking the dog that has followed you to rest his head on your thigh as she continues to slip her coffee and idly flip through the news on a fancy-looking tablet.

Things may have continued on like that for some time, but then you hear a door slam and heavy footsteps approaching. Your only clue as to what's going on is the look of annoyance that crosses your mother's face as she sets down her tablet and tilts her head your direction, giving you a conspiratorial roll of her eyes. And then your goddamn cousin Jesse lumbers in, heading straight for the refrigerator to begin rifling around.

Okay. Even in a life made perfect through literal magic, you still live with fucking Jesse?! Is it too late to go for the whole fly parts thing?

Your mother quirks an eyebrow at the hulking boy helping himself to whatever he can find, letting a long moment pass before speaking. "Well. Good morning to you too, Jesse."

It catches you by surprise how relieved you are to hear your mother's voice, exactly as you always remembered it. So many things have changed, but you're sure now that she's still your mom. And it certainly doesn't hurt to hear her speaking to Jesse in such a reproachful tone. For his part, Jesse manages to sullenly mumble something that might be a greeting as he slams the fridge door closed, arms laden down with food. He turns, hopefully to go fall in a ditch and die, but quickly takes note of the sight of your gorgeous mother bubbling out of her thin silk robe. What the fuck does that puke think he's doing? He actually thinks he's fooling the two of you as he makes a big show of scanning to table, acting as if he's looking for pepper or a fork or some bullshit. It couldn't be clearer that he's only trying to drool over your mom's tits as long as possible.

Then you realize that he's taking big eyefuls of your boobs as well, and you start to seriously consider the possibility of projectile vomiting hard enough to hit him in the face.

You're a split second from telling him off when your dog raises his head from your lap, rumbling a surprisingly deep growl at your pervert cousin. Jesse balks at the warning from the otherwise placid greyhound, flushing in what could only be a combination of embarrassment and anger. "That dumb dog should be on a leash."

You possessively drape an arm around the dog, glaring at your cousin as you respond without thinking. "Pazuzu isn't dumb; he's got a graduation certificate from Training School! What are the chances you don't have to repeat Senior Year?"

Jesse's eyes flash in rage, dipping down to take one last ogle at your bulging cleavage before he mutters something vulgar under his breath and stomps out. You can only huff, giving the blissfully pleased dog a smooch before throwing yourself back into your chair indignantly. After a moment you notice your mother is looking at you. You glance over, eyebrows raised and annoyance draining as you take in the meaningful glance she's giving you. Then you find yourself returning her sudden grin and giving your shoulders a waggle, the two of you laughing as you wobble your immense chests in unison.

The fury having been mostly drained away, you snatch up an English muffin and take a self-righteous bite. Fucking Jesse. "He's the worst, right?"

Your mother chuckles, reaching over to ruffle your hair. "Oh, absolutely."

"Why is he here then?!"

"How many times are we going to talk about this?" Your mother sighs, thoughtfully swirling her coffee. "Look, I'll admit that when your aunt asked if we could take him in, I didn't realize they were going to be out of the country for so long. But the little shit is still family, and as unpleasant as it is he can stay in our pool house as long as he needs. Okay?"

You nod distractedly, brushing the crumbs off of the shelf of your chest as you let that sink in. So now it's Jesse that lives in your pool house? You'd have obviously preferred that magic relocate him somewhere far away from you, and he's getting treated far better by your mother than he ever deigned to treat her. But the irony of it doesn't go unappreciated. Touche, Magic.

Your mother continues on, waving her hand as if to dispel the lingering miasma of your asshole cousin. "But enough of him. Are we still on for that movie marathon today?"

"Oh, yeah!" Wow, so even with all of these changes, your recent plans are still the same? Fascinating. And it seems confirmed at this point that, even though she was the one who drank the milk, your mother is totally unaware of how different her life is than it was mere hours ago. To her, this is just who she has always been. "What were you thinking?"

She puts a thoughtful finger to her pursed lips in an expression you've seen a million times before, making a show of pondering something she has one hundred percent already decided. God, it's so nice that in so many little ways, this ensorcelled bombshell version of your mom is the same woman you've loved and relied upon your entire life. "Wellll, I was thinking we should start things off right. You know, with an underappreciated Italian horror classic."

