Shaking, the witness testifies against the evil defendant, who'd hunted him, in court. The testimony, and the rest of the trial, goes as expected. In the end, the judge issues a verdict, and pounds his gavel. And with the grace of luck, and the competence of the legal system, the witness is still alive.
In the end, the witness shakes Mary Shannon's hand. And he shakes Marshall Mann's hand. Like any other witness, he'll only know Mary as Marshal Shepard. And he'll only know Marshall as Marshal Miller.
The witness can now move about the country, and wherever else, without fear of sudden execution. The head of the threat to his life is finally locked away in a federal prison-or will be, of course, once his prison transport gets him there without getting hijacked or broken-out of...
Impatient, Mary calls Stan McQueen, her boss, and implores for her next assignment. McQueen smiles, and tells her to reign herself in; witnesses only need protection so often, after all.
She and Marshall have a beer at a bar in Albuquerque, when all is said and done. As much as Mary would rather work, she does love beer. Some would daresay she loves it more than any woman she knows. She...ends up reminding Marshall that by the end of the night...as she does everyone else who frequents the bar.
Mary wakes in the buff. She's on her chest. The covers are off of her. Nearby, she hears a man snoring. He stinks. Mary got a little drunker than she should've.
She rolls the guy over on his back, and punches him in the nose. In his confusion, Mary stuffs him into a mesh laundry bag, drags him to the front door, hoists him over her shoulders, and throws him across the front lawn. He yells when he hits the sidewalk. She slams the door.
"HEY," the guy yells, "CAN I GET YOUR NUMBER?! I WANNA DO THIS AGAIN!"
The door opens. Mary's still in the buff.
The guy laughs. "Yeah, flash those titties for me, honey!"
His joy gets cut short when his own shirt falls across his face. Nearby, he hears the door slam.
The shirt says, "F.B.I: FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR." Mary can't even remember why she insisted on wearing that shirt; that joke hasn't been funny for a decade.
Mary stumbles through the cabin, clumsy as ever, and finds the coffee maker. She reassembles it; apparently it fell apart last night, while she and the guy were foreplaying.
Someone knocks. Mary sighs, curses, rushes across the house, and answers the door.
It's Marshall. He just stands there, staring at her.
"What the hell is it, Marshall? I'm hungover, and I need at least five pots of coffee and three cold showers."
He keeps staring at her.
Mary claps her hands in his face. "MARSHALL! I'M NOT A FUCKING HYPNOTIST! TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IT IS THAT'S SO IMPORTANT, YOU HAD TO COME ALL THE WAY OUT HERE TO WORSEN MY HANGOVER!"
Marshall blinks, and tries not to stare. "Okay, fine, sorry, um..." He's overwhelmed by how his partner from work looks in the buff. "I'm worried about you, that's all."
Mary sighs, and lets him be. "Come in and close the door-and do lock it."
Still in the buff, Mary makes coffee. Still overwhelmed, Marshall comes in, and stumbles to lock the door. His heart is racing. He sits in the sitting room, and waits for Mary.
He spent so long figuring out the door lock, Mary comes back before he's ready. She's still in the buff. She sits near him-too near, Marshall thinks. She doesn't seem to realize she's still in the buff.
"I saw a guy crawling across your lawn, in a laundry bag," he tells her. "He had a very interesting shirt over his head..."
"Please don't remind me," Mary demands. "I wore it several times too many last night."
Marshall tries not to laugh. Mary notices.
"Marshall, is something wrong? Do you need a glass of water?"
"No," Marshall implores, with a pale face. "Perfectly hydrated...unlike you."
"Marshall, I'm serious, it's like you're dying. Here," she stands, and approaches his face with her rack, "let me help you lie down."
"NO," Marshall gasps, "no please! I can...whatever this is, I can get through it."
Mary nods, and sits back down. Marshall blinks, and tries not to stare at her hooters.
"Marshall, something's wrong with your eyes. Let me get you some artificial tears..."
"Mary, seriously; I'm more concerned about you. You're alone a lot, and you never talk to anyone at work."
Mary gapes. "I'M alone a lot? Look who's talking! I'm honestly shocked that anyone can stand to be around you, seeing as you're practically the Useless S. Loan Monumental Library with two legs and wisecracks!"
Again, Marshall tries not to laugh. Mary notices.
"Marshall, are you sure you don't have to lie down? Here, let me make you a bed..."
"Mary, I think you need to take some time off. Stan's talked to me about it; he thinks so too."
Mary puts her hand on his thigh. It's too close to his hardening cock.
"I can't stop working, Marshall. Witnesses won't protect themselves."
In the kitchen, the coffee maker's bell rings. Without saying anything, Mary runs in there-cheeks of bare (and kindly thick) ass wiggling freely-and addresses the issue.
While she's gone, Marshall sneaks out. He loves how Mary looks in the buff...but he's not ready to ruin what he's got with her-assuming it even is what he imagines.
Mary returns, still nude, with a coffee for herself and a pitcher of water for him. She stops and looks around. He's gone. She shakes her head, and takes the pitcher back into the kitchen.
"Fucking men," she mutters. "Why can't they just SAY what they want? I do all the time, without braking. They keep saying men are more impulsive; it seems like all I ever see is them braking for too long and taking years to finish weeks' worth of shit..."