Samantha stared for some time at the first item on her list. "Hair of the abominable snowman," she half-murmured to herself, as if actually saying the words would somehow make an answer appear out of nowhere. She nervously tapped her pencil against the table and wondered how someone from her small town would come across such an item, since Yeti sightings in her quiet neighbornood had occured, well, never to be honest. She realized she would have to find a suitable alternative, some sort of faux-Yeti that while accessible to her would still please the gods of the spirit world, who were known to be a picky lot. Her attempts to substitute eye of newt with oregano during one particularly trying spell had met with such disaster that her fellow sorcerers still chuckled about it.
"Hey, Samantha, I'm out of wolfbane. Got any allspice?"
Then it came to her, as if a cauldron of hot goat's blood has spilled on her foot. She remembered Mr. Pitts, a local handyman of some reknown, mostly because of his severe lack of any real sense of hygene. A plethora of odors usually greeted anyone within two hundred paces of him (that was with the wind blowing away), his skin, at least the parts that were not covered with thick hair, was mottled with lesions from diseases that quite possibly only he carried and his clothes were covered with stains of a highly questionable origin. But his work was of the highest quality, whether it involved the creation of impeccable lawns, or, as Samantha recalled, his precise removal of snow from sidewalks and driveways in the winter, a skill that had earned him the nickname "The Snowman" from the neighborhood children.
Yes, he was a "snowman", thought Samantha. And he certainly was "abominable". And enough hair covered his back that she could probably take enough clumps for two incantations. As she visualized his hovel at the end of the street, its less-than-secure front door, its broken side window, she found herself reaching for the scissors on her bureau and heading outside.
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