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Joe wiggled a spoon between closed fingers. "No, no, he literally picked it up off the floor and ate it."

"You're fuckin' with me," Bob said.

"Saw it with my own eyes. Half the table, too. He kept saying he didn't."

Bob laughed. "Class-A moron right there."

Joe was content with where he was. It might not have been the brightest or happiest place on the planet, but he didn't mind. Free food. People to talk to. Tons of time on his hands. It didn't even feel like prison. So maybe he stole a bit. Maybe he torched some guy's house. All in good fun. Bob was edgier: he knifed some poor sap who asked him the time of day. He claims it was the way the guy said it that got him riled up.

Prisoner 611 (as printed on his uniform, but was more or less his name at this point) strode towards them before stooping to tie his shoes - or, rather, pretend to. With his head down, he whispered, "Yo, breakout happenin' tonight. Pass it on," before moving to the next table.

"Breakout?" Bob said, rubbing a tusk. "Don't those dipshits remember the last time?"

"Hey, man, just leave them to it," Joe said, shovelling some mashed potatoes into his mouth. "If they want to get into solitary, that's their business."

"Still, I'd love to get out of this hole."

"Dangerous thinking, Bob."

"Don't pretend you still like it here."

"It isn't pretending if I do."

Bob sprayed food like a sprinkler as he talked. "Shit, man, you gotta think of all the things you're missin'! The money! The freedom! The women!"

"Men."

"Whatever pitches your tent. Do you even remember the last time you got some?"

Joe didn't really care about getting laid. Tried it once. Wasn't his thing. "Do you?"

"Yeah, man, of course! Some foreign broad with tits bigger than you can imagine. So, there I was, checkin' her ass out from across the restaurant..."

Joe looked interested and nodded occasionally, but he tuned it out. Maybe freedom wouldn't be so terrible.

* * *

He jolted awake. The prison alarm buzzed like a hundred chainsaws in an echo chamber. Prisoners scrambled, shoving each other out of the way as they rushed towards the open gate downstairs. Joe knew he wasn't getting any more sleep anytime soon, so he drew out a thriller novel from beneath his mattress and tried to drown the noise out as he read.

Lemmy shot the man ahead of h

Lemmy shot the m

Lem

ahead of

Joe, what the fuck are you doin'?

The book flew out of his hands. Bob stood above him, waving his arms.

"I said, what the FUCK are you doin'?"

Joe stared at the upturned book, its pages crumpled and absorbing Bob's 'spit lagoon', as it was affectionately called. "I was reading."

"Un-fuckin'-believable. Here's the chance of a lifetime and you're reading. Get up already!"

"But I – "

Bob ignored Joe's rebuttals and dragged him along by the arm. By this time, most of the cell blocks were empty, save for a few trampled prisoners with broken appendages, or guards that were either knocked out cold or permanently incapacitated. Joe couldn't help feeling a little excited by all the chaos, yet he was disappointed that they met no resistance on escape.

Outside, not but a few paces away, sat a carrier ship. A man, probably the pilot, lay folded over on the sienna soil next to the cockpit. One of the prisoners sat in the pilot's seat, head swerving back and forth in a sort of dull confusion. Above the roar of chainsaws, the engine spurred to life, and whatever prisoners stood looking out from the ramp of the cargo bay scurried inside. Joe stopped a couple feet short of the ship, taking everything in. From here on out, he would be free again. But he wasn't sure he really wanted that. There was something in the comforts of being fully provided for that made him hesitate.

The ship lifted itself off of the ground, the jets blasting at max on either side. Bob yanked a transfixed Joe into the hold, saying he'd thank him later, maybe with a pack or two of stolen alcohol.

The prisoner who flew the ship (on autopilot) and instigated the escape didn't really think further than getting the hell off the planet. So, when the others began shouting, "Let's go to Proxima!" or, "No, Tugg has the best whorehouse in the solar system. Let's go there!", he tossed his hands in the air and let someone else take over. They quickly found out, however, that no one knew how to actually pilot the damned thing. The closest someone got to flight experience was a remote-controlled plane in his backyard as a kid. After some argument - and a fistfight that ended with a broken nose or five - they decided to let the autopilot do its thing. Hopefully, they'd land someplace with cheap booze and slutty women.

Bob took a seat on a stack of steel crates in the hold and munched on a serratus apple he scrounged from a nearby set of rations. "It finally happened," he said, spritzes of red juice landing on his neon-orange uniform. "Finally off that fuckin' planet. And to think you almost got left behind!"

Joe plopped onto the least grimy section of the floor, legs akimbo, tattooed arm supporting his hefty head. "Mhm."

"Aren't you glad I dragged your ass onboard? Can't believe you just froze like that. You're lucky I looked back."

"Mhm."

Bob threw an apple core at Joe's dorsal fin. "You listenin'?"

"Mhm."

Joe absent-mindedly watched a group of convicts play rock-paper-scissors. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. An endless amount of possibilities lay before him, but he didn't feel like making the effort. Maybe he'd go rob a bank in broad daylight and get arrested on purpose. It'd make things easier, that's for sure.

He wondered if his spit-covered novel would still be waiting for him.

"Hey," Bob said, slapping Joe on the shoulder, "how about we hit up a bar once we land, pork someone? You're sure to cheer up then. And who knows, maybe we'll join a gang or somethin'. Roll in some dough. Live a good life."

"Whatever you say."

It was past midnight when they arrived. The cargo ship had landed near the ocean at Hangar 18, which was owned by Mactar Ltd, a well-known reseller of donated items - although rumour had it that the items were pinched from individuals recently executed or murdered.

The fugitives trickled out, checking around for any employees still wandering the premises, in hopes they could snatch some wallets or personal effects. They went their separate ways, some raiding the main building for a change of clothes, others looking to steal a vehicle. Bob had his hands full, trying to get Joe to move anywhere beyond the confines of the ship. As much as he saw Joe as a liability, he also saw the overgrown shark as a potential chick magnet - and as a friend, of course, but the ladies came first.

Bob snapped the necks of two hapless prisoners in the process of changing. Admittedly, it was overkill and he had a good working relationship with one of them, but those were some choice threads they found. He picked the nicest set for himself: a white suit with a black tie, black dress pants, and white loafers. He thought the ensemble worked with his dark-brown fur and stunning ochre eyes, even if he hadn't groomed it in a couple weeks. There was even a clean red G-string that he hopped into so he could accentuate his package. Everything was tighter than he expected, but that worked in his favour. Bob had absolutely no doubts that he'd land a woman tonight.

He tossed the other set of clothes at Joe's feet: a short-sleeved navy-blue dress shirt, some distressed jeans, and scuffed cocoa-coloured boots. Bob figured Joe could pull off any look with his physique and decidedly rugged charm, which, when Joe presented it after changing, wasn't far off the mark, although it was somewhat baggy. Joe found a pair of cosmetic gold-tinted rectangular glasses shoved into the front pocket of the shirt, the kind that came with attachable piercers tucked into the sides of the removable frame, for some species that didn't have the right face shape. Reluctantly, he did as Bob instructed and ditched the frame while applying the piercers, which jabbed into the tops of his nostrils and were capped inside the nose, the apparatus latching magnetically to the bottom rim of the glasses. It stung like a mother and it caused some bleeding, but for what it was worth, it didn't look half bad, if one ignored its impracticability.

