Chapter 12-and-a-Half: His Brother's Name is Pedro

4 AM: not that bad, actually.

Mario swept the last of the glass into the dustbin. Not that bad for an hour's work, he thought. Cleaned the aisles, restocked the shelves, replaced the door (how did Mr. Largo know to keep spares in the back, he wondered), and just a few minutes to go before quitting time. And best of all, he added, no psychopathic Gothic-Lolita ninja grape women trying to kill him! He was alive! Wonderfully, beautifully alive! With his trusted broom and bucket at his side, and the hum-drum-hum of the refrigeration units to keep him company. "Amazing," he thought, "how a brush with death puts everything in perspective."

Sque —

"You even think of finishing that noise and by Heaven I'll burn you alive with Squeezie-Cheese!" he roared.

Eek, went the hot-dog machine. Mario swore that it was trying to hide in the corner.

He took a deep, cleansing breath. "No worries, Mario," he thought. "No worries. You are calm. Serene. Normal. Going home in five minutes. Nothing bad is going to happen. You are safe. Everything…is…cool. Sure, the warehouse across the street exploded ten minutes ago, but that's normal, right? Happens every night (1). Nothing to worry about. Just walk, slowly, to the checkout, keep your hands where you can see them, and turn off the lights."

A bell jangled. His heart stopped.

Slowly, with all the enthusiasm of a young camp-goer who just knows the fellow with the hockey mask is behind her, he turned to face his doom.

He screamed. And screamed. And, just to be sure, screamed again. An angel of death, robes ragged, face caked with blood, loomed in the doorway, a hunchbacked mockery of all that was bright and good in the world. In its right hand was a blackened sword; in its left, a massive maul.

Mario raised his hands in the sign of the cross. "Take it!" he squealed. "Take it all! Just spare my life, Lady Death! Spare me! Eyargh!"

The angel of death sighed, and slumped to the ground.

The lights flickered back on. Mario was only slightly less terrified by what he saw: the blood-soaked bandages, the makeshift cane, the mud-caked clothing. It was the girl, the one from before…no, his mind corrected him, no girl did that to those men! Quickly, strike now while the demon is weak!

His hand closed around a nearby frying pan, then paused. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was love, maybe it was the fact that he'd just mopped the floor, but something stayed his hand. He sidled crab-wise over to the girl ("Customer," scolded his inner shop-keep, "she's a customer!"). "Um, may I help you?"

The girl gave him a look. He flinched, and then, after a brief check, realized she had not, in fact, beheaded him. She sighed. "Yes," she whispered.

"I…could call a hospital, maybe?"

She waved him off. "No, I'm good."

"Oh."

She mumbled off a list of a half-dozen items. He collected them — quickly, as his shoppy-sense told him she was not the type to keep waiting. "Okay," he said, with manic cheer, "that's a litre of milk (skim), package of ice, some McMrtyle's Choco-Chip Cookies, Flintstone's Chewable Morphine, a really fast taxi, a My Little Pony Transfusion Kit and two pints O-negative!" He paused. "I didn't even know we had this stuff!"(2)

The girl nodded. A car from Bean Bandito's Taxi Service screeched to a halt outside. "That really is fast," she whispered.

Mario dove for cover behind the Doritos™ as she struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on what looked like a bullet-riddled two-by-four. The girl opened her maul, which Mario now recognized as a briefcase (while still insisting that in the hands of this woman it could, and probably would, stave in the skulls of anyone who looked at her in the wrong way, or any way), removed a handful of something, and shuffled away. "Keep the change," she whispered. She collapsed into the taxi, closed the door behind her, and was gone.

Mario sagged. "I'm so quitting this job," he muttered. Let's see, he saw a poster for the Foreign Legion on the way over, sounded promising, very safe, relaxing, far from violet-tressed psychopaths…wait a minute. "'Keep the change'?"

He scrabbled over to the briefcase and looked at it.

He looked at it again.

He touched it. Smelled it. Grabbed fistfuls of it in both hands. Slowly, like the skin of an overripe peach, his face split with a grin born of manic joy and happiness.

"YES!" He laughed long and hard, tossing fistfuls of bills in the air as he danced a gleeful money-jig. "YES! I'm rich! RICH! Finally, I can get out of here and retire to Hoboken with its shining beaches and loose women and hot, hot cars!"(3) He rolled giggling in the money. "Thank you, God! Thank you, Purple-Haired Lady (pleasedon'tcomeback)!" He leapt to his feet. "Screw you, hot dog machine!" he cried. "Screw you, Largo! Screw you, exploding warehouse! I am outta here! Because tonight, this night, Mario's a-gonna WIN!"

Twelve police cars screeched to a halt around him. "Freeze! Interpol!"

He sagged. "You suck, God."

Squeak, went the hot-dog machine.

(Footnotes)

1. It did, actually.

2. Cookies had been in short supply since the '90s Atkin's Revolt.

3. Geography was not his strong point.