Fred and Francesco - Amelie's Border Patrol
It was a stunning day on the Texan summery plains. Bright, golden, and potato-scented. Ah, French fries. Was their anything more succulent? More seductive? More sexy?
"Franny, if you don't stop drooling on my shoulders, I'll dropkick you into oblivion."
"Sorry, Fred." Francesco wiped his Mexican chin. "I just can't resist the scent of the spud."
Fred flung a fry over his shoulder, deeper into their small bunker. Francesco went after it, and came back to Fred's side, eating it.
"Look at it all, Franny. Just miles and miles of dust. A man's fortune in dirt."
"Who would spend a fortune on dirt, Freddy?"
"Shut up and eat these fries, Fran." He shoved the carton of fries into Francesco's hands and walked to the front of their station.
Border patrol. The last line of defense between the town and the outside world. The job had been personally given to each of them—Fred, Francesco, and Pauley (who only had one leg, half his fingers, and couldn't see shit from shinola)—by the Founder herself. And what a foxy piece of meat she was. She was the entire reason why Fred had taken the job. She came out to see them twice a month, and she sat on his desk like she was wearing pants instead of a skirt. Fred could live for the sight of her knees—ow ow! All she had to do was say his name in that funky-ducky accent of hers and his name practically squiggled itself on that contract.
But this job was shit. People kept coming to the border, even though their beloved Madame Founder assured them that Morganville was entirely secret from the rest of the world. Then how the hell were people finding them, and how the hell were students getting into that college? But they showed up nonetheless, and what was supposed to be a sweet gig from a sweet mama turned into an actual job. Maybe the Founder had shit for brains. That'd be all right by Fred. She didn't have to even know how to talk, he'd show that blond chick what to do with her mou—
"Freddy, someone's comin'!"
Fred sighed, and placed his binoculars to his eyes. He could barely see through the glass of the booth, from how dirty and dusty it was in the desert, the most unpopulated, there-ain't-shit-here part of the whole friggin' world. Sure enough, there were people arriving all right. On foot. Who the hell traveled by foot in the desert?
"What the hell?"
He left his and Francesco's safe little lookout quarters and went into the harsh Texan air. Sunlight beat down on him like an greedy whore trying to beat more money out of him—the sun was such a tramp. He stood behind the closed gate, arms folded, trying to look menacing. These people were loons.
They were dressed in head-to-toe in black leather, each carrying black parasols.
"What can I do you for today?" Fred asked, eyeing one particular leather-clad body, noting what distinctly looked like boobs under all the black. "Ain't no one scheduled to be let into town today." Which was a lie. The Founder didn't schedule anyone into town. She just had this fence. Not even a fence. A gate. One single gate. Crazy. Bitch.
"My dear boy," ugh, that voice was awful. Male and old. Not Fred's type. "We'd like passage into your lovely town."
"Ain't my town, sir, and you ain't gettin' in. Have a lovely day." Fred waved, and went back into the little outpost where Franny was waiting to tell him more about the sweet senoritas from the other side of the border.
"Not going to let them in, Fred?" Francesco asked, licking salt from his fingers.
"Just biding my time," he stretched to look out and down, through the glass. Sure enough, they were still standing there. "Give me…two minutes, and come with me next time. With our guns."
"Ooo. That'll show 'em we mean business, Freddy."
"I just wanna scare them shitless, Fran. What else do we got to do for fun here?"
Two minutes passed, and Fred and Francesco set out to the gate again. This time, Fred had his Rubik's Cube. He had to pass the time somehow.
"Still want in, mis amigos?" Francesco leaned against the thick metal of the gate. "We're afraid we can't allow that. We're the warriors who protect this town."
"We're willing to pay," said the older guy. His two companions stood silent.
"We're not going to accept bribes, abuelo. We—"
Fred elbowed him out of the way. "How much?"
"How much do you want?"
"How much do you got?"
The older man reached into his pockets, and gestured for his friends to do the same. They huddled together, muttering in some other languages that even Francesco the Mexican couldn't translate. When they turned around again, the older guy approached the fence, and opened his palm.
"Just under fifty dollars American. Two Canadian nickels. A nubby eraser with the metal part of a pencil still inside the hole. A rubber ducky with one eye. A yoyo with half the string missing, but glow-in-the-dark. Cotton candy lip balm—"
"My contribution," said the female, finally, with the voice of a sick cat mewling its last breaths.
"—A Super Ball. A couple of not very sticky stickers. And a Kelly Clarkson CD."
"My contribution," said the other male.
"Not buying, old man." Francesco shook his head.
"What if I add Francois's pudding?"
"How much pudding are we talking?" Fred scratched his chin.
The old man held it up. "Full cup. With a spoon."
Fred hesitated. He did like pudding. "What else you got?"
"All this, and I'll throw in this old cameo-sized oil painting of my infant daughter buck-naked on a bear skin rug. It's no loss of mine, considering I am only here to kill everyone she loves and crush all her hopes and dreams."
"Sorry, Oliver's the town pedophile." And wasn't that the truth. "Who's your granddaughter, anyway?"
"The Founder."
"SOLD." Fred tossed Francesco out of the way with his Rubik's Cube, threw the gate open, and took the pile of stuff from the old man thankfully. "Welcome to Morganville, Mr…?"
"Bishop."
"Right. Cool. Religion. Awesome. Go on in."
They laughed wickedly, and disappeared.
"Er, Freddy? Didn't that man say he wanted to destroy his daughter's life or something?"
"What?" Fred looked up from his pile of goodies. "Yeah. I guess. Something like that."
"Didn't he say his daughter's the Founder?"
Fred dropped all of his new stuff to the dirt beneath him.
"FUCK!"
And this concludes how Amelie's inept team allows Bishop, and pretty much anyone in the world into Morganville.
The moral of this story: FIX YOUR FREAKING PLOT HOLES, RACHEL CAINE. OR I WILL GO TO YOUR HOUSE AND FEED YOU YOUR OWN CAT.
With love,
Madelyn Grey