Randy and Greg walked into the grease trap and stepped up to the counter. He had to shoulder his way through some hip-hop home boys and waited patiently for an older wino with a broken nose, damaged eye, steel-wool beard and voice like gravel to pay for his coffee with a filthy dollar—and the dead end doesn’t have Uncle Satan’s sales tax.

He nudged Greg, who stepped up and provided the change, and then ordered a feast!

This poor bastard must never get high.

He asked Randy if he was hungry. The only item on the menu that didn’t offend his half-assed Hindu sensibilities was the apple pie, and he just could not stomach the idea of patriotic American food, so he nodded ‘no’.

Randy scanned the dining room while Greg waited for his unsavory meal…

There are three more local mookes listening to their ‘music’ just outside the main dining area.

There is some gigantic milk dud jammed into a suit by the exit, looking out the window as he chunks down burger after burger.

Okay, he is the douche driving the church van, eating an emaciated Australian cow while he waits to gather the children from school so that they can be molested by his boss.

Lookey here brother; look at that Nordic breeder!

In the main dining area, pretending to ignore the gazes and comments of the hip-hop thugz, sat a tall blonde beauty about Randy’s age. She was perfectly formed in every way, wearing a conservative dress and heels. The hip-hop gangsters, perhaps half her age, could not keep their eyes off of her, and he heard the word ‘teach’ whispered a few times. The woman appeared to be grading school papers, and they were only a couple blocks from a high school.

The minivan is hers obviously.

This feels like an epiphany.

No, it feels like an erection and you are sworn to celibacy.

No, I am just sworn to inadequacy thanks to my small penis!

She’s a teacher. Her expectations will be naturally low.

Greg is just a shield and a not-very stout one; will stop low-velocity rounds only.

Having this goddess on your arm will make the weak-hearted enemy hesitate before sending rounds downrange and she might even stop a rifled slug from a twelve-gauge.

Yeah brother, she is your height and has a thicker chest—I think I’m in love.

She is just your rightful racial property. Leave love out of it.

In that case, go assert your regressive-gene-based ownership.

He slapped Greg on the back of his head and then nodded to the blonde, indicating that they would be sitting over there. Greg’s eyes bugged out and he nodded furiously as he sucked on his cough drop.

A mooke behind them said to another, “Dude is stoned outta ‘is mine yo!”

Randy slowly turned his head and fixed the three of them with a searing gaze.

The teen-mookes all opened their mouths and the smartass said, “Ma’ bad, mus’ be da nice weatha’ yo—dumpsta crows be singin’, alley cats is dancin’ en people be grubbin’ out.” And they turned toward the window to the vicinity of the giant brown eating machine and slinked off chuckling and hissing with their soft-drinks.

Randy sauntered on over to the goddess in his hospital scrubs—which he just noticed were a little too short—and slid into the booth across from the woman who would be any Nazi’s eugenic wet-dream.

She looked up at him from an algebra quiz she was grading, and smiled, “Good afternoon Doctor. It is so kind of you to look after me.”

She then smiled genuinely as Randy drew his gun under the table and pointed it at her belly—which was probably perfectly pale—and extended her hand to shake, “I’m Joan.”

He switched the weapon to his left hand and took her hand in his right, lowering his voice in an attempt to obscure the pounds of carbon that were by now lodged in his scarred lung tissue after 30 years of three-pipe-a-day hash smoking, “I’m the man that you haven’t met yet, but who keeps you up dreaming restlessly at night none-the-less.”

She smiled engagingly and let it dissolve into a girlish O-shaped grin, “That you are handsome.”

You lying bitch.

She’s beautiful so she gets a pass. Don’t kill her.

There they now sat, uncomfortably; Randy with his left hand under the table and his right hand dead white on top of it; and Joan with her left hand under the table and her right busily grading the algebra equations.

What are you doing?

Gun Love will be here in a half hour and you need to take egress notes and run worst-case scenarios.

She is smiling demurely.

Just then his admiration of her fine Swedish features with a hard American edge was interrupted by Greg who flopped down with six burgers, two orders of fries and a huge milkshake, “I’m so hungry Cuz. Thanks for stoppin’.”

The tired, ugly, and somehow still boyish stoned man then looked up at the woman like a mutt admiring a purebred Great Dane bitch and said, “Good afternoon Miss. I’m Cousin Greg.

I’m sure Randy told you all about me.”

This dude is so stoned—and drunk!

Oh no.

Joan smiled contritely, “No, in fact, even though Randy and I have been dating for five whole minutes he has told me nothing about himself, you, or your adventure here in this wonderful eatery.”

Oh fuck me. Her hand is still under the table. This is some ATF whore.

Just splatter her guts now.

No, it would be such a waste.

If she were a man she would have been dead for three seconds by now.

I know.

I know.

No, do not give in.

The giant brown burger monster is circling.

Oh fuck me hard!

He switched his weapon to his right hand and pulled Greg close to him as the little mutt of a man munched fries and ran his mouth, “Actually, we’re gun-dealers, came here to make a deal with some inbred type of hillbilly. I’m his human shield. See! He keeps me on his left so he doesn’t take a heart shot.”