They wandered the streets outside of the hangar, eventually stopping at a dingy bar in the deepest recesses of a trash-laden alley. Bob ordered two craft beers, courtesy of a generous wad of money stuffed in the lining of his outfit. He scanned the crowd and noticed a rather wrinkled woman in a tight, pink stripper's outfit, sitting next to an identical woman dressed in mauve. Twins... the best kind, he thought as he lugged Joe behind him. Licking his lips a little, he took a seat next to the one in pink, leaving Joe to bookend with the other.

"Hey, babe," Bob said, putting an arm around her.

"Hey yourself," she crooned, taking a drag of her cigarette.

Joe looked at the twins. They couldn't be under seventy.

"Want anything to drink?"

"Sure, sugar. How's about a vodka?" She tapped the burnt end of the cigarette into a blackened ashtray and turned to her sister. "You want anythin', Leah?"

"Gin 'n tonic sounds great," the mauve twin said, eyeing Joe. "And what's your name, sweetie?"

Joe was visibly disinterested, glancing once to be somewhat polite. "Sam."

Bob roared. "Sam? That the best you can do?"

Leah flashed her yellowed teeth. "A shy one, huh? Don't look like it, with those muscles. Well, don't matter to me. Shy... brash... all great in the sack."

Joe rose from his chair. "I need some air. Excuse me."

"Ah, you're no fun," Bob groaned, signalling a waitress over. "Whatever, then. More fer me, yeah?"

Joe enjoyed life most when it was quiet. Yet, even while he was in school, he was somehow the centre of attention. Everyone knew he was a lone wolf, always with his nose in a voluminous book, or daydreaming. He'd purposefully give others the cold shoulder or gesture as rudely as he knew how, but that only increased his appeal.

"Wanna hang sometime?"

"Oh, my god, you're so handsome! Let's go on a date!"

"You're so smart! Teach me something!"

He eventually dropped out just to be alone, a couple months before getting a degree. Couldn't take it anymore. Got a job to pay the bills. Got tired of that and began stealing. Got thrown in jail for a couple years. Got a job for real, committed arson a few years later because his neighbour wouldn't shut the hell up, and that was how he ended up with a portly boar named Bob as a cellmate.

Bob didn't mind how fickle Joe could be with friendship. Sometimes Bob would get ignored, and sometimes he would ramble about his sexual conquests and Joe would listen intently. They made a good pair, even if things could occasionally get a little rocky.

Joe reached into his jeans pocket absentmindedly before recalling that he had no smokes. Man, he wanted one. The last time was, what, five years ago? He looked around, walked a couple blocks before finding a tiny 24-hour convenience store. Bob had all the cash, as it happened, so the most Joe could do was gawk at what he couldn't have. Or he could resort to theft. He'd made a half-assed promise to himself on the ship that he'd try to stay clean, but... one more time couldn't hurt. He'd pay them back later, probably. He just wanted a damn smoke.

The cashier sat with her foot propped up on the scratched plastic counter, filing her toenails, specks of glitter and nail polish polluting the air. In the display case behind her sat the only cigarettes available, to which Joe growled under his breath. Thankfully, she looked ditzy enough to trick, occasionally popping blindingly blue gum over her cherry lips and smacking like she owned the place. There was one other person in the store, but he was checking out porno mags. That guy shouldn't be a problem, and he probably wouldn't give a shit if he saw Joe stealing. In fact, he'd probably take the mag and run himself.

Joe walked up to the register and cleared his throat. She didn't seem to notice, admiring the smoothness of her nails. Two good, hard knocks on the counter got her to at least briefly peer upwards.

"Yah, whazit?" she said, a glazed look in her eyes.

"There's a guy out there that keeps calling your name," Joe said, pointing at no specific place outside the cracked window. "Kind of pissing me off. Boyfriend?"

She smacked her gum louder. "I told that fuckwit it was over. Can't he take a hint?" She appeared to be spinning some gears in her head that have long since rusted over. "Can ya go deal wit him fa me?"

"I'm not your messenger."

"Alright, I ain't supposed ta do this, but his voice gives me the shits. I'll let ya have whatever ya want here fa free if you talk ta him fa me. We on the up?"

Joe actually expected her to go outside to search, but this was even better. "We're up. Two packs of those Vine smokes sound good?"

"Whatevs." She spun in her rusted chair and lazily unlocked the case, the seat squeaking under shifted weight. "Ya know what, if ya can make sure he don't botha me again, I'll throw in a third pack. Can slit his throat fa all I care."

"Sure, why not."

The cashier tossed the packs haphazardly in front of her, one of them miraculously still on the counter, then decided to admire her reflection in the cash register's metal plating, perking her breasts up. Joe slipped the cigarettes into his pockets and turned to walk out.

That's when the porno mag guy faced him.

"Yo! Hands up!" he said, whipping out a handgun. "No one move!"

Joe did as he said. No point in getting on his bad side.

The woman stopped adjusting her bra. "Shit, I don't feel like dealin' with this. Ya want somethin', take it."

"What?" The man lowered his gun. "You serious?"

"Fuck this place. I was goin' ta quit soon anyway. Go knock yaself out."

"Oh. Okay, then."

He thumbed through the magazine rack and gathered a few issues that looked to have some pages haphazardly glued together, probably with a certain bodily fluid. One of them flipped open, a fold-out of an oiled, quadruple-breasted woman spilling out, her four hands barely covering her privates.

"Ya. Shark dude." The cashier was motioning for him to lean in closer, so he did. "Shark dude. I got a plan."

"A plan?" Joe said, eyebrows knitted.

"Yeh, ta catch that guy."

"Why? Didn't you just say you didn't care?"

"I need this job. I ain't quittin'. I could get a fuckin' promotion from this."

"You could have gotten a promotion from catching me."

"Ya kidding? Ya were helpin' me with personal business. I ain't turnin' ya over fa that."

Joe was trying to sort out his feelings on the situation - whether to laugh, to feel sorry for her, or to just up and leave before the shit hits the fan.

"So, just go over there and make casual convo wit him. I got a pistol under the counter. I'll incapitate him."

"Incapacitate?"

"Ya, that thing."

"You sure you can fire it well enough?"

"Sure, got high marks in my trainin'. Go on, before he hikes."

Joe reluctantly walked over and tapped the man's leg with his boot. "Hey, got any good mags there?"

"Hell fuckin' yeah," the man said, lustily flipping through pages. "This one's got Talmira, the two-pussied freak. Can make a guy shoot in two seconds flat."

"Impressive."

"Betty Whammer's in here, too, but she ain't what she used to be. I mean, have you seen her tits recently? Sad excuse for – "

BANG.

"Fuck!"

Joe knew the woman would have terrible aim - it was always like that - so he expected to be shot, which he was. His upper arm had taken the bullet. It was like his nerves were splashed with acid, and it took almost all his concentration to keep himself upright. Granted, he'd been shot several times before on numerous occasions, but it wasn't something you'd get used to.

"Fuck fuck fuck, I knew that trainer scumbag was lyin' when he handed me a certificate. Just wanted in my pants. Knew it!"

"Yo, what the fuck you doin'!?" the man hollered, jolting upright and pulling his gun out again.

