"Greens, greens. Nothing but greens. Parsley, peppers, cabbages and celery. Asparagus, and watercress, and fiddle ferns, and lettuce."

- Meryl Streep

"*a bunch of rambling about plasma pools and straight lines*"

- Jeff Goldblum

The only things that mattered in this whimsically demented world were chaos and Chamomile. The sky was perpetually on fire. The screams of countless mortals in torturous death pangs replaced the sounds of night insects from decades ago. This wasn't Hell. This wasn't Earth. This wasn't Hell on Earth. Making any distinction between "Hell" and "Earth" was a moot point these days.

It was just the right environment Chamomile loved to sunbathe in. She was one of the happiest creatures in the Dark Lord's armies, with a list of accomplishments that was short but completely sealed the ghastly fate of humankind. She'd been the primary catalyst—the enzyme of humanity's undoing—and she never had to move an inch out of her cursed arboretum.

Chamomile had been inadvertently conceived inside her mother-sprout as a spell meant for rapid subterranean travel. The intended purpose of the spell was to allow the caster to transform into a temporary alraune and use the roots of her flower bulb as an instant particle transport system to any other part of the castle where an identical flower could grow out of the ground. As was often the case with things on the dangerous fringes of science and alchemy, the spell had gone quite awry for the witch running the experiment.

It was a spell she was only a novice of, but she was determined to master it. After a couple failed trial runs that briefly caused her to act like a chattering willow who kept saying she wanted to be sniffed and stubbornly demanded to be fed lots of sugar water, the embarrassed witch insisted she could master the spell by casting it at full power. She went in completely unprepared for its dominant pheromonal effects.

Her final words as a human being had been "Don't worry. I think I got this under control." Her hunting partner watched as the back of her blue dress disappeared into magic ether to reveal her shoulder blades and slender vertebrae channel, the rear of her skirt dissolved to expose her bright gluteal peaches, and a ring of massive pink flower petals emerged from the ground and folded around the natural width of her waist. And then, indeed, her brain was under the control of thousands of extreme happiness-inducing pollen spores.

A playful, harmless "Hmhm!" was the first sound she made as Chamomile. It had happened so instantly—so decisively and mercifully—that there was zero distinction between where the witch's life ended and Chamomile's life began. There was no struggle, no resistance, and no second thoughts. Chamomile simply came to be the moment the witch left her fruit hanging out.

Maybe the witch had been invaded by an une spirit the moment she cast the spell and it used her body as its human stem. Maybe Chamomile was who the witch had always been on the inside, and the transformative incantation just removed the shackles from her soul the same time it removed her clothes. At least nobody had seen the succulent state of her vaginerines in the last couple of seconds she was consciously human.

When the witch dropped her petticoats, the world dropped its ability to survive as a peaceful society ruled by mortals. That was over a hundred years ago.

Chamomile never remembered her previous life once she came into existence in her hybrid plant-demon body. In her mind, the dark paradise surrounding her was how things had always been. She lived in a hopeless era where the last off-shoot sire of the Belmonts was lost and the Vampire Killer whip was buried under a forgotten patch of potting soil.

She never had to worry about being alone in her blossom. She kept her one destined mate closely planted beside her, and she was always affectionately hugging him in more ways than one.

His body (the upper half that was visible outside of the massive flower bulb) was crafted with pounds upon pounds of scrumptious, healthy, vivacious, oily, muscly meat. His skin was tanned from a combination of his pod-wife's dark auras and the constantly burning sky over his head. Scraps of an old red jacket were still ironed to his sturdy, perpetually misty physique. The rest had been torn off with barbed vines or digested in light acid. His once spectacular gold pompadour had overgrown into a wet, luscious, mop-like mane that hung past his shoulders and veiled most of his stubbly unshaven face.

A second magnificent gold mane was growing like wild foliage just below his chiseled abdomen, and Chamomile was rarely shy about leaving it on display. She just lightly draped ivy over the front of his pelvis from time to time so he was always pleasantly itchy and making little spontaneous tremors with his hips. Her playful irritation made sure his reflexes were getting some exercise and he was never completely stagnant.

Aside from whatever stimulus she felt like providing him, the pod-husband's only two functions were to gently breathe and to live beside her. He was more like a stack of firm muscles forming one of her organs than an actual individual lifeform these days.

"Ughn…" was all he ever said every once in a while. He had no complaints left ever since his mind melted to her seductive venom and reduced him to a man-shaped fertilizer bag. The perfect immortal husband.

Chamomile didn't travel much from her garden of catastrophe, for obvious reasons. But there had been a day many years ago, sometime shortly after her accidental creation, where she'd been visited by her Dark Lord and wondered what she should do in regards to the burly clump of life-renewing carbon tangled in her petals.

"Can I keep him?" She'd asked the Unholy Scourge of All Existence with her usual bright and sunny disposition. Chamomile was no shrinking violet.

"Uhh… I wouldn't know how to separate the two of you if I wanted to." Dracula had answered with a puzzled look on his flinching eyebrows. If only things had gone that way for him and Lisa.

When springtime came around each year and more flowers needed to be planted, all Chamomile had to do was shimmy her accommodating ivory-green hips a few inches inside her bud and tap her husband for his constantly regenerating supply of irrigation seeds. She always grew some extra nicotine leaves he could chew on to help him out during the times she had to give him a particularly difficult juicing following a long draught. His production tended to slow on the years human killings dwindled and there was less fresh blood feeding Chamomile's roots.

The scientific name for their exotic and deadly half-man, half-Venus flytrap offspring was Aulini morrisgoldus. Amorgolds for short.

The 148-year-old druid zealot could never get enough of her. Some men would give up their lives to be in her beautiful jasmine-scented embrace for five seconds. He literally wouldn't be able to survive outside of her.

The decades of constant dryad integration hadn't taken kindly to the unseen parts of his body. His feet were simply non-existent. Whatever was left of his legs (buried deep inside her flower pod, thankfully) probably looked more like tree trunks. Most of his digestive system had been invasively digested by her so she could provide all his nutrients. What he had left were just the parts of his body vital to keeping him alive and providing her whatever company she desired.

Chamomile never felt needy. She never felt jealous. She was delighted to have this big hunky bag of mulch all to herself.

"Isn't the fire lovely, darling?" Chamomile cheerfully asked her ingrown personal gladiator. "It's as red as roses this evening."

"Augh." The pod-husband grunted mindlessly as his pectorals twitched.

Author's note: This was initially planned out to be Alucard and Rando Alraune Enemy 7285429, but then I decided it would be cuter (in a disturbing way) if it was… well, I'll let you figure it out.