The diner was quiet, no big surprise considering it was nearly 3 in the morning. Peter sat across the table from Greg, pouting like a chastised tween girl even though he got to pick the restaurant.
“For the last time, Peter, you just cannot domesticate a hellcat. They’re vicious little fuckers and no matter how much of a cat whisperer you think you are, bringing a hellcat into your home would not end well.”
“You didn’t have to kill it, though,” Peter said, brows furrowing deeply as he remembered something. “And I’m still not talking to you for another six minutes.”
“Can I get you two started with something to drink?” a young woman asked. For once, the woman approaching Peter Mayhew did not drool all over him. Her face was weary, beaten, despite her youth. She had the face of someone with no fucks left to give. Greg was sure there was a story there, but he didn’t care.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll have a strawberry banana milkshake and…” Peter looked at Greg consideringly. “He’ll have an earl gray.”
Greg glared at Peter for having the audacity to order for him. Though an earl gray did sound rather good.
“Alright,” the waitress said, looking more through the two men than at them.
“I literally did have to kill it,” Greg said when the waitress was gone. “That was the contract. Kill hellcat menacing residents. What the hell did you want me to do? Relocate it? Then it’d just be a menace elsewhere.”
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Peter held up one hand, turning it so that his watch was facing Greg, and tapped at it, expression neutral.
“Your silence suits me fine,” Greg grunted.
Their drinks arrived a few minutes of blessed silence later. The waitress asked if they wanted to order food, but Peter and Greg were each satisfied with just a beverage. When Peter was once again speaking to Greg, the conversation continued.
“I never said I was a cat whisperer,” Peter said sullenly.
“You literally said, verbatim, ‘don’t kill it. Let me talk to it. I’m basically a cat whisperer.’ right before I killed it.”
“I think you’ve been killing monsters so long that you might have become one yourself, Greg. It wasn’t even being a menace to the people of that neighborhood. Maybe it’s just hungry or misunderstood. All I’m saying is that I would have liked the chance to find a non-violent solution before you lop things heads off.”
“It wasn’t a menace to the people, true. But how about you go and ask that rottweiler with one eye if it’s misunderstood. Or the little girl whose cockatoo will never fly again? Maybe tell her that you wanted to let the hellcat that ripped its god damned wing off live because it wasn’t a menace. I may be a monster, Peter, but you have got to be the most naive person on the face of the planet. I kill monsters. It’s what I do. If that doesn’t sit well with you, we don’t have to do this anymore. You can go back to doing yoga with goats or whatever the hell it was you were trying to sell me on last week.”
“Goat yoga was awesome, and you truly missed out on a wholesome afternoon last Tuesday.” Peter wiped some foam from his upper lip delicately with his napkin. “Vicky was disappointed you didn’t come, too.”
Greg frowned deeply. Vicky, the woman whose bread still haunted his dreams with its mouth watering aroma, was disappointed that he, Greg Van Helsing, did not come to goat yoga? He had to admit he was growing fond of the eccentric old bird with her stupid floral dresses and thick glasses, but held zero hope that the feeling was mutual.
“I’ll tell you what,” Greg said, frown deepening further as he forced the words from his mouth. “Next time we get a hellcat contract, I’ll let you do your thing. But you're signing a waiver beforehand.”
“A waiver?” Peter asked. “So, what, I don’t sue you?”
“So your wife doesn’t put me six feet under when it rips you into little slices of Peter Mayhew.”