The woman shot a second time, just missing Joe and the man, hitting a box of detergent instead. "Never trustin' men ever again!"

Joe took the initiative under the cloudy cover of lavender-scented powder. With the hand that wasn't keeping him from bleeding out, he quickly disarmed the porno man with a chop to the wrist, then tackled him into a nearby shelf of preserved foods. A jumbo-sized pickle jar broke on top of the man's head, knocking him unconscious.

A third gunshot echoed, impacting against the glass of the industrial-size fridge in the back. Joe could hear a loud fizz from a burst soda bottle, followed by carbonated liquid splattering his side. This woman was on another level.

"I can't see shit!" She squinted as if it would help, waving the gun haphazardly. "Did I get him?"

"Stop shooting!" Joe hissed. "He's knocked out. Call the police or something. A paramedic would be great, too."

"Shit, forgot ta press the alarm. Alright, hang on."

Some thirty minutes later, two officers showed up and hauled the porno man away. Joe even got to experience the wonders of medical-grade bullet dissolvent while tended to by the on-site medic. It was no less excruciating than its generic counterpart and just like getting shot again, but it only took a few seconds to drain the metallic liquid from the wound.

Before all that, the cashier had gone to primp herself in the bathroom in case there was a "total hot", and Joe made casual conversation with the porno guy once he woke up. It seemed the man was getting over a recent divorce and was looking for someone to stalk. Joe figured the man would probably end up in jail sooner or later anyway, so he didn't feel as bad for getting involved.

"Joe, the fuck happened? Why do you smell like the fridge in my old house?"

It was Bob, suit dishevelled with an assortment of wet patches along its surface. Although he was noticeably shocked at the state of affairs, there was a hint of a grin behind the expression. Whether that was approval of Joe's escapade or satisfaction from the twins was hard to tell.

Joe took in a deep breath of fresh cigarette smoke. "Some guy tried to rob the store."

"Was it you?"

"I got my smokes fair and square. Want one?"

Bob waved a hand. "Nah, I stopped smokin' ages ago. Where'd you get the money?"

"Didn't. Tricked the cashier into three packs for free." Joe closed his eyes in thought. "I could probably get another ten, actually. Still, there's this weird feeling. Guilt, maybe?"

"Shit, man, guilt's for pussies with a conscience. Don't be gettin' soft on me."

"Where are the twins?"

"For all the drinks I bought them, they barely lasted five minutes together. I didn't even get close. At least they left me with a few gifts." He sighed. "Might go pick up a younger, bigger gal and finish the job."

Joe gazed at the shambled store and the woman who couldn't care less about cleaning it. As much as he didn't want to be a part of what just happened, he felt a certain pride in what he'd done for someone else.

Maybe turning over a new leaf would be what he needed.

A week after the convenience store incident, Joe and Bob "found" a place to stay downtown. The original owner was suddenly convinced he was under attack by hitmen, and, with some "help", ended up fleeing town to some other godforsaken location. Joe dropped a subtle hint or two to Bob about how they should try to get a place legally, but Bob pretended Joe was too tired to think straight.

It wasn't the most glamorous of places. The kitchen looked like someone had set off a bomb, with scorch marks covering the cabinets and walls. The living room had a nice new plasma TV, but the carpets were full of holes from cigarette burns and overall wear and tear, and stains littered the area. There was even something mouldy stuck to the ceiling that neither of them felt like prying off. Someone's baby was constantly bawling on the other side of the wall, hurling objects, causing Joe and Bob's ears to fold inward. The bathroom smelled like wet dog, and the bright pink colouring gave Joe a massive headache each time he saw it. The bedroom could be equated to an explosion of dust and hair from the previous owner's overused crotch. Toss in all the old belongings and one might ask - who would willingly live here?

Still, a roof over their heads was better than sharing a one-room cardboard box, so Joe let it go after a couple hours. Bob didn't seem to mind too much. It apparently reminded him of where he grew up, albeit with less dirt. But -

"Goddamn, that fuckin' baby," Bob said, banging on the wall separating them. "Shut your kid up or I'll shut 'em up for you! Got it?"

Joe flicked through the channels on the TV. "They're just a baby, Bob. They can't help it."

"Where I grew up, you would goddamn help it or you'd be out on your fuckin' ass the next day."

"Sounds harsh."

"Hey, I turned out alright, so it couldn't have been that bad, y'know?" One of Bob's kicks knocked a section of wall off, revealing a rusted pipe and a spider-infested interior. "I might go check out the upper crust of this city, see if there's better digs. Or find a rich broad, whore myself out for her, and get it that way."

Joe watched a rather large spider crawl out of the hole Bob created. "Didn't figure you to be that kind of person."

"What, whorin' myself out? Shit, it gets you money and you get to bang chicks all the time. It's like a dream. I mean, yeah, all those diseases are a pain, but chicks, man. Sex!"

"Mm."

"You sure you don't want me to hook you up with someone? I found this girl with a huge rack a couple days ago, Amber. She let me play with her tits for ages. No, wait, shit, you like dicks. Okay, shot in the dark, but there's this big-ass mechanic on 56th Street with a bulge the size of - "

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Man, you're such a prude." Bob began wandering around, inspecting the place more. "But whatever, I won't force ya. You'll get horny eventually, and when you do, I'll be your wingman."

There was a loud knock on the door, followed by the door falling inward. Joe turned to look, and saw a familiar Hercules beetle blinking back. The towering figure stepped inside, snapping the door in half where his foot landed.

"Sorry, this planet has a lot of fragile stuff," he said while breaking a small decorative pillar to the side. "Sorry."

"Fuck, Tom, you break everything you touch," Bob said, tossing a used rag at him.

It caught on Tom's mandible, and swung as he clicked his jaws together. "Sorry." He pulled it off, folded it, and set it down on the floor beside him.

"How'd you find us?"

"Saw you guys going in earlier. Wanted to say hey."

"Yo. So, how you been doin' since the breakout?"

Tom crouched slightly to avoid bumping his head into a low overhang. Some plaster crumbled off as the top of his head scraped it. "Oh, fine. Still getting used to being out and all. Might have found a job at this kinda broken 24/7 store. The lady there was real friendly."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Qwik-Grabber?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Come to think of it, the lady described someone like you helping her out with some robbery or something."

"Or something."

Bob slapped Joe on the back. "Helping? Man, that's not like you. Also, you check her ass at all?"

"I got roped into it." Joe rubbed his back. "And I didn't see her ass. Probably fine."

"That's the first thing you look for on a dame, aside from the jugs. That's common knowledge."

Tom pointed a claw at Bob. "That's not nice. Women aren't objects."

"Ahhh, go preach to the fuckin' choir."

"You should learn some manners, Bob. It gets you further in life."

"Hey, I'm fine where I am."

Tom took a seat next to Joe on the couch. Something akin to a bridge breaking in half occured, leaving the furniture bent inwards for the foreseeable future. Joe grasped the arm of the couch to keep from sliding toward the mass of chitin. "Sorry, I'm a little heavy."

Tom always seemed intimidating, a glistening tower of ebony over the ants in prison. He could even beat the strongest guys into a pulp without breaking much of a sweat. There was a rumour that the reason he got arrested in the first place was because he snapped fifty men in half. The reason for doing that always changed, but talking to him now it was more likely he was defending a stranger.

