Written by: Sam_le_fou  

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, USA

August 19, 1:15 AM

It is a cold, dark night—as every fucking night is thanks to that flying saucer overhead—when I step into the clandestine casino with a plan, a bag full of TP, and nothing to lose.

The tables are hot, and the waiters are hotter. That's the draw of Doctor King's Prudential Palace of Pleasure, at the top of the Prudential Tower. You can make your wildest dreams come true, provided you have the moolah to pay for it. On the far wall is a blackboard full of bets, the most lucrative one being: what will happen when the eerie blue countdown in the sky strikes zero?

But that's a long-term bet. If I wanna get out of here in the twelve days remaining before that flying saucer decides to finish the job, I need to make it big, and fast. I bee-line it to the highroller's table, Black Jack, a six-pack of Charmin on my belt, ready to paint the town red.

I toss a roll to the dealer, taking a seat between a gimp and steampunk lady. "Cut me in."

The dealer silently deals me two cards. A ten and eight. Not bad. Time to make my move.

I take out my calculator, ready to math out this bitch. I am gonna card-count my way to victory. "Okay, hit me."

The dealer looks at me with horror, as well as the people at the table. In fact, everyone in the casino seems to be staring at me. Do I have something on my face?

"What?" I ask, before a gloved hand grabs me by the shoulder.

I do get hit, but not with a card, but with a fist, squarely in the chin. Turns out, casinos aren't very keen on you taking out a calculator between moves. The only prize that gives you is being dragged to the backroom and tied up while someone practices boxing with your skull.

My head tilts back as my new friend gives my face a high-five with a closed fist. Every blow measures the karats of his diamond rings.

"You fuck—counting cards is legal!" I yell, earning me a backhand to my left cheek.

The person hitting me in the face repeatedly doesn't have the courtesy of replying. His seven-foot frame blocks anything besides his body, and the blood-red scarf and sombrero combo don't allow me to glimpse their face. He is a wall of pain, and I am the stress ball being hit against that wall over and over again.

The man wears a poncho, with a holster holding a slingshot—efficient, no bullets needed, economical, good for an apocalypse, a weapon not for amateurs—and a camping knife. He looks like some LARPer with a Wild West fetish. You can't negotiate with those weirdos. Looks like I am not going to sweet-talk my way out of this one.

"Look, I learned my lesson, okay?" I tell the man as I spit out a tooth. Damn, my upper left incisor. There goes my root canal. "You can take all the TP on me. I'll go away, never to return, and we can just ignore all this happened, comprende?"

You would think stuff like medicine, canned food, weed, or gasoline would be the currency for the apocalypse, but no. It's always fucking toilet paper. People didn't learn about bidets during the pandemic, and now we're paying the price yet again.

The price here depends on the ply. A roll of scratchy-ass single-ply public toilet TP would get you a hot bowl of chowder around the Fenway Park refugee camp. A four-pack of two-ply no-brand nonsense can get you a warm bed for the night at the Park Plaza, provided you're not intimidated by the Southie gang taking control of the area.

But a Super Mega pack of Charmin Super Soft toilet paper? That's gonna get you places. More importantly, a ticket out of this fucking mess.

The man grabs me by the neck, pulling me so close to him that I can smell what he ate for breakfast. Baked beans and shakshuka. He must be on a bigwig's payroll. That ain't no canned shit. He turns me around, showing a one-way mirror behind me. Above the one-way mirror is a small speaker. It zaps to life, all treble, no bass.

"I don't think you comprende," says a voice, muffled and dry, like a southern biscuit. "See that mirror? We have ten people betting which bone you'll break first."

Beside the mirror is a girl dressed in a maid outfit, but with cat ears, wearing a headpiece. Next to her is a blackboard, with different bones and odds attached to it. The fingers are two to one. The bridge of the nose is four to one. The vertebrae is two to twelve.