It's not that nice. "I still don't want to watch The Curse of the Witch's Curse, mom."

Your mother gives you a little moue, playfully poking you in the side of the head. "You philistine. Fine then, what do you want to watch?"

"Um, I was sort of thinking Face Taker?"

Her eyebrows raising at that is your first sign that something is off. Your second is when she gives a little laugh and shakes her head. "Really? Well oka~ay, but I still have no idea why you like that one so much. It's really not one of my better movies."

Wait. What? Fucking wait. One of HER movies?

"How about Face Taker 2 instead? At least I got to be the killer in that one."

FACE TAKER 2?!

You snatch up the unattended tablet, throwing your mother's name into Google as quickly as you can. You're immediately rewarded with millions of results, countless images, a Wikipedia page that is like ten fucking scrolls deep and an IMDB profile that is fit to bursting with movies featuring your mother through the mid nineties and early two thousands. Sure enough, there's the Face Taker poster you've seen a thousand times, only now it's got a younger, very menaced-looking version of your mother slipped into it. And lo and behold, here's the previously non-existent Face Taker 2, a much more malevolent image of your mom front and center. As malevolent as a picture that is seventy five percent cleavage can be, anyway.

Scrolling madly through titles, you sit in awe as your mother's career unfolds before you. Many of these are movies you know and love, classics of high-concept low-budget pulp movies that your mother introduced you to over the years. And now she seems to have wished herself into staring roles in many of them. "Mom! You're like the queen of all Scream Queens!"

She 'pfft's dismissively, though you can tell she's pleased. "James Gunn said the same thing, but I'm sure the ghost of Fay Wray would disagree."

Here and there, what look to be more main stream titles appear amidst your mother's generally more eclectic filmography. "Wait a second. I Know What You Did Last Summer? Wasn't that Jennifer Love Hewitt?"

Your mother scoffs, puffing out her vast chest. "In that flat bitch's dreams, maybe."

That. Is. So. Cool. "Is this how you made so much money?"

"What? Honey, no." Your mother shakes her head ruefully. "Half of those movies are free on YouTube. Hell, most of them are probably on PornHub. We have money because I bought Apple at two dollars."

Huh. Guess even for-real witch shit can't make you obscenely wealthy through Troma-level horror and slasher movies, even with the addition of the single greatest rack to ever grace the silver screen. Your eyes eventually land on a title you've never heard of before. Whoa, so the milk's magic even created some movies out of whole cloth for your mom? This one seems to be about your mother as an egregiously sexy nun trying to foil the plots of Satan Himself. "How about this one, mom? Pact of the Unblessed?"

Your mother turns a bit red at that, coughing a bit in her surprise. "Oh! Oh, um, we~elll, I guess we could if you wanted? You do know that the sex scene in that one is, er, unsimulated, right?"

Oh, uh. Whoops. Your mother takes your flushing red cheeks as evidence that you didn't, laughing at your sudden embarrassment. "God, I sound like such a prude. Back then I would say that I was being parochial, but it is sort of awkward, right?"

"Uh, maybe a little."

"It is a pretty great scene though. The devil possesses the priest and I use my, er, unspoiled maidenhood to exorcise him. It was the first movie ever to be condemned in a joint declaration from the Roman Catholic and Satanic Churches. Definitely my second proudest moment from that shoot."

"Second proudest?"

Your mother gives you an odd look. "Well, yes? I'm sure I've told you that you were conceived while I was making that movie."

What.

"Actually, it was probably during that scene." Your mother sighs happily, reaching over to affectionately pat you on the cheek. "You're Mommy's Little Blasphemy."

For a moment, you don't have a reaction. Then you glance down at the tablet to see who played the priest. So, sure. It seems that your father was Asher Isaacs now.

Your mother slips out of her seat with a yawn, giving a catlike stretch that somehow doesn't send her breasts exploding out from her overtaxed robe. "Well! I'm going to get dressed. I'll meet you in the screening room in a few hours." She turns to pad away, Pazuzu trotting after. She pauses in the hallway long enough to turn her head and call back to you. "And don't think I've forgotten that you're on the hook for the pizza!"

Christ. It's going to be a lot harder to claim you're just named after the Evil Dead character now.