Fast food really doesn't count as food, in my opinion. Whenever I eat it and do something that requires hard work, I just feel empty, like I'd never really ate. Well, not really empty; you feel the same way you were before you ate it, which is usually tired as all hell, but now you have this weird, gross-feeling weight sloshing around inside you. Every step towards the station made it slide around in my gut, but the worst thing was I couldn't throw it up. Shit was heavy, weighted down, and it would probably pass through me intact. I know that's gross, but that's all I could think about on my way to the station. I had decided to take a little break, a little "me" time, to stop thinking about everything. Horrible circumstances be damned, I said to myself; if I hadn't been picked up yet, I wasn't going to be. There really wasn't any logic to that, but then again logic and I hadn't really been paying each other much mind lately.

Your mind can get tired; sometimes, your body just wants to lay down and rot, but your head is trying to sort out not just the next day, but your whole life, whether time is man-made or an actual dimension, and a rubix cube you've fully realized in your own thoughts. And other times you're up and ready to run a marathon, but you can't remember how to tie your shoes.

Thinking about what just happened, what I was going to do, and even where the next meal was coming from, was too damn much. Too much, man. Way, way too much. So, I decided the walk back and most of the train ride was going to be "me" time.

And fast food was all I could think about.

I mean, I felt it sliding up the walls of my stomach. Like a skateboarder on a half-pipe. Maybe if I shook my hips I could get it to do a one-eighty or something. I wondered if the grease was the culprit.

He cut her head off, and didn't even blink.

Damn, how did they make money off that? Skateboarding. What makes people do that? Maybe too much bud, and too little motivation. Doing that sort of thing would be like instant gratification, really. You have to work hard on it, sure, but it isn't on the same level of a doctor or lawyer. You do a trick, it's awesome, your friends say it's awesome, and you feel awesome. Girls gawk in your general direction. Other people think it looks cool. So you just keep going. A doctor, when he first gets on the floor, can end up staying awake for twenty-four hours at a time. It's not recommended you drive under such exhaustion; you're pretty much driving the same as you would if you just passed the legal limit, drinking-wise. It takes forever to get to that point where you can just coast off your money and hang out at the country club. If you even get there.

I'd pretty much killed her myself. I stuck her with the spear and left her there to die. Maybe I would have done it myself if I had the chance. But she would have killed me. She was going to kill me when we first met. But... How did someone like that, well, end up like that? She was too pretty to be doing what she was doing. Way too good-looking. I mean, it really does take all shapes and sizes, and never judge a book by its cover and all that shit, but still... shit. I wondered what school was like for her. It couldn't have been that bad, looking as good as she did. Maybe there was some family trouble. Maybe she was the good-looking crazy girl. Maybe daddy or mommy helped out with that. I wondered if she was one of those ugly duckling girls; maybe she just didn't know it, about herself, and then one day, bam!

Maybe it was when she died. When they did to her whatever she was going to do to me. What were they going to do to me? They spoke a lot of crazy shit, but it sounded like I could have joined them. Maybe not on their level, but I would have been wrapped up in that world more than I was now.

Screw that. It was the same as it had been back before. It would be the same as I had been.

I stopped walking, and sighed. That would make sense. Way back when, I had nothing to turn to, so what Marcelo was proposing sounded good. "Proposing," hell, what kind of word was that for it? He wanted to rob stuff. He liked me. He saw me get stomped down when I wouldn't join up with... shit, I can't even remember his name anymore. We lived in the same foster house for a bit, not Marcelo, the other dickhead, and years later, we met back up. I really didn't click with people. Still don't. And that fucker wanted me to join up with his guys. I wanted nothing to do with it, even though I really didn't respect the law back then, and, well... still don't. Obviously. It's mostly instinct now, but back then, it was more active in my mind, and I could have filled you up will all kinds of popcorn philosophy bullshit about cops, the whole racket they have going with the government. The kind of shit they do, and why they do it, how it gets “outta hand,” when really, that's just the standard for them. They're supposed to represent something, hope or some bullshit, but they ain't doing it. They do the opposite. I thought there was a standard to life, fairness, a way things were supposed to be, and the pigs were going around and just fucking it up, because that's what they did.