I'm the main attraction. How flattering. Thing is, I kinda like my body whole, thank you very much. Some of the first rich dickwads who got out of town were the doctors. Even a simple cut will mean game over if you don't have the TP to pony up to some goth bitch with healing salts and best wishes. I'm not gonna be the one here leaving with stitches.

"Yeah, no, that ain't happening, chief," I tell the voice, giving him my best shit-eating grin.

"You don't seem to understand where you are right now. You ain't making it out of here alive."

"I know where I am," I say, grasping the hilt of the knife on the cowboy's belt, "and that is within pick-pocketing distance!"

With a swift motion upwards, I cut the rope binding me. The cowboy barely dodges the knife swipe, pushing me away from him at the last second.

You absolute dipshit, that's exactly what I wanted.

I use the momentum to combat roll away from him and into the cat maid. A twist of the arm and a knife to the throat, and now I have a hostage.

"Sorry, doll, but you're my ticket out of here," I tell the girl. "Now, just do as I say, and nobody gets hurt."

The bandido stays put for a minute, before giving me some creep fuck vibes. In the blink of an eye, he reaches down to his slingshot, puts a pebble on it, and draws a bead on me. Quick motherfucker.

A similar girl dressed as a maid, but with a princess tiara, comes out of a door behind us. She strides to the blackboard and flips it upside down, writing three new odds.

Death of Maid - 1 in 4

Death of Prisoner - 1 in 2

Death of Guard - 1 in 20

Motherfuckers, I have the girl in my grasp. How in the everloving fuck am I a safer odd than her?

"That will not be necessary," says a muffled voice, the same as the intercom, but now, it sounds like it's coming through several layers of clothes.

Suddenly, a smell. A stench. Like something foul crawled up Satan's butthole and died in whatever the opposite of cruelty-free is supposed to be. It is rank, stale, and yet oddly familiar. My eyes water for a second. Not necessarily from the smell, but from the mess of neon blues and yellow stripes assaulting my senses all at once. What appears behind us is a furry—a blue wolf with a yellow striped scarf and vest combo, and a lolling tongue. It stands as soon as it enters the room with a loud, and very distinct crinkling sound.

It's then that my brain finally processes that the smell, alongside the crinkling sound, is the sign of one thing and one thing only—the furry is wearing a diaper.

Now, when you've been in my line of work for long enough, you find out that there are three kinds of people you can't trust: people who use dark glasses indoors, people who still use Yahoo email, and suspiciously wealthy furries. I just don't trust no-one who hides the whites of their eyes, or doesn't use Gmail like normal people.

The furry claps twice, muffled by his furry paws. "I will let you out, but please, let my employee go."

The door where the maid came from opens, no resistance, no one to stop me, nothing. It smells like a trap and baby piss. But what can I do? If I stay, I would have a desperado breaking my bones for the amusement of some rich massholes. I had to take a calculated risk.

But as you know from the calculator incident, I suck at math.

The second I turn around to see the door, the cowboy lunges at me, hands ready to wring my neck. The hostage is useless at such close quarters. I toss her out, swiping the knife toward the cowboy's face. If he is dumb enough to lunge head-first at a knife, then that's self-defense.

Unfortunately for me, he dodges it at the last second, swiping away the hat instead. What lays beneath the hat isn't a LARPer with a Wild West fetish, but a woman.

An angel.

Seven feet tall, straight black hair, covered in a ragged cloth that only lets a few pieces of body armor shine through. A blood-red scarf wraps around her mouth and ears, only showing a pair of obsidian black eyes, like a dog taking a shit and looking at you with shame. A full-metal maiden.

She is breathtaking—in the way girls who punch you square in the gut and knock you out tend to be.

***

"Let's try this again," says the furry, now sitting in front of me with his legs closed while he fake-licks his paws. "Hello, my name is Dr. Jeremiah King Fluffybottoms the Third, the patron of this fine establishment. But you can call me Dr. King."

Needless to say, I am bound yet again to a chair, being watched over by the angel

"And you can suck my—" I begin to say, before being backhanded by the girl.

"Now, now, it is rude to interrupt while someone else is talking, Mr...?"

