Saturday Story: Two Silver Bullets

You find yourself sidling up to Madelyn’s booth. You’re in a bind and she is the only one on earth who can get you out of it. You take note of the cowboy hat sticking out over the division between the smoking and non-smoking seating area. He has his back to you, so you feel all right, for now. Madelyn is tallying up the day’s takings; her shift is almost at an end, so you clear your throat as you take the seat opposite her.

“What do you want, Marv?”

You know it’s no good engaging in small talk. Madelyn hasn’t the time or the interest. You do it anyway. “How’s business?”

“The usual.” Madelyn waves a nicotine-stained finger in your general direction. “Mutton dressed as lamb, transvestites with broken eyelashes or fingernails. You know the drill.” Madelyn sighs at you and puts down the pencil she’s been scribbling with.

“What do you want, Marv?”

“A silver bullet.” You swallow more than once because it feels as though your throat needs a few tries to get working, like your father’s old pick-up.

Madelyn’s greasy hair falls across her forehead as she jerks back in her seat. “I haven’t had a request for one of those in a long time. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

You begin to open your mouth when she holds up her hand.

“Actually, Marv, I don’t want to know.” She glances past your head at the digital clock on the wall above the cash register. “Can’t get it to you today. I need to make enquiries. And, I hope you have the stuff. None of those bull stories about your ship coming in. Not falling for it again.”

You nod, and slide an envelope across the table. She takes it, pauses and sweeps the diner with her eyes. You watch as she peels back the adhesive. Lavender accosts your nostrils, but Madelyn seems satisfied.

“For this, I could get you two silver bullets.” You watch her close the envelope and tuck it into the folds of her bosom. “Tomorrow, twelve. Meet me at the florist.”

“Thanks, Madelyn.” You wait for a response, but she doesn’t look up. The calculator quavers as she thumps the buttons. You decide to leave. But then the rumble from your belly gets the better of you. “Hey, Peaches?” You watch the waitress walk towards you, tucking some menus into her apron. “Could I get the usual? Make it two. To go. Oh, and put it on my tab.”

You flinch as she pops a bubble of granadilla gum at you before sauntering to the back where you can hear her yelling the order at the cook.

You decide to park at the picnic table outside, where the smokers usually sit. Being this close to Madelyn gives you the heebie jeebies. After gathering yourself, you visualise your outfit changing to a business suit and feel the ripple of cotton and polyester against your skin as it morphs.

“Crikey, Marv. Don’t do that stuff here.”

“Sorry, Madelyn.” You step outside before adding a white Stetson to your look. The picnic bench is sticky with heat and sweat. Normally you would care, but the suit is merely a costume. You look inside to see Peaches bagging your order and notice your reflection. The tie, you decide, is no good. It’s gone in time for Peaches to step outside and dump the bag on your table. You tip your Stetson at her, but she’s gone.

You hadn’t banked on the slight ringing out of the spurs on your boots and as you make your way to your car, you rather wish your imagination would leave out noisier details for future transformations. You slide into the seat of your car and see yourself in the same outfit you had before: shorts, slops and shirt. A hand grabs your shoulder before your suit can shift.

“It’s done,” you say. “The drop is at noon tomorrow. Down by the florist.” You hear a grunt and then a snort. “Don’t worry,” you add, rustling the packet onto the passenger seat. “I got you some too.” You hear the back seat sigh as the weight shifts on it and it you take that as your cue to revert to your previous outfit. It’s too hot for you to wear polyester anyway. You try not to make eye contact in the rear-view mirror; at this point, all you want to do is eat your onion rings and watch TV. Then there is the drop at midday and then you can go back to your life. You start up the engine.

“Did Madelyn like the payment?”

Though you have heard it a thousand times before, the voice still makes your skin crawl.

“She said it was enough for two.”

You hear a chuckle. “I’m surprised she didn’t squeal like a stuck pig.”

You say nothing. You don’t want to hear the voice again.