Bob rubbed a tusk between fingers. "Now that Tom's here, I got a great idea." He squatted in front of the other two, ignoring Tom's puzzled look. "I say we go rob a bank."

Joe choked on his own saliva. "You can't be serious. That's your great idea?"

"Best idea I've had so far."

"We just got out of prison a week ago and you want to go rob a bank. Isn't that borderline crazy?"

"Crazy fun! We'd be rollin' in dough for a long time, bro!"

"Or have sixty years' hard time."

"We're not amateurs, Joe. You know we can pull this off."

Tom clicked his mandible. "I'm with Joe on this one. I want to start a clean life. Honest work. Find a great woman. Have kids."

"Fuckin' hell. Why is everyone all about livin' that way? Where's the fun? The excitement? The danger? The thrill!"

"Sorry, Bob," Joe said, jumping down from his raised seat. "Normally, I'd join you, but I've been thinking - "

"Ah, cripes, Joe." Bob rose and stared at the mouldy object above him. "Fine, we won't do that. But only because I like you guys."

"Thanks, Bob. I know it's hard, but it's the right thing."

"Bah."

As Tom got up as well, the couch thumped onto the floor, making enough noise for the next-door baby to start crying again. "Oh, a baby. I must've upset it. I'll have to go apologise."

"I'll go slap some sense into those neighbours instead," Bob said, rolling up a sleeve.

Tom's mandible closed a mere inch away from Bob's head. "Sorry, I must have tripped. Almost snipped your neck there."

Joe decided it was time for some new threads. Bob had swiped a couple discount sleeveless shirts and torn skinny jeans from an outlet store ("Chicks dig it when you show muscle!") a couple days into their freedom, though Joe wanted something that fit his style more. And was bought legitimately. Still jobless, Joe had to ask Tom for the money, with Tom agreeing on the condition that he could hang out with Joe for the day.

"So, Joe," Tom said, "are you settling well in your new place?"

"It smells like shit," Joe said. "But I guess I can't complain when I've got nowhere else to go. What about you?"

"I managed to find a flat not far from work. Small. Breakable stuff everywhere. Why did we have to land on such a fragile planet? Anyway, it's got a good view and the neighbours are nice."

"Yeah."

"Does this shop look okay?"

Joe looked where Tom pointed. Full of chains, rings, and oversized pants. One of the models had a few diamond teeth. "Err... is that what you want?"

"Oh, not in the slightest. I was trying to guess what might look good on you."

"Well, keep trying."

They passed another three shops in the outlet mall, each shop more risqué than the last. Tom seemed embarrassed by the contents of the third, its mannequins sporting swimsuits that consisted of a single strip of fabric. Upon Tom's request, they stopped at a small coffee-and-pastry stand in the centre of the mall, sitting at an equally small table (Tom stood), watching various people wander by.

Tom sipped his coffee through a straw, being cautious not to crush the cup. "I've never had real friends before."

"Where did that come from?" Joe said with a mouthful of doughnut, strawberry jelly leaking out onto his hand.

"I guess hanging out with you, I've just sort of realised that people always find me too hard to approach. I like people, but they only find me scary or something. They don't call me a friend. And those that get close treat me like a thug-for-hire."

"I can sort of see that."

"But you see me as an actual person. So, I'm grateful for that." Tom popped a Boston cream pie in his mouth. "Thanks."

"Sure."

"Just wondering - do you see me as a friend now?"

"I don't see why not."

"Oh!" Tom clicked his mandible three times. "That makes me really happy!" He reached over to hug Joe, but stopped halfway. "Sorry."

"What for?"

"I think I might have broken a couple ribs if I went through with that."

Somewhere across the mall, Joe could hear a commotion - a screaming-in-fear kind. Tom didn't seem to notice, perhaps too absorbed in his now-overturned cup which pooled coffee into a dip in the table. Joe kept his attention on the voices but made it a point to stay out of it. That is, until someone unfortunately familiar ran up to him.

"Yo, shark dude!"

Tom looked behind him. "Oh, it's Janet. I wonder what she wants?"

Joe shrunk in his seat, grimacing. He knew what she was here for.

"Hey, Tom," Janet said quickly before turning her attention back to Joe. "So, I kinda need yer help."

Joe bit his lip. "What kind of help?"

"There's some fuckin' nutjob standing in fronta Karen's, with bombs strapped ta his chest. I was like, 'I need ta get help,' and I was runnin' around and then I saw ya. Ya helped me out yesterday, so I know yer reliable."

"You want me to talk down a suicide bomber? What are you, insane? That's a job for the police."

Janet scoffed. "The police? Those bums never do anything right. Didn't ya hear about their botched rescue mission last month?" She somehow found the time to blow a gum bubble and pop it. "The whole fuckin' squad and the hostage still ended up mincemeat."

"Yikes."

"I know, right? So, what do ya say?"

Joe felt it was the right thing to do, but he just wanted a day off and some new clothes. Janet apparently had this idea he was some hero of justice. He felt like telling her he was an escaped convict. "I don't know..."

"Joe, we really should help," Tom said, now realising the crowd. "Seems like no one else is going to."

"Listen to yer pal, shark dude," Janet said.

Joe put his face in his hands. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

While Tom wavered between cleaning up his coffee and heading toward the scene, Joe reluctantly followed Janet, walking deliberately slow. There was just enough of a gap in concerned shoppers to see a very short Andrinian holding a dead man's switch in his spotted paw.

"Get your goddamn manager out here!" he bellowed into the store. Some spit flew from his fangs as he talked. "I know he's in there!"

One of the employees held his hands up and stayed remarkably calm. "Sir, if you're unsatisfied with something, we can help. You just need to put the explosives away."

The Andrinian laughed. "Yeah, so you can give me substandard customer service? I don't think so."

"Did you call our toll-free number?"

"Yeah, I called your fucking toll-free number and got shit service. On hold for thirty fucking minutes. Well, no more!"

Joe sighed and muttered to himself. "What the hell is going on here?"

"C'mon, shark dude," Janet said, pushing at his back. "Go do something."

"I have a name, you know."

"This ain't the time fa that! Go!"

Joe elbowed his way to the front and got within three metres before the bomber shook his detonator at him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Stay back, shark man!"

Joe shrugged. "Someone forced me to talk to you. So, how about it, hyena man?"

The Andrinian eyed Joe. "Why should I talk to you?"

"Can we just get this over with? I really need new clothes, and you're obviously getting nowhere with calling the manager."

"...First, get down to my level."

Joe had to sit on the floor to talk to him. "Has anyone ever told you you're short?"

"You're asking to get blown up, you scaly shit."

"Alright, I take it back." Joe inspected the man. Despite being of short stature and having a twisted back, the Andrinian had a rather appealing face. He had eyes the colour of crystal, and the chocolate-brown fur about his jaw and chin was untrimmed but carefully combed. The gelled hair atop his head was subtle but pronounced in meticulous small spikes of brown and gold. "You're kind of cute."

The bomber wagged a finger. "Nuh-uh. Don't try pulling that card. We're here to talk about how this place ripped me the fuck off."

"What's your name? Mine's Joe."

"Foster."

"Oh, cute name, too."

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"Just stating facts."

"Names aren't cute."

"Okay, so, tell me how this place ripped you off, Foster."