"...Jack. Just call me Jack."

"Jack. Wonderful. How wonderful," says the furry. "You already know my right-hand woman, Queenie..."

She, naturally, says nothing, being the stoic angel that she is.

"She made quite an impression on me," I say. "So, now that we're buddies, you mind tellin' me what the fuck you want with me?"

Dr. King strokes his face comically, clearly enjoying all of this a little too much. "Tell me, Jack. What do you want more than anything?"

An easy question. But he is clearly leading me somewhere with this. I have to play coy. "I want what everybody wants, Doc. I'm up Schitt's Creek without a paddle."

"I see. I take it you, like many of your peers, are striving to get away from the city before whatever happens, happens."

I take a sip of my coffee, making eye contact with his fake eyes. You gotta let 'em know who's boss here. "Ain't we all?"

"Not at all," he barks without skipping a beat. "This is the wild, weird west. The last frontier, forgotten by God and country. No federal oversight, no one telling us what to do. We forge our own path forwards."

Great, he's not just a furry, but a libertarian furry. I swear, if he starts quoting Ayn Rand...

"Whatever, Doc. You do you."

"I will, my friend, don't worry," says the furry. "And for me to live my life here to the fullest, I need your help."

Until now, they've had my attention, given that I am going nowhere, fast. But now, they have my curiosity.

"Now, why would the powerful patron of this fine establishment need the help of a pickpocketing lowlife such as myself?"

To that, the furry leans forward, grabbing my hands with his paws and rubbing them. "I saw what you could do with your hands, and let me tell you, I'm impressed. I could put them to good use."

I look back at the angel. She refuses to meet me in the eye while Clifford, the big blue weirdo, is fondling me. I can see where this is going.

"I see. You want me to jerk you off."

Doc places both paws around his snout in a sign of surprise as the girl, beet red, slaps me across the head.

"Hey, what you do that for? I wouldn't be opposed!"

"Jack, I don't--"

"I mean, if you give me enough lube and you change your diaper..."

"Jack..."

"But I won't suck you off. I have standards!"

Dr. King makes a motion with his hands, and next thing I know, I am being punched by the angel. She packs a mean punch. I think I love her.

"Okay, okay. I will suck it. But only the tip!"

"Jack, I don't want you to suck me," says Dr. King, leaning forward on his seat. "I want to use your pickpocketing skills for a job. A job that will give you enough TP to get you out of the city in style."

One minute, I am fighting for my life, and now, I am being hired for a job. I can't get a read on the furry, other than that he stinks to high heaven. "What kind of job?"

"Oh, nothing too hard," says Dr. King. "All you have to do is rob a truck. You, my friend, are gonna make me a lot of dineros."

***

WASHINGTON STREET

August 19, 4:55 AM

Gotta hand it to the Doc, he's a crazy motheryiffer, but he ain't a dumbass. Any other man would see the Winter Hill Gang and dare not even enter their territory. Dr. King wants to rob them from right under their noses.

"In one hour, a truck carrying a few tons of TP is gonna drive through Winter Hill territory and onto their hideout. Our plan is to sneak behind the truck carrying the load and... liberate the rolls before they reach their destination. Of course, you will all get ten percent of all proceeds, so it will prove to be a very fruitful enterprise, indeed."

My part of the mission is simple: dress myself like a homeless man, achieved by ransacking the nearest North Face store, and pickpocket the key of the truck lock from the driver. All I have to do is bump into the right man, at the right time during rush hour, and I'm golden. Then, Queenie and I would empty the truck into a waiting van and get the hell out of there before we got spotted.

Now, how could two people unload a ton of TP in a few minutes without machinery? Easily, thanks to our lovely neighborhood flying saucer. Whatever fuckery is afoot at that thing shifts gravity at 6:00 AM on the dot. Swiss watches be damned, that's the only consistent thing in this wasteland. We have eight minutes free of gravity to move as many rolls as we can. It's gonna be tight. Lucky for us, I have the fastest hands in the East coast.