But I tossed all that thinking away a long time ago. I guess my reasoning now is that cops are just people, and no matter who they are or what they do, people are out for themselves. Cops get paid, they take care of themselves, their families, cat, whatever. You don't have to do anything dirty, but you don't have to go above the bare minimum, either, because you have something back home you care about. That's the sort of thing that gives people drive, not the idea of trying to save a world that, in reality, simply doesn't want to be saved. All this crap about honor, and whatever, is just that, crap. Sure, some of them care more than others. And some of them are monsters with a badge. But most are still only people. They get scared, start thinking about their own lives, about how they want to keep on living them, and how much safer it would be to take it easy. Hell, even I could probably take a second and justify everything I've done, no matter what it was; we all do it, every single one of us.

Those people, the cops, got a job to do. And it doesn't pay so well. So, neglect, madness, killings... it's all just inevitable. Just like the rent payment. One is more pressing than the other. But that's not what I thought back then.

So, there I was, back in school, with no one backing me up, and fuck-face looking to rank up. I still said no. I've always been an idiot, you see; this isn't a recent thing. Fuck-face got pissed, and started hounding me. I just kinda took it. It got more and more severe, once they saw that no one really threatening was going to run to my aid. It went on for weeks.

I met Marcelo one rainy day in a back-alley where I had been thrown to the ground and had a knife to my throat. I don't think they were going to kill me. They'd made some sort of comment about the scruff on my face, and fuck-face said something along the lines of, "Isn't that cute, little Alex is all ready to shave now, huh?" I think they were just going to scrape at my face a bit. Maybe cut it. Maybe I really didn't care. Maybe I'm just acting that way now, deadpan, stoic, because it's the only way I can go through it again in my mind. The only way I allow myself to.

I can't really tell what happened next. Marcelo was there with a few of his guys, and pretty pissed. Fuck-face was a nobody, and Marcelo just told him he was tolerated, that's all. And when Marcelo said something, he said it. He voice was almost always smooth, but in moments like that, it could cut up your ears like well-greased razor-wire. Ever since I first saw him, his head was shaved. His skin was somewhat dark, olive-skinned, and I think he was part Italian, maybe, I don't really know. He spoke both English and Spanish. Well, some Spanish. Mostly Portuguese. But the first real part of my Spanish knowledge actually came from him. I speak a bit of Portuguese, too.

He was one of those guys who, even when completely relaxed, looked ridiculously imposing, as if at any moment, he was going to jump and tear you to pieces. He looked the part for it, too; the guy was solid. That's the only way I can think to put it. He wasn't one of those modern day health nut guys, people who cry themselves to sleep at night if they drink a beer and suddenly don't look like an underwear model. Marcelo wasn't fat at all, just muscle piled on muscle. He didn't have to work hard for it; his parents had pretty much given it to him.

But Fuck-face wasn't so big. So, Marcelo grabbed him up, tossed away the knife, and asked the guy why he was being such a punk. Fuck-face was kind of babbling something, and everyone who liked Fuck-face were giving all the local track stars a run for their money. So Marcelo just kind of grabs a safety-pin that was stuck on some blanket hanging out to dry or something (yeah, I know, in the rain; trust me. That kind of thing happens. Mostly because meth happens), and says that he doesn't want to hurt Fuck-face; he just wants to help him look the part.

So he threaded the pin through Fuck-face's lip. Not just through one hole; in and out, in and out, like a stitch.

Fuck-face didn't like that much. He was screaming holy hell. This got Marcelo mad. I mean, after everything Marcelo did for him, Fuck-face was sittin' there bawlin'. Christ. All right then, Marcelo says, let's get rid of it.

So he pulled it right out of Fuck-face's... face. Without un-stitching it.

I never saw the guy again. I barely even saw him running away.

I only felt his blood spray on me.

Marcelo helped me up, and I tell you, that was the most scared I'd been yet. Marcelo asked me if I wanted to lay low for a bit with his guys, and I think I just gulped. He then tried to reassure me that what he did, even as twisted as it was, was the only thing those idiots understood. Fear. That was it. They were like animals. You had to beat them bloody for them to get the message. If they acted crazy, you had to act crazier, even if you didn't want to. You just had to. Otherwise, you just ended up like them, toiling for some unknown big shot, dancing to his tune. I asked what Marcelo was doing, then.

"Me? Well," he said with a sly smile, "I'm just kind of looking out for myself. And anyone who's cool."

I just blinked at him.

