Sean Beaudoin - Welcome Thieves

“I only got one story, hon. But it’s a good one.”

“Okay,” she said happily.

Primo picked his wife up and carried her into the bedroom. When her bathrobe fell open, he forced himself not to look.

BUDDY VOX STROLLED down the aisle, ran a finger along shelf after shelf of Mack Threes and SnagWire and Flux Drives shaped like tiny assholes that came preloaded with the latest Ha Ha Insert It Here app.

“Nice place you got, Champ.”

“Yeah,” Primo said.

Vox licked his fingers and smoothed his eyebrows, tiny yellow teeth matched by a tiny nose and ears and eyes, all congregated too tightly in the center of his face. “Buddy Vox believes in your small businessman, your family farmer. Do I say that because I have a parent or grandparent who was one? An extended relation who filled those shoes? No, I don’t. Still, you have my full support.”

A group of teenagers stood by the electronics shelf, too thin, too silent, too interested in the new Thumb Rocket X, which allowed you to text without texting. Primo kept an eye on them while he swept the floor.

“Anyway, the Gobbler is 20 and 0,” Buddy Vox said, leaning on a display case in his white tux. “Crazy Brazilian, no one can beat him. Can’t touch him. Too fast. And those pointy teeth? Scary. Oh, man, fumble. Is Buddy Vox scared? No way. But maybe. I have to admit. A little.”

“Watch the glass,” Primo said, wiping Vox’s prints with his cuff.

“Dang, my bad.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, for real, let me make it up to you.”

Vox stuck out his chin, pointed at the point.

“Send me into orbit. Go ahead and ring my cowbell, Champ.”

“You were saying? About the Brazilian?”

“Right. Do the crowds love this Gobbler? It’s blood, blood, blood. Not on my shoes. I’m careful. But everyone else’s? Oh, boy.” Vox looked down at his gleaming wingtips, just to make sure. “The Gobbler’s already gone through his entire tribe, plus half our roster. The Sandman and Ed Abattoir are finished. Der Berliner and Lardy Gaga too. Even Mistah Ka-Ra-Tay is done. Did the Gobbler bite a hole the size of a grapefruit in Anarchy Punk’s back? Yup. Did he sink his molars into Rick Windex? Well, let’s just say that guy’ll never streak a pane again.”

There was a muffled explosion down the street. The teenagers left in a group. Primo walked over to the shelf, where SCREW DAD’S ACQUISITION CULTURE! and BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY BUT STILL WITHIN REASON! were scratched into the plastic. All the Thumb Rocket Xs were gone.

“Oh, and Chiming Wind?” Vox said. “You should have seen him try a takedown defense with that hippie spirit crap. The mentalism? The incense? Did it work? No.”

“He dead?”

“Maybe. But it’s like, what’s dead even mean anymore?”

Primo nodded. Chiming Wind had been a pretty good guy. They’d had a couple of drinks once.

“Shit has gotten drastic. For real. So Mr. Fancy sent me to ask you back, Champeen. Hell, they sent me to beg you back. Am I a pimp? No. Didn’t all of Buddy Vox’s music teachers say Buddy Vox had the best voice they’d ever heard? Yes. Didn’t they swear Buddy Vox would win various competitions and awards and top prizes? You bet. But here I am anyway, on my hands and knees.”

“Bottom line.”

“Fancy’s offering triple fee to start. Plus a cut of all Non-Bite wagers.”

“Ten percent.”

Vox looked both ways, leaned over. He smelled like a rag soaked in bitters.

“I’m authorized to go up to twenty, so you got it. Right off the bat. Would I dicker with you, Champ? No. Would Mr. Fancy be pleased if he knew I was spreading my legs like some loose ring girl? No. But still. Here we are. At 20 percent.”

“Venue?”

“We’re out at the Old Barn now. So much blood at the Old School you couldn’t mop it anymore. The orderlies were threatening strike.”

A wiry kid with a goatee poked his head in the door.

“You sell ammo?”

“No.”

“How about Cutty?”

“No.”

The door closed.

“When?”

“Friday,” Vox said. “But you watch yourself, Champeen. I never announced anything like this Gobbler. Money’s money, sure, but I was you? I might just retire.”

“Tell Fancy I’ll be there.”

“You got it, Champ.”

“Now go.”

“You got it, Champ.”

Primo turned to ring up a woman buying the Peggy Fleminator, a vacuum you wore like skates, one on each foot. You flicked the switch and glided around the house, sucking up all the dog hair and lost buttons and clots of dust that made each waking moment such a singular misery.

“Does this really work?” the woman asked.

“Yes ma’am,” he answered, shoving the Fleminator into a large paper bag.

AT DAWN PRIMO strapped on ankle weights and jogged through the woods behind Safetown. He did six fast miles and then doubled back by the Old College, a group of buildings burned to the ground, bare timbers and scorched brick. The bleachers were still intact though, and he ran up and down the steps, three at a time.

“What, you got a new trainer? Don’t want me no more?”

Nurse sat in the grass, on a car seat burned to the springs. Her hair was cropped close, purple mascara and little white cap, all honey-thighed in a tight starched skirt. She looked like a Vietnamese hit girl. Someone who would make you cry. Someone who would cut your back with a razor, just because razors were made for cutting.

“Getting in a little road work. I need you to tell me left, right, left?”

“You gonna fight this Gobbler, you do. And a whole lot else besides.”

Primo got down and knocked off crunches. Nurse tapped a rhythm, two-two-three, three-two-three , with a stick. After a while she said, “Told Fancy I’m done. No more corner woman. No more cut woman. No more Miss Two Percent.”

“Good.” Primo grunted, touching elbows to knees. “Past time.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s past time you do the same.”

Primo picked up the pace. His stomach burned. “Can’t (huff). You know why, I know why (grunt). So what’re we even talking about?”

Nurse yanked at weeds that poked through the skeleton of the seat. She stuck one in her mouth, grimaced, spat it out. “Yeah, well. This little runt is bad news. I been watching. I seen him eat his way through half a dozen guys like they were buttered toast.”

Primo lay back and caught his breath. He rubbed his eyes, yellow spirals dancing beneath the lids.

“So?”

“So even if you stepped from some time machine, all twenty-one and hungry again? All I’m on top of the world, Ma! I still don’t know if that guy beats this guy.”

“Gonna have to. Too late to back out. There is no back. There is no out.”

Nurse ran purple fingernails the length of her nylons.

“How’s your old lady?”

Primo hadn’t actually been working late the night Gina swallowed the Floor Fiesta. He’d been training with Nurse. Training up to the hilt in Nurse. Had been for months. Gina knew or she didn’t. Cared or she didn’t. Never said a word. Either way, he was a piece of shit and nothing could ever change that fact. No amount of being hit would ever be enough.

“The same.”

“Uh-huh. And you?”

“Need another week to make weight.”

“Not talking about training.”

Primo stood, watched the silent overpass, wondered how long until it got the joke and just toppled over.

“Listen, you could come with us maybe. Get your own place, settle in.”

“Japan? Fuck that. You don’t read the news? Whole island glows.”

“Can’t be any worse than here.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Are you crying?”

Nurse wiped her face. “Nah. Allergies.”