She really does.
Sérisse d’Argelonne is over six hundred years old and gives literally no fks. She says what she wants, does what she wants, acts however she wants.
Here’s another excerpt of my story, or whatever it is.
——
It was hot as hell, and the pool water was only somewhat helping. Nothing like a Mississippi scorcher to make even a swimming pool work against you.
Gorgon salt water pools were actually the best. Sincerely. They had all kinds of waterfalls, foliage, underwater seating, you name it. It had been that way since the beginning of their race; only the facades had changed.
Sérisse was watching Calder and Melusine. Her new son-in-law seemed happy to finally have some alone time with his new wife while keeping a very healthy distance from her siblings.
“He still trying make sense of it,” Athénaïs said softly, “He be okay, Mon Cœur.”
“Mmm,” Sérisse agreed, “I know.”
“Sérisse,” Athénaïs said softly, “It gonna be fine. He need time to process.”
Once again, her wife was correct. Calder had learned more about the world, and himself, in a very short time than anyone should reasonably be expected to process. Gorgons were real. The massive Gorgon Dynasty he had spent years reading about in Ashspire was real. He had married into that very family without knowing it. Then there was the revelation that the males of the species were also called Gorgons, something that had thrown Calder for a loop all by itself. And as if all of that wasn’t enough to completely rearrange his understanding of reality, he had discovered that he was a Gorgon too.
Sérisse and Athénaïs were lounging on recliner chairs, underneath shade umbrellas. Athenais was decked out in full makeup, hair done, jewelry on, high heels, bathing suit, and breezy cover-up. Sérisse was… irritated. She leaned back in her chair, sunglasses on, a Bloody Mary in one hand and a cigar in the other, wearing a caftan and bitching about it the entire time.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Sérisse barked. “Why can’t I at least wear jeans? I look like Gloria fucking Swanson in this puke city tent.”
“Cannot wear jeans to pool,” Athénaïs was saying loudly, “Sérisse, jeans and t-shirt with run over Speedo McIntosh not appropriate.”
“I don’t wear dresses,” Sérisse hissed. She took a drag on the cigar and then downed half of the Bloody Mary. “And it’s Spuds MacKenzie. It’s a vintage ‘The Party’s Over’ T-shirt. I got it at a gas station in the eighties. It’s a classic.”
“I hate that shirt worse than nose goblin shirt and caftan is NOT dress,” Athénaïs snapped, “Is POOL COVER up. And that your fourth Bloody Mary. Sérisse, we not gonna repeat last weekend.”
“I’ve got to have something to help me cope. You know how much I fucking love covering up in my own pool,” Sérisse said sarcastically.
“Bebes and Grandbebes here, cannot always be naked in pool!” Athénaïs yelled.
“We could if we were in the salt pool INSIDE. In OUR house. And if they swam in the pools at THEIR houses every now and then instead of always coming over here. Come on, let’s go inside for a while…”
“Non. We do that, then we rude,” Athénaïs retorted, “To bebes.”
“Fuck them,” Sérisse said. “And I mean that affectionately. I love all of them, but they are all hundreds of years old, they’ve got grown children and grandchildren, I don’t just pop in on them unannounced…”
“MAMMA… Yes you do,” Charon interjected. “You do it every day, multiple times a day.”
“Yeah, Mamma, you literally just walk right in like you own the place,” Charlestre added.
“Because I DO own the place, you argumentative little shit,” Sérisse hissed, “And mind your fucking business. This is an adult conversation.”
“Right, because I’m only five hundred years old and the heir to the throne that your immortal ass is never going to give up,” Charlestre hissed, “I’m way too young to discuss your lack of boundaries.”
“Yeah..Mamma…an adult conversation about you wanting to get naked in the pool with Mom,” Marcellin added, “Which NO ONE wants to hear, by the way.”
“But we end up hearing it because you’re loud as fuck,” Thierienne added.
“So fucking loud,” Eamonn sighed, “I’m sure EVERY SAUVAIN can hear you, Mamma. It’s like you’re the mouth of the South.”
“Shut up, you little bastards!” Sérisse barked.
