It’s good to be the queen. But it’s somewhat less good to be the queen of the dead.

“Welcome to the coven, sister. Here’s a folder explaining our bylaws, dress code, stuff like that. You can look it over later. Right now, we’ll want to get you assigned a familiar and have you swear an oath to the Witch Queen.”

“Witch queen?”

“Hecate, which queen did you think?”

“Wha?”

“Also you’ll want to meet our board of trustees. Although I think Secretary Flense is out of the office this evening. She transforms into a bitch-wolf during full moons, you see. She’s a Were-She.”

“Were-she?”

“Oh, on some moor, killing sheep, probably.”

“Hunh?”

“Anyway, we can still get your soul sworn over to Hecate, Queen of Witches. That’s the most important step in becoming a new member of our dark, mysterious, secret society.”

“The Queen of Witches?”

“The queen of which is Hecate, like I just said, duh. Do you just not listen, sister?”

Wear this shirt: to Bible camp and be assured of a mercifully quick ticket home.

Don’t wear this shirt: at the table. The bugs make our stomachs crawl a little.

This shirt tells the world: “I’m a triple-threat to your button-down conventions, maaaan”

We call this color: Black She-Dog.

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