“Did she ask what it was for?”

You focus on steering the car out of the parking lot. “No. Madelyn and I go way back. She doesn’t care what it’s for as long as she gets the stuff.”

“Stop here.”

You bring the car to a halt outside a launderette. You pass the extra order to the back.

“Could you open the door, Marv? You’ve left the child lock on.”

You berate yourself for this rookie error and then sprout a beard and summon a sombrero before getting out of the car. You open the door and watch the figure slide off the seat and land with a thud on the pavement. Whoever thought of animating these things was a moron.

“I heard that, Marv. You forgot that I can still hear your thoughts.”

You flinch at the syrupy voice dripping its rebuke at you.

“Sorry.”

“See you at the florist, Marv.”

“At the florist,” you say.

The next day, you make every attempt to arrive early. But you get caught up in a high-speed car chase on TV just before you leave. It’s 12:03 when you arrive at the florist. Mrs Matansky is behind the counter. You notice how she is leaning over it, speaking to a much shorter customer on the other side. The door bell jangles, announcing your arrival.

“Hello there, Marv. Little Red was just saying she hoped her ride wouldn’t be late and here you are.” You watch her place a hand on her lower back, as though to soothe it after standing at an unnatural angle for too long.

“Hi Mrs M.” You nod at Little Red, swallowing the bile the rises when you see how she’s wearing her hooded cape and is carrying a basket.

“I came to get some gladiolas for Gramma. But Mrs Matansky says they’re out of season.” 

You try to distract yourself from the pitch of her giggle.

“Daisies ought to do it,” Mrs Matansky says, as she hands a wrapped bunch to Little Red. You notice that she’s added some feminine touches like florist’s ribbon and a calligraphic note urging the recipient to GET WELL SOON. If only she knew, but you’re not about to enlighten her. Besides, you notice that Little Red is balling her fists and scowling at you and that can only mean one thing. You don’t want an angry Little Red on your hands.

“What can I do for you, Marv?”

You brace yourself to repeat the line. “Madelyn said there was a delivery for her?”

Mrs Matansky frowns momentarily and then smiles at you. “Yes, yes. Something did come in earlier. I put it back... ERNIE!” Both you and Little Red flinch at the volume. “ERRR-NIE!”

You see a man in a lumberjack shirt three sizes too small emerge from the back.

“What took you so long? Bring Madelyn’s package out. Marv’s picking it up.”

You watch Ernie hunch his shoulders before disappearing to the back and returning with what appears to be nothing. You are about to ask where the package is when his open palm reveals a small white box. You nod at him and take it, realising that it’s heavier than it looks.

“I guess Madelyn’s son is gonna make some girl happy.”

You frown at Mrs Matansky.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you? The delivery guy said,” you watch her lean in and drop her voice “it was an en-gage-ment ring.” Mrs Matansky taps her nose at you, and since you don’t know how to respond, you wink back.

Little Red’s exasperated expression prompts you to say, “Well, I guess I better deliver it, then.”

“Goodbye, Mrs Matansky.”

“Goodbye, Little Red. Hope your Gramma feels better soon.”

“You’re sweet to say it, Mrs Matansky. Thank you. Take care now.”

Little Red grabs you by the pocket of your shorts and steers you towards the door. You barely have time to wave goodbye when you are out on the street.

“Took your sweet time didn’t you, Marv. Let’s hope you drive faster than you think.” Little Red crawls into the passenger seat before you have the chance to put her in the back, where she belongs.

“I heard that. Get in and hit the road, you jerk.”

You never get used to hearing abuse from someone level with your upper thigh, but to avoid another outburst you manifest sunglasses and start the engine once you are sure the driver’s door is locked. You aren’t going to risk flying from your car at high speed if you can help it, not with Little Red in the front seat.

“Give me the package.”

You hand the parcel to her and watch from the corner of your eye as she retrieves a revolver from the basket she’s carrying. A moment later you see the daisies flying out of the passenger window and smashing on the road in the rear-view mirror.