Foster paced back and forth. "So, I wanted a gold necklace, yeah? Wanted to deck myself out. I came to this place and ordered one. I got it and it was like, 'bling bling, mothafucka', you know?"

"Uh-huh."

He snapped around on his heels. "But it was fake gold.These guys tried to pass it off as real. Fuckin' paint chipped off and guess what? It was copper. So, you can see how I'd be pissed off."

"Okay, sure, but is the bomb strapped to your stomach really necessary?"

"Go big or go home, you know?"

Joe blinked. "I... sure. Still, that employee already said they'd be willing to talk once you got it off you."

"I'm not trusting these dickweeds again."

Joe thought for a minute. "How about this? My friends and I will help you take it up to corporate. The big shots. We'll get your refund and more."

Foster looked over at an employee cowering in the corner. "You really going to do that for me?"

"Yeah. I mean, what good is blowing this place to smithereens if they're just going get craftier with their fakes and rob more people? They might even swindle your family. Then you'd just be a puddle of gore for nothing."

"...Yeah, alright." Foster shuffled his fingers inside the makeshift bomb casing. There was a clunk as it deactivated. He released his grip on the switch and tossed a hand at the workers. "You bitches got lucky. But I'd suggest quitting while you're ahead."

The crowd dispersed and Tom helped Joe to his feet. "Wow, you really did it. I'm proud of you, Joe."

"I just wanted a new outfit," Joe said. "Can we do that now? I'm tired of today already, and it's not even after lunch."

"Sure thing, friend."

"Shark dude!" Janet waved frenetically at him. "Great job! I knew grabbin' ya was a great idea. I'm gonna go tell my friends about ya, so I'll see ya later, okay?"

Tom waved at her as she skipped away. "Sounds like you have a fan."

Joe mimicked pulling a trigger on his temple. "Let's just go before I get any more."

"That sounds fuckin' boring."

Joe relayed yesterday's events to Bob, and how he agreed to meet Foster in the flat soon. Needless to say, Bob was unenthusiastic about the lack of risk and reward.

"I mean," Bob said, shoving pizza in his face, "why not go steal some money from them instead? Or go guns ablazing in a warehouse? They probably have shit security. Pop a few bullets into their brains and we're good."

Joe rested the side of his head on the kitchen counter. "Not everything has to be a shootout, Bob."

"In case you haven't noticed, we're broke."

"Jobs exist."

"You mean like being a fuckin' cashier or ship washer? Like fuck I'm doing that. I'd rather impale myself on a bed of rusty nails." Bob wiped sauce from his mouth. "Come on, just one bank heist."

"I said no, Bob. I'm trying to stay clean. I've already risked my neck two times. It's a miracle the police are so inept."

"All the more reason we'd get away with robbery."

Joe rubbed a stain with his finger. "And if the robbery goes south and security actually knows how to shoot a gun?"

"Shoot better. Simple."

"I wish I was as single-minded as you."

"No time like the present to change that."

"I said no, Bob."

Bob threw his arms in the air. "Fuckin' hell, Joe." He wandered from the kitchen, to the cracked window, to the broken wall. "I need a breather. That Foster guy shows up, you get him to grow some balls for you." He waved the back of his hand in no particular direction and went out into the hallway.

Somehow Tom had talked Joe into trying out a set of clothes from Hipper Hop - the first store they passed before running into Foster - and proceeded to buy it. It was a simple combo of tank top and cargo pants, with the shorts far too large and often resting a good two inches below his waist. As a promotion, it came with a false silver chain necklace, a pair of quartz stud earrings, and three rings in assorted shapes and sizes. He even got another pair of cosmetic glasses with silver-tinted lenses and a silver frame, though thankfully this time it attached by proximity to the bridge of the nose with the press of a button. Itched like hell after a while, but better than holes in the skin. In its entirety, the getup didn't match Joe's style, but he preferred it to the previous one, and it was strangely comfortable.

"Hey, scaly butt."

Joe immediately knew who it was from the gruff, baritone voice. "It's Joe."

"Joe, scaly butt, shark man, all the same," replied Foster.

"If you want our help, you might consider using actual names."

"Yeah, whatever. So, what's our plan of attack?"

"Attack?"

"You know, burst through the entrance, sock 'em in the face, chop off a few fingers to let 'em know we mean business."

Joe sighed. "I just got through telling Bob that it's a peaceful confrontation."

"Peaceful? I'm fucking angry, man. You don't make statements with words and 'please'. They won't listen. Why do you think I resorted to a bomb?"

Joe had a mind to say it was because he was unhinged. "Can we at least try it before attempting to make a crater?"

"Just so you know, I'll be breaking out these bad boys if things go south." Foster rolled up his sleeves and presented a set of biceps. Not that they were impressive by any means, but they existed. He then tapped his sneakers. "Got a little something hidden, too."

"That's great, Foster. Last resorts."

"More like second."

"Last." He was almost as bad as Bob. "Karen's headquarters isn't too far from here, about twenty minutes by bus. We go in, talk to the head honcho, get your money back, and persuade them to improve their customer relations."

"I can rig another bomb suit."

"The fuck? No, no bombs. You want to turn into a pile of blood and entrails, fine, but not while we're around, you got that?"

"Who are you, my mom?"

"I'm a responsible adult."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'boring'."

Bob came back with a bag of half-eaten chips and scratched his crotch with red crumbs that smelled faintly of barbecue. "This Foster?"

"Yeah," Joe replied.

"He give you balls yet?"

"Fuck off, Bob."

"Whoa, looks like we got ourselves a badass over here," Bob said with a hearty laugh. Joe picked up an unidentified food scrap off the floor and flicked it at Bob's head. Bob caught it with an open mouth and smacked. "Burnt ham?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Maybe it's cheese."

"Or rat shit."

"Nah, I'd know if it were."

Foster coughed with the force of a motorcycle engine. "Ignoring how you would know that, we good to go terrorise some assholes, give 'em a good kick in the 'nads?"

Joe gave him a tired look. "Peaceful confrontation."

"Say what you want, but if even one of them so much as sneezes wrong, I'll rip the spine out of them and beat everyone senseless with it."

Bob laughed uproariously, spewing half-chewed globs of chips like a lawn sprinkler. "See, this guy gets it!"

Joe groaned. "Let's just get this disaster over with. By the way, Tom said he'd join us after his shift."

"Great, and what's he going to do? Apologise people to death?"

"Honestly, that'd be better for negotiations."

"Nah, he'd just say sorry for our fuckups and then we'd have to pay them. You know I'm right." Joe opened his mouth to retort, but snapped it shut. Bob had a point, which was rare. "Nothin' but net."

Joe growled. "Okay, if things go to shit, he'll be backup. If."

...

Joe approached the secretary. "Hi, we'd like to speak to the manager, please."

The secretary looked up from her work and pushed a strand of black hair from her face. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Well, uh, no. But it's a very important matter."

She pointed at a sign on the rim of the desk that read "NO APPOINTMENT, NO DICE", where the word "dice" was replaced with a crude likeness drawn in marker. She glared, wondering what a group of unsavoury characters wanted with her boss. "Now, I can fill you in for... let's see..." The woman tapped away at her holo-keyboard. The modifications made it sound like a typewriter. "I have a timeslot four weeks from now. The 24th at 1PM. Is that satisfactory?"