He laughed in my face, but lightly, "Well, I'd rather die on my own two feet then get sucked into some other guy's crap. Get hooked on something, get forced to do something, and that way they got something on you. You can't get out. Fuck that. The guy at the top is in it for him, so why can't I be in it for me? And fuck going straight. It's pretty much doing the same shit as that little punk. They lock you up in some office and give you an allowance, not pay. You never get anywhere. The only people who get big there are the guys who were born there. The little diamond in the rough, who claws their way out of a place like this, is just their pet. They even get ideas stolen from them 'n shit. The fuck's the point? Just find the people you click with, guys like you, and take a corner of the world for yourselves, that's what I say. That's what everybody else is doing. Why not me? Fuck Fuck-face who had you down. That little shit had it comin' the day he gave himself up and died."

"D-d-died?!"

"Now, wait, calm down, we aren't gonna kill him. I'm just sayin' that guy is like an empty shell. So fuck him."

"Did... did you really have to do that to him?"

I'll never forget that smile. At first, it was horrible, but later, I loved it, and had my own version of it, and after, it was monstrous, chomping it's way through my dreams and mind, trying to get at my soul.

"Yeah, I did," he said. "That little fucker started up a scene, so I turned it into a goddamn spectacle."

Could I blame Liz from running from something like that? No, I just thought it was supposed to be more of the same after she changed. Did she even get the same thing done to her as a kid?

The fuck were all these questions doing. Pretty much leading to more questions.

I started walking again.

I started thinking about Evelyn. Liz looked so much like her. A little skinnier, but so much.

I'd help at the restaurant on occasion, just small things, and I wouldn't get paid back all that often, but that was all right with me. Sometimes it was just dinner, and sometimes it was with the family. Either was just fine. Both mother and father were pretty good cooks, not as good as the staff, but pretty damn good when compared to most ordinary people. Some nights, they would get into little spats on what to make, or how much to add to what, or whatever. Eve and I would just kind of chuckle at them. It wasn't anything too serious, and she thought it was kind of cute of them, and I, well, wouldn't really call it cute because at the time, I was too much of a man to call anything cute (except her); but the little fights were filled with warmth. It was a time when that would be the only real thing to fight about, in a big city where walking around the corner could have you scratching up the walls just to save yourself. All that went away there, though, in that place.

They lived in a pretty spacious apartment above the restaurant, which meant that it almost always smelled like food, but it was definitely more comforting than awful. The place didn't have a welcome mat or anything, and it didn't need it; you could have walked in there for the first time in all your life and feel at home.

Being that the space wasn't really meant to be an apartment originally, there were a lot of strange turns and odd corners, doors all in the wrong spots and rooms of all different sizes, nothing even or orderly. The few connecting halls were narrow, where it was hard for two people to pass at once, but the worst that would happen was you'd be stuck saying, "No, after you," back and forth for a few minutes. Everything was old-fashioned looking, from chintz couches, davenports and footrests, the smell of tobacco from her father's cigars (which were lit by a touch-tip lighter, something he'd shelled out a lot of money for; of course, the wife rolled her eyes at it, but I didn't. Eve rolled her eyes at me every time I saw it), hardwood floors, and cast-iron stove. But none of it looked run-down. They hadn't picked all that up because of its look; actually, quite a bit of it was inherited. It was all they had at the moment, and they kept it up and as fresh as they could. Most of their money was being poured straight into the restaurant, her father wanting to make it big with their Italian restaurant. Even though he was French. And so was his family. Third generation when counting Eve, to be exact, but hey, its America. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

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Her father really liked Italian food. He'd worked in an Italian restaurant back in the day, and he loved the experience. So, when he had the cash (and a patient enough wife), he opened his own. That's what led to the clashes over dinner. Both of them, however, when they paid me in meals, would wink at me and make sure I thought either mom or dad's (whoever made it) food was better. They both rarely made anything for me at the same time, anything that I would take back to Marcelo's place, at least (I was both smitten and embarrassed by my feelings for Eve; and, she never knew... about the the things I did). So it was mostly either one parent or the other, giving me a little speech about what they made, telling me what was good before I even tasted it, and making sure I agreed, and of course I did. Even to this day, I laugh a little when I think about it, and now, and I can call it cute just like Eve did. Despite the apparent mismatch, they really were good for each other, and truly in love. That's how I learned what love is in the first place, watching them. Almost all six and a half billion people on this good, green earth could turn against them, but they could look at their flanks and give each other warm looks. Not matter what, they would stick together. And they did, all the way until the end.