“That was unnecessary.”

“I swear to God, Marv. Just drive. I don’t have time to play. This ends today.” She flicks the barrel of the gun out and slots the two silver bullets into the wheel. “That damn werewolf is gonna regret the day he met me.”

You finally understand what the job is about. The vendetta Little Red has is because her Gramma was murdered by the lone Werewolf called Granger, whom you knew to avoid, because he was also a shapeshifter. For months Little Red had visited Gramma, who was actually Granger and once she figured it out, she came to you. You find it hard to reconcile the notion of a werewolf-slayer with the high-pitched doll alongside you. But she’s paid handsomely, so you put the thought out of your mind. In case she’s reading it, which you hope she isn’t.

“Ah, geez Marv. Just drive.”

After an hour along the highway, Little Red clamps her hand on your thigh and motions at a dust road to the left. “Slow right down,” she tells you, not releasing her vice grip.

You let the car cruise between the trees and come to a stop on the shore of the lake opposite Gramma’s house. You see Granger chopping firewood in a wife-beater and grimy jeans.

“There’s the sucker now.” You watch as Little Red cocks the hammer of the revolver and stuffs the hand holding it into her basket.

You watch her slip out of the car, not quite closing the door, and tiptoe to the gravel path that leads to the house. You almost lose your lunch when she bellows, “Gramma! Are you home? I’ve got a surprise for you!”

Across the lake, Granger changes his appearance and quickly tucks a wayward curl into his nightcap. “Little Red? Is that you?”

You admire the uncanny accuracy of his voice. Granger is by far the best shapeshifter you’ve seen.

“Yes, it’s me, Gramma.” You see Little Red skipping down the path towards him. You suddenly feel sorry that such a great talent is about to reach such an untimely end. Little Red scowls in your direction.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“Nothing, Gramma. Thought I heard a warbler, is all.” You sweat as she turns back to Granger. “Do you want to see what I brought you?”

You see the metal glinting in the light. The shock has hit Granger too and the ruse is up; in a flash those wife-beaters you saw earlier are back. Before you or he find time to react, Little Red pulls the trigger and bellows “DIE! DIE! DIE!” You hear the clicks of the revolver as she runs out of bullets.

Granger, from what you can see, is crumpled on the ground. His chest is smoking and you think you can hear him choking on his own blood. The next moment, Little Red stomps on his throat and a grey puff of smoke escapes his chest. You know he’s dead.

You grip the steering wheel and wait. You didn’t think past this point and you didn’t consider what would happen now.

“Hey, Marv.”

“How did you...?” For someone so small, you are amazed at how fast she can move.

“Open the door, will ya?”

When you do, you instantly regret it. She’s aiming the revolver at you.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you are, Marv.”

“What are you talking about?” You try to silence your thoughts and stop your voice from shaking.

“Granger is your cousin. Isn’t he?” You feel the cold barrel against your chest.

“Second cousin. I don’t think I have ever spoken to him. Not really,” you say.

“Any friend of the werewolf is no friend of mine.”

You find yourself staring at the gun. Time seems to move in slow motion. You see the evil in her eye as she squeezes the trigger. What should sound like a bang to you is more of a pop and you see a silver casing fly out of the chamber and hit Little Red in the eye. She jerks back her arm, altering the course of the bullet so that it ricochets off the frame of the door and hits her in the chest. Your breath catches as she reels back from the shock of her death. The smell of mulchy leaves hits you as her body crashes down on the undergrowth. Without skipping a beat, you pull the car door shut, see yourself as a Caribbean drug lord and reverse until you reach the gravel road that takes you to the highway.

Two days later, when you’ve watched every possible re-run of the high-speed car chase, you follow the story of the murder-suicide on the estate of the wealthy Riding-Hood family. There’s no mention of your car, but an eyewitness describes seeing a Caribbean drug lord fleeing the scene.

You chuckle. “And that’s why they pay me the big bucks.”