“Jesus Christ,” Thierry sighed, “Every minute of every day. I hate every single one of you.” He barely got the words out before Marcellin flipped his floater lounger over and dunked him.
And then…
“OH MY GOD, ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!”
The scream detonated across the pool deck. The water rippled beneath the force of a Gorgon sonic scream.
Every head snapped toward the kiddie pool. Pierre-Aurélian launched himself out of it with a quickness, hit the grass running, gagging and looking genuinely prepared to vomit.
“The fuck is wrong now?” Sérisse growled around the cigar clenched between her teeth. She rose from the oversized lounge chair and stomped toward the kiddie pool. She took one look, then thunder boomed as her wings snapped all the way out. She threw both hands in the air. “WHAT THE FUCK? What the actual fuck?!”
The toddlers started cackling like maniacal little psychopaths. It was a collective diabolical laugh.
The water was brown. Poop brown.
Every single toddler was standing in the water, grinning like tiny warlords. They splashed, proudly examined their hands, and threw poop at each other. Some of it went flying toward Sérisse, who dodged effortlessly.
“Quit that, damn it!” Sérisse yelled, “That is disgusting! Stop!”
Pierre-Aurélian was already hurling himself into the bayou, screaming about how he was going to be scarred for life.
Sérisse began cursing in rapid-fire French, the words sharp and blistering as she flung one hand toward the kiddie pool. Violet smoke erupted and thunder clapped. The water drained itself, leaving behind a gaggle of poo-covered toddlers blinking in the sunlight like they had just accomplished something historic.
Athénaïs walked over, waved her hand lazily, and in an instant was wearing rubber gloves.
“Non, non, Mon Trésor,” Sérisse said softly, “I’ve got it, you go relax.”
“Is just tiny bit of poop, Sérisse,” Athénaïs said, “Plus, you gonna vomit anyway.”
“I absolutely will not,” Sérisse said, the words barely out of her mouth before the smell hit her. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth and nose. “And it isn’t a tiny bit, it’s the fucking Gulf of Fecal Matter over here. How did all of that come out of THEM! Why did every single one of them have to shit the pool at once? Who the hell taught them that? Did they plan this? They planned this, damn it, I know they did.”
“You hear yourself?” Athénaïs said, “You accusing toddlers of organize crime.”
“It’s not accusation, it’s truth,” Sérisse said. “This would gag a fucking maggot. Why is it ALWAYS SOMETHING? Why can I not have one fucking day of PEACE? Why does it always have to be an explosive disaster? Why does my day always get fucked?”
“That’s what SHE said…Hiyoooo,” Charon yelled, then high fived Charlestre.
“All of you get over here and help, damn it,” Sérisse bellowed, “Your Mère shouldn’t have to scrub shit off of swimming pool tile! She shouldn’t have to do any of it!”
All of the adult children trudged over, except for Thierienne, who continued to lounge on his pool float, laughing maniacally at some video on his phone.
About kids pooping in pools.
Christ.
Sérisse yanked the cigar from her mouth and hurled it toward him. It hit Thierienne directly in the chest. He yelped and pivoted backward into the water.
“You apparently find it entertaining to watch kids shit themselves and their surroundings, so get over here and help!” Sérisse barked, “NOW.”
“The fuck? I didn’t tell them to shit in the pool!” Thierienne shot back, slicking his hair back out of his face.”
“Actually, you kind of did, bro,” Charon said dryly, already aiming the hose at a pack of toddlers, “At lunch. You told them about the time you pooped in the bath to get back at Marcellin for putting cat shit in your shoes.”
“Oh yeah, that was fucking hilarious,” Eamonn said. “Marcellin’s face, though!”
“Bruh, your face when you felt that cat crap between your toes,” Marcellin laughed, “I wish cameras had been invented back then.”
“You commissioned a painting of it, dumbass,” Charlestre cackled.
“Oh yeah, and hung it in the parlor right before Cousin Henry came to visit,” Absynthe laughed, “Holy Shit, Mamma was so mad.”