I shook myself out of my reverie when I saw the parking lot for the station. I sauntered past the few parked overnight cars and over to the ticket terminal. I growled as I forked over the last bit of my cash, and got a one-way trip back to the city. I smoked and scanned my surroundings, finding no one around. It made sense; anyone would probably be heading back up to the sticks, not back in to the city. I still had this creepy feeling, though, like someone's eyeballs were bumping up the contour of my spine. I then told myself that I'd been feeling that for days, now. I wondered what to do.

I decided I didn't give a good goddamn about any of it and just sat on the bench, trying to rest up for inevitable idiocy I was bound for next. It might not happen just this minute, but there's always more where that one came from.

I fiddled with my hands a bit, packed my smokes, and scoffed at all the people who asked me why people packed their smokes. I don't know about you, but packing them makes them smoother; at least I think so. That's why Parliments are so packed right out the box. Packed cigarettes burn slower too, so, you know, you can actually enjoy what you're smoking. Cigarettes do have a taste, if you're ignorant of the subject, and it differs from brand to brand, and then there's all that hand-rolled shit... fuck it. I know, I know, Alex is getting all bitchy and off-topic again (as well as repeating words; I'd like to see you do better with monsters on the mind). There's people with guns after him, for Christ's sake, and those are the weakest and least dangerous ones. But you know what? Stop bitching about people packing their smokes.

That's all.

Please?

The owls hooted indifferently to my internal pleas.

Fuck 'em.

Okay, so I was being a tough-guy to no-one while smelling like a wild animal, waiting for a train, a steel box I couldn't escape from if cornered, and I was doing this to escape a bunch of weirdos who were chasing me. Maybe. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Or stupid. Or both. I was a man of many things, and none of them good. But if you want to do anything about it, I am fine with you building a fuckin' time machine and giving me the pep-talk I needed. Just mind the smoke I laugh into your face—out of my packed cigarettes.

I laughed for a second, and then coughed for minutes.

I lit another smoke. No smoking on the train, so you had to get it all done ahead of time. No one can ever say I had skewed priorities.

After I was done making so much noise, the owls starting hooting again, and they were all doing it louder, as if to show their annoyance at me for interrupting them.

There hadn't been any snow yet, but it felt to me like it was cold enough. It was one of those weird winters, one that wasn't doing anything that was expected, instead doing what it felt like doing. It was as if nature had gotten lazy, just turning the temperature down before falling asleep at their desk. At some point it would wake up because of complaints, and then dump snow on us—after Christmas. More often than not, it would rain, and freeze at night. The frost on everything made it look brittle, as if the slightest touch would cause even a metal streetlight to shatter.

A horn sounded, and I looked over to my left to see the train taking it's sweet time. I put out my smoke, rattled my pack so I didn't have to see how empty it was to know it, and pushed the .45 deep into my belt, covering it again. I ran a hand through my hair, finding it greasy, and wet. I tried shaking the moisture out of it so I wouldn't catch cold, and stepped onto the train after it stopped.

It wasn't too warm, but it was still better than outside, where I'd felt like my lungs had shrunk two sizes. I wandered about until I found a car with a bathroom. I sat across from it on the easy-accessibility bench, trying my hardest to ignore the smell. It got harder and harder to do as I waited for the damn train to move. I didn't bother checking if anyone else came on. I didn't care anymore. Recent events had caused me to become quite fatalistic.

The train started up, but no conductor ever showed to take my ticket. I looked at it grimly, and then stuck it in my wallet, so I could at least pretend I still had the money.

The train rattled it's way back south, running parallel to the highway, the distance being close enough for day-time commuters to see your mocking face as you sped by. It ran past whole stretches of houses that had the tracks practically in their backyard, and I was surprised that no lights came on as we thundered past. Perhaps the low mortgage prices helped them sleep at night.

Twenty minutes had now went by and no one came for my ticket. I tried not to think about it. I kept staring around my haggard reflection and out the window, to a world that had drawn its blinds and wanted nothing to do with me. Asshole. Must be nice to have a mind that doesn't need a distraction.

