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kitsjayBet you'd forgotten all about
“I want four 12 gauge Mossberg 500 shotguns, two Colt .45’s, and throw in twenty boxes of shells.”
Those were the first words he ever heard her say. If he had known how appropriate they were, he probably would have turned tail and run right then, but as it was, he stuck around, lurking by the $5 movie bin and trying not to look like he was eavesdropping.
“Uh,” he could almost hear the cashier blink, “You do know there’s a waiting period.”
She snorted contemptuously and waved. “Thanks, genius, I’ve been living under a rock all these years and hadn’t heard about that. Damn hippies.”
Ah, he thought wisely, one of those. It was funny, because he didn’t peg her for a redneck when she walked in. She had on a pair of bootcut jeans and leather biker boots, a loose shirt, and several tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves. None of them said “Mother”, but they weren’t the cutesy flowers and dolphins he usually saw on giggling girls who got a little too drunk one night and woke up with a hangover and new ink. A biker, maybe, he thought, but even that felt wrong.
“Hey, you thinking about painting a picture or something?”
He blinked, focusing on her face suddenly standing right in front of him.
“What?” he asked intelligently.
“A painting.” She made that little contemptuous wave again. “I figured that was the only reason you were staring so long.”
“It’s not every day that someone comes in and orders an arsenal,” he shot back, then quickly bit the inside of his cheek. As a rule, he was not the sort of person to snap sarcastically at anyone, but of course talking to a female biker/redneck/way-too-armed would be the day to break that rule.
Instead of giving him a new reason to buy ice, though, she grinned at him in a way that was, quite honestly, terrifying. “You just haven’t been hanging around the right people,” she said with a wink.
He wasn’t sure if that meant she liked him or was waiting until she found a good spot to hide the body.
He did not have time to contemplate it any more than that because an ungodly crash came from women’s shoes and distracted them both. Boxes of silver stilettos and ugly off-brand Crocs went flying into the aisle.
“Looks like someone couldn’t find their size,” he quipped, but she was shaking her head.
“Fuck,” she swore. “I hoped it hadn’t followed me here.”
“‘It’?” he repeated.
“Make yourself useful, if you can,” she said, grabbing him by his arm and propelling him towards the gun counter. The man behind it, alarmed, reached for the phone.
“I wouldn’t,” she said casually, jumping the counter and patting him down for the key.
“Why—“
That’s when the women’s shoe aisle began to howl. At least, that’s all he could think as he stared in horrified shock as the largest, ugliest wolf he had ever seen came loping around a corner and stopped, snarling at the woman he had just met. She seemed preoccupied with asking the frozen cashier where the key was, before giving up and slamming the end of a baseball bat from sports gear into the glass.
“Here!” She threw him a shotgun, clearly relying on him to know more about them than what he had seen in movies.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he called back, noting nervously that his voice had jumped about three octaves above a soprano, “but—“
“JUST SHOOT!”
He noticed that she had bent down, using the counter as a kind of sandbag against the rampaging wolf—seriously, what the hell was wrong with it?—and firing at it with deadly aim. It kept coming.
“Yours has the fucking silver bullets, so put on your man panties and FUCKING SHOOT ALREADY!”
He wanted to tell her that screaming was not helping matters, except it clearly was because he watched his hands move up in front of his face, pumping the shotgun once and pulling the trigger. Or maybe it was the terror making that happen.
Either way, the beast stumbled backwards and let out a low moan before collapsing beside children’s toys. A lone Barbie fell from a shelf onto the floor beside it.
“What—“ He breathed heavily. “Why—“
The woman came up behind him, slapped him on the back once and gingerly removed the gun from his shaking hands. “Congratulations, you just killed your first werewolf in a backwoods Wal-Mart. May I suggest we get the hell out of Dodge before the local Andy Griffith and Barney Fife get here?”
He let her lead him into the mostly empty parking lot, where a gleaming classic muscle car stood by itself in the corner.
“Hi, baby, ya miss me?” she cooed, sliding in and gesturing for him to do the same. Obeying, he wondered vaguely if she was planning on killing him anymore. Probably. Then again, he had just saved her life.
Clinging onto this thought, he turned to her, not caring that his skin was so pale he probably looked like a vampire. A vampire, he repeated to himself, right! She would probably know!
“Was that—I mean, silver bullets—a wolf—I mean, werewolf?”
Gunning the engine, she backed out of the parking lot in a move he had only seen in reruns of Dukes of Hazzard. “Ding, ding! Give that man a prize!”
The adrenaline was wearing off, taking the shakiness with it and leaving a seething kind of frustration. “You could be a little nicer, seeing as how I just saved your life,” he shot at her, crossing his arms and heedless of the fact he looked like a stubborn toddler.
“Saved my life?” She laughed at that, an honest laugh that did nothing to soothe his temper. “If you weren’t there, I could have had that thing long before it destroyed poor Barbie’s dream home.”
“Excuse me, how is that?”
She slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “I threw you the wrong gun,” she gritted out. “I meant to give you the regular one to distract it, but you got the one with the bullets that actually work.”
His jaw dropped. “You were just going to—I mean, wouldn’t I have been pretty much defenseless?”
She blinked. “Well, yeah. What’s your point?”
Maybe he had ample opportunity—and reason—to turn tail and run. But by then, he figured, maybe he was also kind of stuck with her.