Foster scratched his head. "Um, yeah, I guess. I don't think I have anything - "

Bob shoved Foster aside. "Fer chrissake." He yanked a pistol from beneath his shirt and aimed it sideways at the woman. "Get us a goddamn fuckin' meeting with the guy now or I'll paint the walls with your brain!"

Joe tried to push the gun down, but Bob pushed Joe back instead. "Bob, I told you - no guns!"

"We're not waiting four fucking weeks, okay? Just be happy I didn't shoot this bitch already."

The secretary appeared unfazed. "Sir, please put the gun down. We have a strict no-weapons policy."

Bob pressed the pistol to her forehead. "The fuck you just say?"

She sighed and pushed hair from her eyes again. "Very well, I'll let him know you're here." She tapped her small earpiece. "Sir, you have visitors. They won't take 'no' for an answer. ...I will let them know." She rolled her eyes and rested her gaze on the irked boar. "You're free to go in now."

"See, Joe?" Bob said as he stashed the gun back behind the waist of his pants. "You get results if you're not a fuckin' pansy. Now, let's go."

Joe quickly apologised to the secretary, who didn't seem to care one way or the other. He and Foster followed Bob afterward, through a rather large set of sliding doors and into a lavish room. Though the office potentially could have had a spectacular screened wall of a rolling, exotic landscape that stretched for miles, its owner instead opted to project an image in the centre of the room of himself on horseback, riding naked.

The man in question arced a hand at several empty seats two metres from his desk. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Bob ignored the chairs and beelined for the manager of Kathy's. He grabbed the closest blunt item he could find - in this case, a lamp as tall as he was - and raised it, ready to strike. "You sons of bitches scammed my boy Foster here. Now, you're going to be nice and fork over a refund. Plus interest, if you get my drift, or I'll smash your fuckin' skull in."

The manager laughed. "You think you can threaten me with your party tricks?"

"You want to test me? I sure as shit will do it."

"Go ahead. Do it."

Joe ran up to stop Bob but was too late. The lamp hit the manager... or would, had he not been a hologram. Bob staggered and regained his balance. "The fuck? You're not even here?"

"No," the man replied, slicking his silver hair. "I'm actually relaxing in a vacation home with a few gorgeous people waiting on my beck and call. Paradise, really."

"Spending your scam money, I bet."

"If you have a complaint, we have a wonderful hotline that you can call." A holographic hand handed him a martini. "Thank you, Barry. Be a dear and wait in the bathhouse for me."

It was Foster that spoke up this time. "How about instead of fucking your poolboys, you give me my money back? That was five grand I lost!"

The man sipped his drink, none the more pleasant. "Barry's more than just a fuck toy, I'll have you know."

"Who fucking cares?"

"I really must get going. Don't let the guards kill you on your way out."

The transmission ended before anyone could protest further. The sound of voices on the other side of the door prompted Bob to bring his pistol back out. Joe was feeling regret at not bringing a weapon himself now. Even Foster knew to hide at least two tactical knives in the soles of his shoes.

Bob cocked his head. "I've got a mini pistol you can have. Go ahead and grab it."

Joe felt around Bob's clothes. "Where?"

"It's stuck between my ass cheeks."

Joe backed away. "Gross, Bob. I'm not using that."

"Calm your tits - it's clean. Always that way for the ladies who like a treat." Bob shook his rump. "Hurry up and cop a feel before it starts raining bullets."

Joe reached into Bob's pants and snatched the gun as quickly as he could. It was uncomfortably covered in sweat, with a hint of lavender. He shook it vigorously with a grimace, then turned the safety off. Bob motioned for him to take a flanking position on one side of the door while Foster took the other. Bob shoved the desk forward through the chairs and crouched behind it.

A growl passed through the metal separating them from the guards. "Come out with your hands up and maybe we'll spare you!"

"I hope you're not rusty, Joe," Bob said. Then, he yelled to the guards, "Kiss my hairy ass!"

It was true that Joe had some experience with firing guns before. He was even used to fending for himself back in prison. But it was always dangerous going into combat, because many things were unpredictable. He barely had time to steel his nerves before the doors slid open and five guards stormed the room.

Foster swiftly lodged his knives into an unsuspecting canine as high as he could. That meant one wound near the liver and another in the guard's manhood; the result was instantaneous incapacitation. Joe fired three rounds as quickly as he could aim, which fatally wounded one cephalopod and caught the other in the legs. Bob finished the job with a well-placed bullet in the neck.

Of the two remaining guards, the feline was smart enough to catch Foster in the face with her elbow and then lodge a shot into his foot. The other, a definitively bulky hippopotamus, kicked Joe in his solar plexus with enough force to cripple him into submission. As the hippo was about to bash Joe's face in with his bare fists, Bob emptied his clip into the guard's head, the body collapsing on top of Joe.

The last guard standing fired at Bob, but he was fast enough to only catch a bullet in his ear. While Bob hastily reloaded with a magazine he pulled from his crotch, Foster regained enough footing to stab the assailant in her thigh. She grunted and pistol whipped Foster before shooting him in the kneecaps.

Bob tried to fire, then ducked back when he found his gun jammed. "Shit, shit, shit, shit..."

The guard came around the desk, aimed at his heart, and smiled. "At least you tried, swine."

Bob was about to give up hope when the next thing he knew she had a gaping hole between the eyes. She crumpled backwards onto the carpet and lay stiff.

Joe hobbled over, clutching his stomach. "I was afraid I'd miss."

Bob sighed deeply. "Thank fuck you didn't. We gotta move. Can you manage?"

"More or less. But Foster definitely can't."

"I'll carry the guy." He snatched a rifle from one of the cephalopods and hoisted a moaning

Foster onto his shoulder. "Grab another gun and follow me."

Thankfully, the guards were few and far between. With Foster reducing his accuracy, Bob could only get away with non-lethal shots. Joe also struggled to aim properly, though did his best to cover. Going down fifteen flights of stairs proved exhausting, but was much better than being ambushed at the elevator with no room to manoeuvre.

Foster groaned. Bob swung him about carelessly in protest. "Shut yer trap, you whiner! We're almost there!"

Joe panted. "I think we should expect company on the ground floor."

"You think I don't know that?" He gunned down one more guard and hopped over their body. He stopped two flights before the exit. "Take him."

"What?"

"Take him!" he said, flopping Foster onto Joe's shoulder.

"You can't be serious."

"Does it look like I'm fuckin' with you right now? I'll draw them away, and you hightail it somewhere safe. Unless you have a better plan?"

Joe paused, then shook his head. "No."

"Right." Bob took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing. If I don't make it out of this, well... it was a blast, man."

The words got caught in Joe's throat but he managed to get them out. "Same here."

Bob walked down, took one more breath, then kicked the door open, rifle in front. "Try and catch me, motherfu... what the fuck?"

Joe carefully approached behind, and was surprised to see a stack of severed bodies and a certain man with blood dripping from his mandible.

"Hi, friends. Thought you could use some help."

Joe heaved a sigh. "Good timing, Tom."

"Sorry I'm late," Tom replied. "I got caught up in helping an old blind woman cross the street. Traffic's awful here."

Bob gave him a hard glare. "Of fuckin' course you did."

"If I didn't help her, she'd have been there for hours."

"And if you'd have helped us, this dead weight of a furball wouldn't have busted caps."