The door on the far side slid open, and a girl walked through. She paused there, letting her eyes go up and down the seats, until they settled on me. She put on a small smile and started to walk over, sitting right next to me. She stared out the same window I was after she was seated, not saying anything, but taking a deep breath, perhaps to calm herself. I looked her over real quick. Her dark brown hair was short, done up in a somewhat messy pixie cut. A couple of studs winked at me through her ears. She had a long olive-green jacket that almost reached her knees, and it looked a little too big for her, unzipped. Underneath that was what I figured was a t-shirt with a mess of a pixelated picture showing some weird monster-looking people, and scrawled over them in barely-legible writing was the word "Lordi." The shirt was pretty snug, and it rode up enough for me to see the top of a thick, dark brown skirt that stretched below her knees, held up by a black leather belt with square but pointed metal studs in it, with a large rectangular silver buckle. She had those ankle-high socks on, colored white, and they were stuffed into a pair of red Chuck T's with white laces. That shit must have been cold as hell. She was a little pudgy, but just a little. It didn't hurt her at all; instead, it made her look fresh-faced and pretty cute. She didn't wear a lot of make-up, and while it would help, it really wasn't necessary. She only had a bare-bones amount on, and that made her look even younger. In short, she looked like a nice, sweet, young, college-aged girl wrapped up in some metal clothes non-sense which didn't make her look so tough, that absolutely should not have been sitting on a near-empty train in the dead of night and especially next to a dirty guy who smelled bad enough to make a dog faint that had committed several serious felonies in a haphazard way and was planning to do even more. For starters.

I eventually looked away and out the window she was staring at. She was still smiling in a small way, with her mouth closed, but it looked like the kind of smile you wore to a job interview to hide your nervousness. She only had slight nervousness, though; she wasn't shaking or anything. I wondered crazily for a second if she was going to try and pick me up. She had that look, where she wanted to say something, but kept backing down from it. After a few minutes of silence, so did I. When I realized that, I looked down at my boots and started to rub my temples, thinking I looked like a shy, blushing boy who wanted to hold hands with a girl at a his first middle school dance.

We both then turned to each other, and spoke at the same time.

"Hello," she said.

"Yeah, what?" That was me. If you couldn't tell by the utter lack of tact.

I blinked at her for a minute, and she giggled a bit. "Say that again," I said.

She drew back a little, "What?"

I narrowed my eyes at her funny way of talking and repeated myself.

Her eyebrows got all scrunched up in a worried way. "Um... okay...?" She raised a hand feebly in greeting, and said, "Uh, hello?"

"You're British?"

She lowered the hand and relaxed slightly, still on guard. "Last I checked," she said.

"Oh. Well... all right then."

We both stared out the window again.

She fidgeted a bit in her lap, narrowing her eyes and looking down at her shoes. It didn't look threatening at all; it just looked like a puppy trying to figure out just what was reflected in a mirror. Aww.

"So, um, hey," she started again. "Been a... been a nice night?"

"Sure."

She kind of looked like she was angry with herself, and it only got worse after the next question she asked, "You, ah, have business up here? Or, wait, there. There, right? Because we're not there anymore. We're...," and then she deflated with a sigh, "On the train..."

I grunted.

She then stood up, and looked down at me. I looked up at her and tried to make one eyebrow touch my hairline. "Okay!" She rocked back and forth on her toes, swinging her arms forward and back, clapping them together lightly a few times. "Okay."

"All right."

It got quiet again.

We both looked out the window, wondering if anything had changed. It hadn't.

I ran a hand through my hair, sighing. "You're here about the orb, aren't you."

She looked shocked. "Ah... s-so! Ah-hah!" She pointed at me.

"Yup."

That seemed to upset her. "Hey! Why are you acting like...?!"

"Yeah, yeah. I should try to be coy. I shouldn't even admit it, I should play it close to my chest, and try worm my way out of it, because I'm just some pithy mortal. Well, screw it. I'm tired. I don't care. Let's just get it over with." I went for my smokes.

"You can't smoke here!"

"I'm getting the feeling there's no rules on this train." I lit up. "Besides, it calms me down in the face of utter stupidity."

I blew smoke out my nose, and she just stared at me. Then, she got an idea. She stuffed a hand into her jacket, and pulled out a pack of my favorite brand. With a triumphant smile, she said, "Here, have these." She looked sly. "I saw you were running low, so I got you one, nice girl that I am." She held them out to me. "I even got the ones that you like." She made her face as dark as it could get, and giggled behind closed lips.

I took them from her, and started to pack them on my palm. "Thanks."

It took her a few minutes to find the jaw she dropped. "S-so...? So, you just... take them?" She snapped her fingers. "J-just like that? But... but they could be poisoned!"

"Uh-huh."

