Vaughn’s brow, perpetually smudged with automotive grime, furrowed into a deep V. He nudged the smoking ash with the toe of his work boot, a wisp of acrid smoke tickling his nostrils. “Honey-petal, what in the name of carburettors is this?” His voice was low, a rumbling query. “Did someone set fire to an innocent fern?” Delancy, still splayed across her velvet cloud, managed a weak wave of her hand. “Aunt Hestia’s tea. My fern, Penelope, tried it. Penelope is… no longer with us.” She gestured dramatically at the empty pot. The scent of fried soil and sulfur drifted lazily over the toolbox. Vaughn’s jaw tightened. He picked up the empty teacup, sniffed it, then grimaced. “This smells like… industrial solvent and despair. What did Hestia say it was?” “Sleepy tea,” Delancy mumbled, already fighting the urge to drift off, despite the recent discovery. “Said it would help me sign papers for the Vance family trust, because I’m so ‘flighty’.” She gave a visible shudder. “Turns out, it would’ve helped me sleep forever.” “Sleep forever?” Vaughn repeated, his eyes darkening. He looked from the cup to the charred pot, then to his wife, who now seemed alarmingly pale. A vein throbbed in his temple. “That’s it. You stay right here, don’t move a muscle. I’m going to the hardware store for some… some *premium* velvet pillows for your hammock. And maybe a new fern. A very, very large fern. And if Hestia so much as breathes in your direction, you call Kip. You scream. You throw a wrench.” He pressed a quick, fierce kiss to her forehead, then strode out, his heavy boots echoing on the concrete. The overhead bay door rattled shut behind him, leaving Delancy alone with the smell of fried potting soil. Mere minutes later, the door creaked open again. Delancy blinked, expecting Vaughn’s return. Instead, Aunt Hestia swept in, her pristine perm a stark contrast to the oily surroundings. Her smile, usually saccharine, was now a predatory slash. “Oh, Delancy, darling, still lollygagging? Such a pity. I thought Vaughn might have taken you out for a drive. More’s the pity for *him*.” She held up a sheaf of papers, the land deed transfer. “Good, he’s gone. Now, no more prevaricating, sweet pea. Time to sign.” Delancy swallowed, her nap-induced bravado curdling instantly. “I-I don’t feel well, Aunt Hestia. My hand is… numb.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically, hoping for a reprieve. Hestia’s smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Nonsense. You’ve had quite enough ‘numbness’ for one day. Now, be a good girl.” She advanced, clutching a ballpoint pen. “Pru’s signature is already here, see?” Hestia tapped a flourishing script on the dotted line. “She was quite agreeable, once I… clarified a few things. She never truly cared for the ancestral acreage, anyway. All that land just sitting there, fallow.” Delancy stared. Pru’s signature? Pru, who had been working eighteen-hour days to secure her future, would never give up half the estate. “You… you forged it!” “A triviality, darling. A minor flourish.” Hestia waved a dismissive hand. “Now, your signature means the entire parcel goes to the *Veridian Chemical Conglomerate*. Imagine! A massive plant right there on the coast! All that lovely, dirty industry. Think of the jobs! Think of the *money*!” She practically drooled over the last word, pushing the pen into Delancy’s reluctant fingers. “They’ll pay a king’s ransom for that waterfront property, and all I need is *your* little ‘X’ and a sip of my… special tea, of course.” Delancy recoiled, the pen feeling like a hot iron. “No! I won’t! The Vance estate is—is for future naps!” Hestia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t be difficult. I’ve gone to too much trouble. This land, this legacy, it’s all mine. It should have been mine from the start. Your father was a fool, leaving it to two indolent girls. Now, *sign*.” She gripped Delancy’s wrist, forcing the pen down towards the paper. Just then, a clatter erupted from the far side of the garage. Kip, who had been attempting to organize a pile of particularly jagged scrap metal, tripped over a discarded transmission casing. With a yelp, he flailed, his arms windmilling. A five-gallon bucket, filled to the brim with fluorescent, bubblegum-pink axle grease, soared through the air. Time seemed to stretch. The bucket spun, a dazzling, sticky projectile, arcing straight toward Aunt Hestia. She had just forced the pen’s tip onto the paper, a triumphant sneer beginning to bloom on her face. SPLAT! The neon-pink grease exploded over Hestia’s head, drenching her pristine white perm, running in sticky rivulets down her face, and splattering across her designer suit. A single fat drop landed on the tip of the pen in Delancy’s hand. Hestia froze, mouth open, before letting out a shriek that rattled the dusty windows. “My hair! My *suit*! You imbecile! You greasy, incompetent fool!” She staggered back, blindly wiping at her face, smearing the pink goo further. “This is an outrage! I’ll have you all arrested! You haven’t heard the last of this!” With another enraged wail, Hestia stumbled out of the garage, leaving a trail of shimmering pink footprints on the concrete floor. Kip, wide-eyed and trembling, slowly picked himself up. “Uh… sorry, Delancy. Did I… break anything?” Delancy stared at the splattered, retreating figure of her aunt, then at the grease-stained contract. She let out an unfiltered snort of laughter. “No, Kip. I think you just saved my nap schedule.” Moments later, the bay door rolled open again, and Vaughn marched in, grinning. He carried a small, elegantly crafted device. It was sleek, a polished onyx casing, with a fan grill made of polished brass. No cord. No wires. Just a quiet hum, and a gentle, cool breeze emanating from its front. “My dear, my sweet Delancy,” Vaughn announced, presenting it with a flourish. “Behold! The ‘Slumber Breeze 3000’! Completely cordless, utterly silent, and it runs on a re-chargeable battery I adapted from an old radio. Built expressly for your delicate constitution. Now, you’ll never suffer a warm forehead again!” He clicked a switch, and the breeze intensified, making a few stray strands of Delancy’s hair flutter. Delancy stared, deeply impressed. A cordless fan? In 1981? This was unheard of. This was… revolutionary. She reached out, feeling the cool air. “Vaughn, it’s… it’s magnificent.” Before Vaughn could bask in her praise, the side pedestrian door burst inward with a resounding crash. Framed in the bright afternoon sun stood an impeccably coiffed stranger in an expensive three-piece suit, waving a hand-drawn schematic torn from Vaughn's workbench. “Mercer!” the man roared, his voice echoing through the vast space. “Who holds the patent for this million-dollar goldmine?!”

Neon Grease and Million-Dollar Breezes