Foster thrashed his arms against Joe's hold. "I'll give you dead weight, you oversized slab of bacon!"

"Yeah?" Bob whirled around and aimed his rifle at Foster. "How about I just make you fully dead, then?"

Tom approached them and held up a hand. "Stop fighting and apologise."

Bob scoffed and shifted his aim to Tom's head. "And what makes you think I'd do that?"

"Because it's the nice thing to do."

"Fuck, Tom, you shit rainbows, too, or what?"

Tom lunged forward, bloody mandibles wide open. Bob yelped and ducked. There was a loud squelch as Tom's jaw closed. Blood splattered haphazardly as a jaguar's head rolled across the concrete, stopping near Bob's feet. The head stared, shocked and mouth gaping. Bob scrambled backwards, clutching his rifle to his chest. "Sorry, I guess I missed one," Tom said.

Bob took a second to regain his composure and cleared his throat. "Maybe next time don't be so fuckin' careless."

"Oh," Tom said, dejected. "Sorry. I was just glad to see everyone was alive."

Joe walked up to Tom and pat him on the shoulder. He had to reach a bit. "Don't worry about it. Bob doesn't know how to say thanks. Something about his dad not giving him enough love?"

"Fuck you," Bob barked, getting back up.

"Love you, too, man."

Foster squirmed. "Can we... urgh... do this shit later when I'm not... bleeding out?"

"Yeah, let's get out of here," Joe said, readjusting a complaining and weakening Foster, narrowly avoiding his claws.

At Bob's request, Tom led the group. Tom's chitin was remarkably thick, so he could take at least several hundred bullets before it would even begin to faze him; the stray security goons that approached from the front found that out the hard way. Joe had his hands full - quite literally - with swinging Foster out of harm's way ("Watch what you're doing, dipshit!") and then popping a couple shots if someone came up from behind. Bob provided cover fire, liberal with his rounds and refilling from the corpses.

At the sight of an approaching bus, Tom raised his hands at it and waved. "Excuuuuse meeee! We need a riiiiide!"

The bus slowed to a stop and opened its doors. The group hastily boarded before the next wave of guards showed up.

The driver cleared his throat loudly and held out an arm. "Hold on. You motherfuckers are armed. Either you leave your guns or leave yourselves."

Tom stopped. "Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry. We'll leave right away."

Bob shoved a backpedaling Tom aside. "Like fuck we're doin' that." He pointed his rifle at the driver. "Our friend got shot. You're goin' to get us to the hospital."

The driver craned his head to look at Foster. "Getting blood on my bus, too? You're some dense motherfuckers."

Bob fired a shot into the roof. It hit the first layer of metal, scrunched up on impact with the bulletproof second layer, and fell back down. A pair of passengers screamed. "Shut yer holes!" He aimed the weapon back at the driver. "I'll fuckin' kill you and drive this myself if I have to. So either you get with the program or get pumped full of lead."

"Is that right?" The driver yanked a plasma pistol from under his seat and brought it up to Bob's forehead. "Go on. Give it a try. See how well that goes for you."

Joe shoved the barrel of the rifle down. "Whoa, hey, we don't have time for this. Just chuck your gun out, Bob."

"No!" Bob struggled against the pressure from Joe's hand. "We're not pussyin' out to some low-grade asswipe!"

"Bob, just put your ego aside for one second so we can get Foster some help."

"I don't think you're gettin' the pic - "

THWACK. Tom had wrested the rifle from Bob's grip and whipped him upside the head with its butt. "Sorry!" Tom said hurriedly as he watched Bob reel from the impact. "But Joe's right." He tossed the rifle out of the door, accidentally hitting Foster in the process. Foster groaned for as long as he was able. "Sorry! And Mr. Busdriver, sir, please take us to the hospital. I'll even come back and clean up the mess. I promise."

The driver squinted. "And the shark? Didn't he have a pistol on him?"

Joe raised his empty hands. "Gone."

"Well, looks like you're getting company," he said, glancing out the window at a small group of sprinting guards, "so I agree to your terms. But if I see you motherfuckers on my bus again, you'll get popped in the head, no matter how nice you try to be. And you, beetle man, if you don't show up later, I'll personally come find you and force you here."

Tom nodded. "You have my word."

The guards outside sprayed the bus with bullets as it moved, though it did nothing but make it sound like rain outside. Joe had taken Foster off his shoulder and gently propped him up on the seat next to him. Tom was too large to squeeze into the narrow gap between rows, so he remained standing at the back, smiling at a horrified passenger who in turn stared at the blood across his face. Bob had fallen over across the bench towards the front, still nursing his chin, muttering curses.

"Shark man," Foster said weakly.

Joe turned to him. "Hyena man."

"Get him to... stop three streets early. I've got a doc I trust. She can take... care of me."

He relayed that to the driver, who was both pleased that they'd be disembarking early, and displeased that they had another demand. Joe pat Foster on the shoulder. "We'll be there soon."

The office was pretty dingy, even by Bob's standards. It was hard to tell where coffee and lunch stains ended and where crusted blood began. The lighting felt straight out of a horror flick, complete with a long, flickering fluorescent light that swung every time a door opened and closed. A rather irritable and overly large Trass receptionist with a dual mohawk worked behind the counter, his bull-like features scrunching into a mass of folds every time he had to answer the phone. Every once in a while, he would pick up a gun and fire it in the air, causing the ceiling to drop small patches of plaster. When Tom asked why, he replied, "If it's not a fly being a pest, then it's a client being an ass."

Joe had picked up a tennis ball left on the table and bounced it around the walls, sometimes tossing it in the air. The ball was gnawed on and had a particularly strong aroma of cheese, but it nevertheless kept him entertained, as long as he didn't dwell on why.

Bob took turns pacing inside and out of the office. He didn't seem altogether worried, mostly bored out of his mind. After a while, he resorted to counting the floor tiles out loud, unsure if he wanted to include the ones that'd been chipped or missing. "Fifty. Fifty-one. And a half? A quarter?"

Joe grunted. "I swear, Bob, you're going to drive me insane."

"And, what, you're not with that fuckin' ball?" he retorted.

"Guys," Tom interjected, "it won't be much longer."

"It better not," Bob said, kicking at a loose tile. "I haven't eaten in hours and I'm starvin'." He went back to counting. "Fifty-two and two-thirds. Fifty-three and one-fifth."

Joe tossed the ball in Bob's direction, missing his snout by a couple inches. "You really don't give a shit about Foster, do you?"

"Man, fuck you." He took a tile and flung it at Joe, who dodged it just in time.

A gunshot rang again and the receptionist stood up. "Hey! No horseplay in our fucking lobby, got it? Not unless you want to be the next smear on the floor."

"Yeah, yeah, sit your ass down. We got it." Bob sighed and plopped down on one of the green plastic chairs. "It's not that I don't give a shit. It's just that, you know..." He mumbled the rest, just barely audible. "...I don't deal well with feelings."

"Oh, shit," Joe said, "I was right about your dad not loving you enough?"

"Fuck no. I'll fight you if you talk smack about him." The receptionist eyeballed Bob. "Calm your fuckin' tits over there. I'm not startin' anything."

"Then it's your mom?"

