Stebbins awoke to the sound of a colorful argument between some people in the front of the shop. He let out a small groan of exhaustion, and realized his back felt like he'd been sleeping on nails. For a moment, he almost wondered where he was, then recalled that he'd just been booted from his family home and was now in the middle of a thieves' feud.

He blinked and strained his ears to hear what was going on up front. Parker and Abraham had apparently disappeared. He thought he could heard Parker's country accent and Abraham's deep tone. They were shouting at somebody, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He pulled himself up, propping himself up with his elbows. What time was it anyways?

He dusted himself off and strode over to the slightly ajar back room door. The moment he entered, all the arguing stopped. Barkovitch, Parker, Abraham, and the salesgirl Priscilla seemed to have been in the middle of a screaming match.

"There's the little traitor himself! He's my property, you hicks!" Barkovitch was awfully red in the face.

"Keep better track of your things," Abraham said. Parker burst out laughing.

"Y'know what, I've got a knife on me! I could kill you right here and now!"

"I'd like to see ya try." Parker folded his arms.

"If you're gonna kill a man, don't do it in my shop!" Priscilla shouted, making Parker, Abraham, and Barkovitch all look a little embarrassed. "Abe, Collie, I'm puttin' my foot down! You've caused enough trouble! You're not welcome in here anymore!"

Abraham and Parker exchanged looks. "Aw, c'mon, Pris," Abraham tried, attempting to put an arm around her shoulder.

She slapped him away. "You're no better than Peter! Scram!"

"Wait, what do you mean by-" Abraham suddenly looked curious, but the look on Priscilla's face was enough to stop him.

"We'd better get goin', Abe," Parker said. Abraham was about to protest, but Parker was already halfway out the door, so he soon followed.

Barkovitch had been seemingly oblivious to this whole thing and had grabbed onto one of Stebbins' sleeve with his small hand. Priscilla turned to them. "You friends of those urchins?"

"Not in your life," Barkovitch said. "I hate them."

"I'm no one's friend," Stebbins supplied.

Barkovitch drew a little closer to Priscilla. "Hey, a little bird told me you used to were engaged to Peter McVries before he went queer and started stealing stuff. That guy's a real bastard, you know."

Priscilla's expression crumbled. "Oh, you've got no idea! He's a cheat! And a liar! My father loved that boy, because he came from a rich family and was handsome and polite and I even liked him, too. But then he told me he…" She seemed almost too angry to continue. "He wanted to get married before my father wanted the wedding to be. I chased him off and gave him a nasty scar." Her tone had turned from sadness to tongue-in-cheek pride. Stebbins made a mental note not to mess with Priscilla.

"The scar!" Barkovitch grinned. "You're a cool gal, Priscilla."

"Don't humor me just because you want to stay in my shop. You scram, too."

"I believe we should do as she says," Stebbins whispered to Barkovitch.

"Alright, alright." Barkovitch practically dragged him out of the shop. Once the door shut, the welcome bell ringing condescendingly, Barkovitch said, "I'm hungry."

"I assume you're going to steal breakfast."

"'S hardly breakfast anymore, it's already noontime. You slept a long time, you lazy rich bastard. And what the hell do you think I'm gonna do, pay for it? It'll be easy, 'cause McVries never comes around here anyways, so we've got nothing to worry about."

Barkovitch had his eyes on a bakery a few stores down from Priscilla's general store. The building was made out of warmly colored bricks and the window showcased all kinds of breads. "You're going to steal from there?"

"I've stolen from there thousands of times. Relax. Since you and I, rich boy, are now partners, you're gonna help me."

"I refuse. I'm not a ruffian like you."

Barkovitch's hand went to his switchblade. He picked it up and toyed with it in his hands a little. "Uncooperative, are ya? Would you rather I left you out here to get lost and die?"

"I wouldn't get lost or die."

"Don't kid yourself. Now c'mon." Barkovitch grabbed his sleeve again, which was comical because Barkovitch was almost half Stebbins' size.

When they entered the bakery, Barkovitch immediately went to the display. Stebbins had absolutely no idea what he planned to do, so he tried to formulate a strategy on his own. If Barkovitch wanted him to help, it was most likely as a distraction. So he went up to the counter, where an old, fat Frenchman was sitting.

"Excuse me, sir? Do you have sourdough?"

"This is a French bakery, not an Irish one." The man looked at Stebbins through tiny, beady pig eyes. Stebbins felt himself sweating. "Go shop somewhere else."

"Well, I apologize." He didn't want to turn around and give the impression that something was going on, but he hoped Barkovitch finished soon.

The man grunted in response, and Stebbins pretended to look at the food underneath the glass counter. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned to see Barkovitch outside the bakery. The street scum hadn't even told him he was leaving. Stebbins gritted his teeth and went out to join him.

"Tell me when you're leaving next time."

"It's your job t'know that stuff, pal! You're my partner in crime!" Barkovitch gave that annoying, sardonic grin he had. He'd stolen an oval-shaped, light brown bread. When Barkovitch bit into it, Stebbins could see the inside soft and feathery.

"Are you not going to give me any?"

"Come and get it." Barkovitch took another, now larger bite of the bread and dangled it in front of him. Stebbins glared at him and, using his height to his advantage, swiped it out of Barkovitch's hands. Barkovitch looked aghast. "You weren't supposed to get that!"

"Well, I did," Stebbins said, shoving a little of the bread into his mouth. It was warm and chewy. "And I'm going to eat the rest of it, thank you very much." The bread tasted like satisfaction mixed with a little bit of disgust that he, perhaps was becoming a bit like Gary Barkovitch.


An update almost a year after I last updated? It's more likely than you think.

I enjoy tormenting Stebbins.