“Like, the vein in her forehead had its own zip code,” Amelie laughed, “Remember what she said?”
“Wait, wait, let me do the impression,” Charon said as she stood up and did a dead-on Sérisse face and posture. “Who in zee actual fuck put zis ‘orseshit on my wall? It looks like a fucking toddler painted eet… wait… is zis cat shit? Is zis a god damned painting of cat shit? For fuck’s sake, zis is a fucking t’rone room, not a tavern. Get zis shit off of my fucking wall. Jesus, I need a fucking drink…”
“I DON’T SOUND LIKE THAT AND I DON’T CARE WHO TOLD WHO WHAT!” Sérisse roared, voice carrying with both parental and royal authority. “EVERYONE GET OVER HERE AND SCRUB A BÉBÉ DOWN. NOW.”
Toddlers giggled and danced as they were being hosed off. Pierre-Aurélian hid in the boathouse, waiting for someone to bring him a towel and clean clothes so he could shower. Thierienne threw up in the bushes. Eamonn looked like he was about to follow suit. Absynthe and Amelie tag teamed scrubbing and rinsing toddlers. Charon was helping Athenais scrub the tile. Charlestre was cursing so proficiently, she sounded like a copycat of Sérisse.
Athénaïs and Sérisse worked in ruthless tandem, sleeves soaked, expressions murderous and maternal at the same time.
“Why is there pink poop here?” Sérisse yelled. “Come the fuck ON. Why the hell is this my life?”
“Me eat cwayons fow bweakfast, MéMère,” Henriette-Sophie said proudly.
“The fuck did you do that for?” Sérisse hissed.
“Sérisse!” Athénaïs scolded.
“I know, I know, don’t say fuck in front of the fucking toddlers,” Sérisse sighed, “Henriette…why?”
“Yow teww me not waste money on cwayon bekawsz I can’t eat cwayon,” Henriette said matter of factly, “And I say yes I can and yow was wike, no yow can’t and I was wike I show yow and yow say okay den show me smawtass and I won’t say anover wowd abowt it. So I show yow that yow wrong. You CAN eat cwayon becawse they non toskisk and also they awe dewishus.”
Fuck. She HAD said that. How the fuck was she supposed to know the little turd would take her seriously and actually eat the fucking thing?
Athénaïs glared at Sérisse. Hard. The kind of look that could melt leather and steel.
Fuck. Fuck!
She might as well kiss the idea of being naked with her wife in the indoor salt pool goodbye. That wasn’t happening today. It might not happen for a week.
Motherfucker.
“Okay, well, MéMère didn’t actually mean EAT the crayon,” Sérisse sighed, “I was being facetious.”
“Why you being feces, MéMère?” Josephine-Colette asked.
“MéMère not being fweecies,” Geanette-Andromede said. “She say she being fesheetshus. It mean being a asshowe.”
“Don’t say asshole,” Sérisse corrected.
“You say ashhowe,” Josephine said.
“I’m an adult, I’m allowed to use an adult word. You are two. You are not allowed,” Sérisse countered.
“Wisten, MéMèwe,” Henriette interjected. “Don’t try and wawyew us, yow ouwr MéMèwe, not ow Attownie. Yow can cut that out wight now.”
The sound of a finger snap cracked across the lawn. Every head turned to see Athénaïs, infuriated, one hand on her hip.
“Enough!” Athénaïs hissed, “Bebes not use any more filth words, is inappropriate.”
“You see?” Sérisse said to the toddlers, “I told you-“
“Sérisse-Sthenaïs, ferme ta bouche!” Athénaïs said in the low register reserved for when she was absolutely furious.
Sérisse clamped her mouth shut and continued cleaning toddlers. If the other sauvains got wind of this, she would never live it down. She could hear it already:
Le Roi et La Reine, Sovereigns of the Gorgon Kingdom, First of Their Names, Toddler Poop Wranglers.
And the day had begun so well, too…
——
So yeah, Sérisse is an ancient Gorgon ruler who has to rely on Bloody Marys and multiple recitations of the rosary to deal with the shit show that is her life.
Copyright K.S. 2026