Dr. King knows from coerced sources that the driver loves to wait the gravity shift out by having breakfast at one of the Dunkin' Donuts speakeasies commanded by the Cosa Nostra. Hey, America runs on Dunkin, and ain't no flying saucer gonna rob us from our blueberry munchkins.

One thing the apocalypse seems to bring out of people is the desire to cosplay. I buy the biggest Americano they have—costing me half a two-ply roll, the opportunistic fucks—and it is just a matter of whoopsie-daisying-it all over the man right as he's about to enter the speakeasy. He isn't hard to spot. He's the only douchebag wearing Crocs during this cold ass weather.

"Whoops," I say in my most monotone voice, spilling coffee all over the man. "Shit man, I'm sorry."

"My vintage Crocs!" yells the man. "You fucker. I'm wearing socks underneath!"

I take out a handkerchief from my back pocket, and gently, softly, I grope him all over. "Shit, bro, I'm sorry. Here, lemme clean this off."

"Get your filthy hands off me!" he yells, waving his sawed-off shotgun at my face. "Gonna go all day with some stank-ass socks. I've killed people for less. You're just lucky I haven't had my coffee."

I bow at his generosity as I skip away, conductor key in hand. Fastest hands in the East coast, baby! I do my part. A few seconds of work for a ticket out. Easy.

I press the button on my walkie-talkie, cracking alive with sound. "Jack to King. Got the key. I bribed the barista, so we should have eight minutes until he comes out."

"Rawr, copy that, Jack. Go to step two. Queenie will meet you there."

Next, on to step two. Open the back of the truck and get as many rolls as possible. Easy peasy.

Queenie is waiting in a van the next street over. Slowly, but surely, she pulls right behind the truck.

We move like one, latching tethers on the inside of the truck. Things are gonna get really squeamish in a second.

"Five, four, three," chants Dr. King as the fated hour approaches, "two, one, Hallelujah. You have eight minutes. Begin."

The buffet shrimp churns in my stomach as the gravity eases off. The truck, the TP, Queenie, and everyone floats gently above ground. Time to get a move on.

Queenie is like a fierce orca, swiftly moving in zero gravity, and I am a brainless jellyfish, hopping and bopping out of her way, but secretly hoping she might take a bite out of me. We open the back of the truck and begin to unload twelve pack after twelve pack with practiced ease. We throw pack after pack into the van, absorbing the recoil thanks to our tethers. Who would've thought a rope, a magnet, and some duct tape would be the only thing keeping us from floating away?

"T-minus one minute!" yells the walkie-talkie. Or the standy-yelly, if we go by dumb naming conventions. "Pack up and get the fuck out of there as soon as you get gravity before you get spotted."

I drift out of the cab as soon as the contents of my stomach decide to stop doing the macarena, cutting our tether with a knife. Gravity will be back to normal any minute now. Somehow, we managed to move every single roll. Not gonna lie, I didn't think this plan would work.

And it doesn't, a fact made known to us by the shotgun blast aimed directly at my head as I'm closing the cab.

The blast connects, alright, not with my head, but with Queenie's chest. She's used her body as a shield. Thankfully, most of the bullets hit the metal plate on her chest. It sends her tumbling backwards through the air, as it is a point-blank shot.

Queenie uses the momentum of the impact to reach the brick wall, twist around, grab a cracked chunk of brick, and slingshot it at the now-careening in one fluid motion. However, the driver shoots sideways, using the recoil of his shotgun as a propulsor to jet out of the way at the last second. That sneaky bitch!

I jump toward Queenie to assess her wounds, but she launches away from the brick wall, grabbing me mid-air. It would be a very touching and romantic moment, just two people dancing in zero gravity, embracing each other, were it not for the fact that our momentum puts us in a collision course with the van. Still, the redirection is just in time, as the shotgun sprays pellets where I hovered just a second ago.

"Jack, I hear gunshots. What's happening?" says Dr. King from the screamie-hidey.