In her first full-length (kinda) adventure.
“I want four 12 gauge Mossberg 500 shotguns, two Colt .45’s, and throw in twenty boxes of shells.”
Those were the first words he ever heard her say. If he had known how appropriate they were, he probably would have turned tail and run right then, but as it was, he stuck around, lurking by the $5 movie bin and trying not to look like he was eavesdropping.
“Uh,” he could almost hear the cashier blink, “You do know there’s a waiting period.”
She snorted contemptuously and waved. “Thanks, genius, I’ve been living under a rock all these years and hadn’t heard about that. Damn hippies.”
Ah, he thought wisely, one of those. It was funny, because he didn’t peg her for a redneck when she walked in. She had on a pair of bootcut jeans and leather biker boots, a loose shirt, and several tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves. None of them said “Mother”, but they weren’t the cutesy flowers and dolphins he usually saw on giggling girls who got a little too drunk one night and woke up with a hangover and new ink. A biker, maybe, he thought, but even that felt wrong.
“Hey, you thinking about painting a picture or something?”
He blinked, focusing on her face suddenly standing right in front of him.
“What?” he asked intelligently.
“A painting.” She made that little contemptuous wave again. “I figured that was the only reason you were staring so long.”
“It’s not every day that someone comes in and orders an arsenal,” he shot back, then quickly bit the inside of his cheek. As a rule, he was not the sort of person to snap sarcastically at anyone, but of course talking to a female biker/redneck/way-too-armed would be the day to break that rule.
Instead of giving him a new reason to buy ice, though, she grinned at him in a way that was, quite honestly, terrifying. “You just haven’t been hanging around the right people,” she said with a wink.
He wasn’t sure if that meant she liked him or was waiting until she found a good spot to hide the body.
He did not have time to contemplate it any more than that because an ungodly crash came from women’s shoes and distracted them both. Boxes of silver stilettos and ugly off-brand Crocs went flying into the aisle.
“Looks like someone couldn’t find their size,” he quipped, but she was shaking her head.
“Fuck,” she swore. “I hoped it hadn’t followed me here.”
“‘It’?” he repeated.
“Make yourself useful, if you can,” she said, grabbing him by his arm and propelling him towards the gun counter. The man behind it, alarmed, reached for the phone.
“I wouldn’t,” she said casually, jumping the counter and patting him down for the key.
“Why—“
That’s when the women’s shoe aisle began to howl. At least, that’s all he could think as he stared in horrified shock as the largest, ugliest wolf he had ever seen came loping around a corner and stopped, snarling at the woman he had just met. She seemed preoccupied with asking the frozen cashier where the key was, before giving up and slamming the end of a baseball bat from sports gear into the glass.
“Here!” She threw him a shotgun, clearly relying on him to know more about them than what he had seen in movies.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he called back, noting nervously that his voice had jumped about three octaves above a soprano, “but—“
“JUST SHOOT!”
He noticed that she had bent down, using the counter as a kind of sandbag against the rampaging wolf—seriously, what the hell was wrong with it?—and firing at it with deadly aim. It kept coming.
“Yours has the fucking silver bullets, so put on your man panties and FUCKING SHOOT ALREADY!”
He wanted to tell her that screaming was not helping matters, except it clearly was because he watched his hands move up in front of his face, pumping the shotgun once and pulling the trigger. Or maybe it was the terror making that happen.
Either way, the beast stumbled backwards and let out a low moan before collapsing beside children’s toys. A lone Barbie fell from a shelf onto the floor beside it.
“What—“ He breathed heavily. “Why—“
The woman came up behind him, slapped him on the back once and gingerly removed the gun from his shaking hands. “Congratulations, you just killed your first werewolf in a backwoods Wal-Mart. May I suggest we get the hell out of Dodge before the local Andy Griffith and Barney Fife get here?”
He let her lead him into the mostly empty parking lot, where a gleaming classic muscle car stood by itself in the corner.
“Hi, baby, ya miss me?” she cooed, sliding in and gesturing for him to do the same. Obeying, he wondered vaguely if she was planning on killing him anymore. Probably. Then again, he had just saved her life.
Clinging onto this thought, he turned to her, not caring that his skin was so pale he probably looked like a vampire. A vampire, he repeated to himself, right! She would probably know!
“Was that—I mean, silver bullets—a wolf—I mean, werewolf?”
Gunning the engine, she backed out of the parking lot in a move he had only seen in reruns of Dukes of Hazzard. “Ding, ding! Give that man a prize!”
The adrenaline was wearing off, taking the shakiness with it and leaving a seething kind of frustration. “You could be a little nicer, seeing as how I just saved your life,” he shot at her, crossing his arms and heedless of the fact he looked like a stubborn toddler.
“Saved my life?” She laughed at that, an honest laugh that did nothing to soothe his temper. “If you weren’t there, I could have had that thing long before it destroyed poor Barbie’s dream home.”
“Excuse me, how is that?”
She slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “I threw you the wrong gun,” she gritted out. “I meant to give you the regular one to distract it, but you got the one with the bullets that actually work.”
His jaw dropped. “You were just going to—I mean, wouldn’t I have been pretty much defenseless?”
She blinked. “Well, yeah. What’s your point?”
Maybe he had ample opportunity—and reason—to turn tail and run. But by then, he figured, maybe he was also kind of stuck with her.
In her first full-length (kinda) adventure.
