Ballistic Kiss (Sandman Slim 11)

I pop another piece of chorizo in my mouth and say, “I really like this.”

Sausage Man beams like I just named my firstborn after him.

“It’s one of our most popular new items,” he says.

I think for a minute, tugging at a memory. Then, trying to act like a normal person chatting with another normal person, I blurt, “It reminds me of manticore tail.”

He blinks once.

“Manticore?”

“You know. Those big fuckers that graze along the Styx. Human head. Lion body. Scorpion’s tail? Hard to kill, but they’re good eating.”

He smiles at me the way you smile at a rabid dog, hoping it will bite the guy across the room and not you. His eyes move around in their sockets, trying to spot the security guard. By then I realize what I’ve done and feel bad for ruining Sausage Man’s day. To make it up to him, I grab two packages of chorizo and dump them in my cart. He flinches slightly when I grab the merchandise but never drops the professional smile. Someone needs to give this guy an Oscar. I can smell his fear sweat. I wish Candy were here. She’d know how to calm him down.

I just mumble, “Thanks for the meat.”

“Come again,” he says.

“Probably not.”

He whispers, “Thank you.”

I steer my cart down the closest aisle to show Sausage Man that I mean him no harm.

I’ve been in this building for five minutes and I’m already discouraged. I’ve been going to bodegas ever since I got back from Downtown. I forgot what regular grocery stores were like. Complete nightmares. I prefer the street markets in Pandemonium, where you eat whatever someone killed that day. Simple. But it’s not like that here. I mean, look at this aisle. What am I supposed to do with seven hundred kinds of soup? I don’t even like soup. Why am I here? Who are all these people buying all this soup?

This store is like a bad day in the arena. I’ve lost and all I can do is crawl away and try not to die.

But.

I said I’d go shopping and get stuff for the party. I can’t walk out of here empty-handed, so I come up with a plan.

I start at one end of the store and walk along the head of every aisle grabbing the first bright and shiny thing that catches my eye. At the far end of the store, I check my haul. A jar of olives. Tuna. Canned asparagus. Refried beans. Spaghetti sauce. Frozen pie shells. Low-sodium instant ramen. Tarragon. And, of course, the sausage. I’m no cook, but that seems like enough to throw something together for a party. But I still need dessert.

I use the same method in the cake department. What do people like for dessert? I think about Donut Universe. All of their stuff looks fun. Cream or fruit filling dripping out of the ends. Whipped cream and maybe a cherry on top. That’s the secret. Sweet, but cute too. I circle the cakes and cookies on display, but I’m not impressed. Then I hit a frozen case and spot the perfect thing—a yule log with a little Santa and reindeer on top. Christmas cake is festive as fuck. Everyone will be really surprised.

My last stop is the best: the liquor aisle. I don’t know what everyone drinks, so I just grab a couple of bottles of everything and pile it into the cart. The bottles tinkle together gently, kind of like jingle bells. Now I’m sure the yule log was the right choice.

I pile all of my crap on the belt at the checkout stand and the lady running the register sweeps her weird little scanner over everything. She raises her eyes a fraction of an inch when she sees all the booze but, like Sausage Man, remains a real pro. Finally, she looks up at me.

“That’s five hundred and sixty-seven dollars and forty-eight cents.”

I pull out a wad of hundreds and lay down six. She doesn’t touch them for a second. Just reaches for a pen and draws a line on each bill. It takes me a minute to regist

er what she’s doing. Checking for counterfeits. She draws a second line like she doesn’t trust the first. Holds the bills up to the light. Glances at me and shrugs. I’m starting to get annoyed. Finally, she pops the money drawer open and counts out my change. Out the corner of my eye I spot the security guard again. A kid at the end of the counter loads my goods into bags, then into the cart. Grabbing my change, I head outside.

Just for the hell of it, I stop in the parking lot and light a cigarette. It gives the security guard time to follow me and watch me load my haul into a car. Only I don’t have a car, so I aim the cart at a shadow at the edge of the building. Just before I disappear, I turn and give her the finger. Then I’m gone.

Put that in your report, Miss Marple.

When I get home, I empty everything onto the kitchen counter, except for the liquor. I leave that in the cart and shove it into the living room. As I look over the food, it occurs to me that it might be a little more random than I first thought. I’m not sure this stuff is meant to go together, but I’m certain if I mix it with stuff from the refrigerator it’ll be fine. Better than fine, even. Then it hits me—maybe I should have gotten something hot to eat. Made it a real dinner party. Is it Thanksgiving yet? That’s like a party. But no. It’s too early in the year. Maybe I can pay someone to cook a turkey for me tomorrow. I’ll have to remember to check into that.

I put the yule log in the refrigerator and go into the living room to clear all the guns off the table. When that’s done, I check the walls to make sure I didn’t punch any more holes in them while I was asleep. Lucky me, they look good. I don’t have to clean. Whatever little elves refill the fridge do that.

What else do people do for parties?

Fuck, I’m useless.