A window gets shot up, glass shards exploding into deadly floating tiny knives spinning and churning around us. Queenie simply takes this as another opening she can use to rain suppressive fire. "We are under fire, sir. And Queenie..."

Every glass fragment she throws flies a little more sluggishly, a little weaker. Blood drips from her biceps in crimson balls, leaving a trailing stream in the air. She's been hurt in that initial volley. And yet, there she is, clinging to the van to keep from flying away, still fighting like a knight in crimson armor, while I am a small and nubile squire.

"I see. As soon as gravity returns, leave her behind to lay suppressive fire and drive to the rendezvous point."

My blood runs cold for a second. Me? Leave my angel? The one who's just saved my life? Impossible. I'm only some pickpocket lowlife. My life is not worth it. And yet, she risked it all to save my ass. There's no way I'll leave her behind.

And yet, it isn't my decision to make. Queenie takes the van keys and thrusts them at my chest, giving me a solemn nod.

I take her hand in mine, holding it close as lead and glass litter the air around us in dangerous constellations. "No! I will not leave you behind. Come with me. We have enough TP to last us for years. We can buy our way out of this damn city! I will not let you die!"

To that, she smiles. Or at least, I think she does. Queenie squeezes my hand gently while removing her scarf. What lies beneath shakes me to my core.

It is a mess of tangled braces, the old-timey, medieval torture kind, that went all around the mouth and head. Her plaque-filled teeth are exposed for me to see, alongside multiple sores and cuts from the wires in a cute, squirrel-esque overbite. In a toothy, slippery voice, Queenie speaks to me, for the first and last time, with added waterworks.

"Shorry, I can't go wish shoo. I need new brashes, and Doctor King promised to remove theshe."

Of course. The depravity, the wealth, and his continued stay in the city. Dr. King is no doctor, but a dentist! That's why he didn't leave with the rest of the real doctors.

Queenie gives me a toothy smile, as there isn't any other she can give, as gravity returns amongst a rain of glass and lead, she sprints away from the van, shooting volley after volley of pebbles at the man. For her troubles, she gets shot yet again, square in the chest.

"Queenie!" I yell, running towards her, but her outstretched hand stops me.

"Go!" is all she says before continuing to shoot suppressive fire.

She is bloody, beaten, alone, and yet, fearless. She isn't a killer, or a cowgirl, or some hero. She is just a girl, looking for affordable healthcare. An angel sent to this world. There is no way I am gonna let an angel die for some TP.

They want me to drive? I'll drive.

Straight into the man.

I hit reverse, full gas, no brake, and slam the rear of the van against the driver. His body and the back of the van melt in a slush of blood and gas, sparked by the grinding of metal against the speakeasy Dunkin' Donuts. Whoops.

You know what bursts into flames faster than a van? A van full of flammable TP. Luckily, I manage to crawl out of the wreckage before I recreated a high school prank.

All the TP is gone, but I saved my angel.

I rush towards Queenie, holding her sides as she stands there, watching everything caught in flames.

"Jack, did my cute little wolf ears hear a fucking explosion?" says the calmy-seethie.

I sit next to Queenie, watching as the ball of molten metal and flesh roasts the coffee beans inside the Dunkin'.

"We kinda burned every piece of TP in the van, sir," I say with a smile.

Then, silence. A pregnant silence. Eight months along. That awkward finding out you're going to be a father to your one-night stand kind of pregnant silence.

"I see. You do realize I now own your ass, right? You will be working that debt off until you die. Every single ply."

I look at Queenie, sighing in relief as she bandages her arm with her scarf. She risked it all for me. I will risk it all for her. I'm a good-for-nothing pickpocketer, but a debt is a debt. Dr. King is willing to let her die, so I will be her shield for as long as I can.

"That's fine by me, Doc. That's fine by me. There's only so much time left in the world anyway..."

<<<<< END >>>>>

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Sam Camp is a Venezuelan chef, lawyer, and writer who specializes is comedy and existential horror -- which he would argue is the same thing. You can find him everywhere as @sam_le_fou