The stoned banker then chortled and shoved more fries into his acne-scarred face while he leaned back lovingly to cover Randy’s heart with his head. The giant burger-eater then melted the seat next to Joan—he must weigh 370—and Randy’s world was turned suddenly on its head, as the man’s mouth moved and the voice of some white country-boy came rolling out, “Hey, buddy how’s it goin’?”

The man then extended his giant paw, which Randy refused to take as he undid the safety and got a grip on Greg’s suspenders in case he became faint of heart. Greg and the big man shook hands though as the cultural abomination squealed on in a voice way too small, “I’m Agent Dentin of the ATF, but you can call me Mister Gun Love.”

Joan looked at him accusingly, “How could a man prepared enough to bring a human shield schedule a meeting with an unknown contact named Dennis Gun Love?”

Save face brother.

Randy did his best version of suave though his tone was more in-line with a self-help group confession, “Because I knew you’d be here Beautiful, and a man will risk all for the ultimate reward; to bathe in the light of your radiant smile.”

Dentin and Greg were laughing out loud but she actually seemed like she wanted to believe some part of it.

This is horrible, a perfect Arуan breeder working for Uncle Satan.

He continued, “Besides my Federal friends, I have committed no crime in coming her—”

Greg cut him off playfully as he spread his arms across the table top and chewed on a mouthful of burger, “Except for abducting me at gun point and forcing me to get high!”

Oh this was a real bad idea.

Randy snapped, “Nobody cares about you Cuz. Shut up and eat.”

Greg then handed Dentin a burger and they both smashed through the greasy sauce-dripping mess with gusto, and Randy mounted his rhetorical High Horse, “Besides, I was lured here on false racial pretenses. This fucking silverback of yours has no right to sound like a redneck. I ought to lodge a complaint with the ACLU. This is just unseemly Miss America—a pageant you could have easily won I might add.”

Joan then smiled and holstered her weapon, which caused Dentin to gasp in mouth-filled horror, as if he were already dead. In fact Randy had just killed him in his mind, a double-tap to the temple. But he could not visualize killing this woman. This had been his secret weakness as a murderer, and murder was what he regarded as his art. Not hunting, fighting, killing, and not war, but murder; the taking of a less-deserving life in the face of the overweening mass society that set itself up as the protector of his rightful prey.

Randy Bracken had killed everything from squirrels, to cops, to Uruguayan cowboys and futuristic homosexual time-travelers. However, he had never killed a woman, and could not imagine shooting this one. Randy’s powers of action were so quick that they seemed instinctive to others but were in fact based on obsessively detailed and relentlessly repeated visualizations. He had never done anything he had not visualized doing. In this he was the opposite of his instinctive brother.

Joan then primped her hair and smiled accusingly, “Mister Bracken, are you a gentleman or not.”

Greg looked at him with horror as he holstered his weapon in the fanny pack, “She punked you Cuz? Are you kidding me man?”

Randy gave him an icy look and the chewing Greg shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, “She does have nice big tits.”

Dentin then cuffed the man lightly with his giant paw and took another burger. Joan eyed the two feasting beasts—great and small—besides them comically and then leveled with him, “I’m CIA, on loan to Homeland Security. We are looking for your brother, Jay, and for his wife, Tina. We would appreciate your help.”

He felt his face drain as thoughts of killing the one woman he believed that he could stomach offing flooded his mind, “That bitch was just using him—tried to kill him in the end. I told the meathead she didn’t love him. But, well, he’s just a life-support system for a penis. I never did have any luck getting between him and a vagina.”

She seemed hurt. Randy, was, by most definitions, particular the feminist one, a ‘callous bastard’. However, he had spent much time as a boy observing Mom and That Woman, and attempting to figure out what they were thinking. He had also seen this look on the face of other women who had known his brother, and he thought he knew what she was thinking about, Jay: ‘Jay-babe’; ‘Sweet Baby Jay’; ‘Baby Cakes’; ‘Sugar Pumps’; ‘Love Bug’; ‘Stud Muffin’; Jay-Peg and all of the other play names that the women who had used his brother for their carnal needs had assigned to his meathead sibling.

I wonder what the Swedish Spread here calls him.

Let it go. She just likes muscle; not your type at all.

She then switched tack, “We could bring you in for solicitation, and I am sure that weapon constitutes a parole violation. But, we are more interested in why you want a fifty-caliber sniper rifle. Why Randy, is there a particularly evasive pink-scarf-wearing doe bounding over the hollows of your home state?”

He smiled touché, and decided to be frank, “It was to be a weapon with which to avenge my brother’s death, if Tina and her friends finally succeed in killing him. I do not know where he is lady. He could be dead already. He fell off my radar, on my missing bike I might add, back in January.”

It was a small thing, something in her eyes, in the way her hands laced up, “Is he in danger Randy?”

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks, like that time he found out that 14-year-old Jay had been having basement floor sex with Mrs. Benson, the 40-year-old woman that 24-year-old Randy had fantasized about for years. He normally edited his thoughts ruthlessly before saying anything, but he just blurted, “You fucked him you Federal whore.”

Dentin stopped chewing and Joan sat back and placed her hands over her stomach, which seemed to be developing a little pooch.

No!

His deep preachy voice, that he had often and effectively used for white supremacist workshops rose from his scarred lungs, “Vagina be gone!”