She walked a quick circle, scratching at her temples. She then pointed at me again, "Or are you just pretending you trust me?"

"They're still wrapped in the plastic. And also who the fuck are you, even."

"I'm... I'm... I'm a stranger! You don't know who I am!" She laughed. "You think you have any right to be cocky, Mr. Reed?" She crossed her arms and leaned over me.

"I have a gun," I said.

That shut her up. For like, a minute.

"W-w... well."

"Yup."

Do people really get any fun staring out windows on cars, trains, and shit? I "borrowed" one of her cigarettes.

She laughed suddenly, and it belonged in a bad audition for the main villain. "Alejandro Reed, twenty-four years old, single, employed currently as a forklift driver. How boring."

"Alexander apparently translates into 'defender of men,' at least I think it does."

Her eyes were somewhat wide. "Really? Does Alejandro mean the same thing?"

I shrugged.

"How about Reed?"

I looked up at her, puzzled. "You're British, or English, or whatever, right?"

"Um... yeah."

I sighed. "Reed probably comes from 'Ried,' an English name, and I think it means red. Or something. Probably other things, too. There's always more below the surface, you know."

"Oh. I see. You're pretty smart, aren't you?"

"Smart? No. Smart-ass who doesn't know when to shut up? Definitely,"

She dropped the femme fatale act, possibly unintentionally—but for me, most thankfully—and snorted, looking annoyed, "Oh, I see. You're one of those self-depreciating people.” I didn't correct her, and she kept going anyway. “Ha ha. You know, that shit is more pathetic than anything else." She clasped her hands together and looked towards the ceiling with a pleading look. "Oh, woe be me, the world is so dreary and gray. Gray, gray I say! Bleh, I say as well! Bleh!" She blew a raspberry.

Okay. Now I was pissed. I snapped, "Oh yeah? Well, you have me at a disadvantage, miss. You know my boring, ordinary name, so what's yours?"

She stuck out her chest, and pointed her thumb at it. She spoke in a too-cool-for-school kind of way, all mysterious—as mysterious as wondering if there's someone in the bathroom. Her voice was somewhat hushed, and the only thing missing was her holding her hands up with her palms down while wiggling her fingers. "My name? You can call me... Sarai."

I "borrowed" another cigarette.

She looked a little hurt by my reaction. My... well, fuck, my whole fucking body hurt, so I didn't care.

"What's with you?" She was standing there with her arms hanging limply.

I blew smoke out my nose. "Well?"

She blinked. "Well, what?"

"What does it mean? Your name."

"Uh... well, you see..."

"Your parents name you that?"

"What?! No! No, this is the name I chose for myself!"

"Oh. So, um, what does it mean?"

"It... it... it means, well...," she fidgeted.

"Your real name's Sarah, isn't it."

Bing. Hit it right on the head. She reeled back, "Don't...! Don't you...!"

"Use your, what, 'slave name?' Don't even fucking say it. Fine. Sarai? Hi, awful to meet you. Now let's get to the talkin', or more like gimme more shit to have nightmares over. What do you care? It's not your sleep."

She blinked. And then she blinked again. And again.

And again.

Her voice was a bit hushed. "What... what in the actual fuck is wrong with you?"

"You know, people keep asking me that." I ground out the smoke where she had been sitting. "I don't know. I don't think it's my fault, though. It's probably God's fault. So do us both a favor, smack your hands together, get down on your knees, and throw all your questions, comments, and concerns skywards. I have neither the goddamn time or patience for any of that shit."

She was leaning back again, with her face was all screwed up now, like she just opened the trash to find a full-on maggot hatchery. "What the...? Who in the fuck talks like that? You sound like a million and one pissy Facebook posts all shoved into one person."

I sneered. "Yeah? Well, who's doin' it now?"

"You'd better not be contagious. Though, I got to say, being in the room with you is like playing with road-kill, except it smells worse, so I shouldn't be surprised if I caught some horrible disease."

My eyebrows went up. I was honestly impressed. "Ten points."

She cocked her head. "What?"

"It's been a good while since someone could properly trade insults with me."

"What in the fu...?"

"I heard you the first time. There's no stenographer, though. I really don't want to repeat myself."

She glowered at me. I fidgeted.

"That one was kinda weak," she said.

"Yeah, I know." I hung my head limply.

After a sigh, she clapped her hands toge

ther. "Okay, then! You want to get right to business, thennn!... let's!"

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Clearly, I'm out of material."