"Don't you throw my mom into this!" Bob sighed exasperatedly, rolled his thumbs around each other, and frowned. The creases in his forehead were always prominent, but this took it to another level. "It's..." He stomped and flung himself back up to his feet. "...none of your fuckin' business."

"Wow, I'm surprised," Joe said, returning to his solo bounce-a-thon.

"Sappy shit makes me gag." Bob plodded out the front door of the clinic. Joe could hear him quietly add, "Maybe later."

A short while after, Amelia - the head doctor - strolled out of her office, or perhaps awkwardly climbed out, as she was quite tall and had to crane her canine neck to get past the frame. Her hair was slicked back with a heavy layer of gel that coated the top of the frame as it swung past. A microscopic RGB exoskeleton was latched onto each strand of hair, swapping to a random colour every ten to fifteen seconds. Although it wasn't particularly bright, it made for a rather impressive display fit for a party. "Well," she said, clapping her slightly bloodied gloves together, "our little Andrinian friend's gonna be fine. All he needed was some good ol' recovery gel, AB-blood injectors, and a couple painkillers." She added partly under her breath, "And a slap on the face for being so careless."

Tom smiled brightly. "Thank you for helping, Miss Amelia."

"'Course. Anything for Bananas. And the cash." She guffawed. "He'll need another hour before he can start walking again. In the meantime, feel free to pop in."

"How do you know Foster?"

"Oh, we took a few classes together in college."

Joe held back a scoff. "He went to college?"

"Yes!" Amelia flashed a set of sharpened and over-whitened teeth. "He's pretty smart. When he chooses to be."

"Could have fooled me."

"He doesn't like to show it off, but he's great with electronics. He even set me up with this wicked light show," she said, gesturing to her now-lime-green hair.

"Looks nice."

"It does! I love it."

"Well, I guess I'll check on Foster." Joe got up and placed the tennis ball on his seat. He took a quick second to readjust his low-riding pants and underwear, though the pants promptly slid back down. Next time, he'd get something with a belt.

Tom waved to him. "I think it'll be too crowded if I join you, so I'll wait until you're done." He turned to Amelia. "Do you mind if I ask about you?"

"Go right ahead," she said with another bright smile. "I don't have anyone to tend to at... no, I guess I have one person, but that knife in his side isn't going anywhere." She loosely swung a hand. "It'll be fine. What did you want to know?"

Tom asked about her life story and to spare no detail, which was Joe's cue to rush into the office and shut the door.

Foster lay on a medical table, loosely covering his forehead with his palm. "Whozat?" he asked, speech slurred. "Meelie, if it's you, gimme another set of pills. I feel like I got hit by a fucking train."

"Pretty sure you shouldn't be taking any more," Joe said, leaning on a set of cabinets.

"Who are you, my grandma?" Foster turned his head to spit at Joe, though it just ended up dribbling down his face. He jammed his eyes shut and groaned. "I can't do shit, shark man. Just give me my meds."

"I'd rather not get on doc's bad side. Something tells me she'd stab me with a scalpel if I didn't ask her first."

"Come closer and I'll do it for her."

"I'd like to see you try. You can't even talk right."

Foster made an attempt to swing his arms and nearly fell off the table. "Fuck. Come on, man."

Joe sighed and opened the door briefly to get Amelia's permission. After she gave a dosage recommendation and a light threat to Foster if he tried asking again, Joe reached into an upper cabinet and tapped out two pills from a translucent purple bottle. "You need water?" he asked, handing Foster the pills.

Foster waved dismissively, popped them in his mouth, and crunched them before swallowing. "Real men don't need water," he said, smacking his lips.

"I guess real men take children's medicine," Joe replied, smirking. "I can smell the artificial grape from here."

Foster snorted and looked away. "Whatever, man."

"So," Joe continued, changing the topic, "you still want to take it to corporate?"

"Of course I fucking do."

"Peacefully?"

Foster attempted to spit again. He almost choked on the saliva. Regaining his breath, he said, "That got us fucking nowhere. We're going full-on bombs and guns and shit."

"All over some fake gold and bad customer service?"

"Hey, that was five grand I lost. And you said you'd help me, so you're going to help me."

Joe shrugged. "I agreed to do it without pissing off the guy in charge."

"Fine, be a fucking priss about it." Foster sat up and clutched his brow. "I know boar man'll help," he said with increasing articulation. "Beetle man's a pushover, so all I have to do is say 'please' to him."

"Is it that hard to remember names?"

"The fuck are you going on about?"

"Bob and Tom. Those are their names."

Foster scooted to the edge of the table and swung his legs over the edge. "What about it?" Joe reached over to flick Foster's nose, but Foster managed to fend it off. "Motherfucker, I'll gouge your eyes out."

Joe chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "How about this? If you start calling us by our actual names, I'll agree to help you."

"In the face-stabbing kinda way?"

"In the face-stabbing kind of way."

Foster scrunched his face in thought. "Deal, shark man."

"Try again."

Foster groaned loudly and for as long as his breath allowed, simultaneously slumping over and rolling back upwards. "Joe."

Joe smiled and ruffled Foster's beard with his fingertips. It was softer than he thought. "Then I'll help, Foster."

Foster harrumphed and swat his hand away. "I'm going to hold you to that. And don't touch me unless I say you can." He hopped off the table, stumbled, and slipped as his foot caught on the sturdy steel leg of the table. He landed on his side with a loud thump and clatter of nearby medical instruments and yelped, curling up and caressing his foot.

Amelia swung the door open, inspected the scene, and shook her head. "I said to wait an hour, Bananas."

"And I said I hate waiting," he replied with gritted teeth.

"This is why I had to operate twice last time," she said, shouting equally to Joe. "He split open every single stitch in his face because he had to open his yap. If I didn't keep it closed with a clamp, I'd have had to do it a third time."

"Just help me up, Meelie."

"If your friend wants to do it, sure, but I'm not going to. Tank won't either. He's busy at the desk."

"Come on, Meelie, please," Foster whimpered. Joe thought it was bordering on pathetic, but he'd also never heard Foster say anything nicely so far.

"Nope! Now if you don't mind, I was in the middle of a conversation with Tom." Amelia bent down, pet him on the head - smashing his gelled spikes into a mess of tangled and greasy fur - and left the office with a firm but playful slam of the door.

"Shark man," he said, still trying to get his legs to work right. When there wasn't a reply, he growled. "Fucking... fine! Joe."

"Yes, Foster?" Joe said, leaning over Foster with an overly quizzical look. "Did you need something?"

"Get me up." He pushed himself upright as much as he could. "Come on."

"What's the magic word?"

Foster growled. "Fuck you."

"You can say it to Amelia, but not to me?"

"I'll fucking take a rusty spoon, scoop your eyeballs out, and take my sweet-ass time doing it."

"Maybe I won't help you after all." Foster angrily pointed a finger at Joe. His middle one, in fact. "Classy." Joe could tell Foster was getting genuinely upset, so he said, "Alright. Let's get you up." He hoisted Foster to his feet and kept him steady. "You good now?"

"No," Foster said. "I can feel myself leaning already."

Joe lifted Foster by the sides and transitioned into cradling him in his arms. "How about now?"

"This is humiliating."

"I can put you back on the floor."

Foster seemed to be weighing his options. Unable to come up with a better way, he made himself comfortable. "Just don't drop me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

...