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“I’m saying he has ass breath. If anything, in that situation, he’s the one tossing salad.”
“Right, but—”
“And who says he’s eating another guy’s ass? Maybe he’s a totally normal, straight vanilla type who only has sex with his eyes closed. The straights can eat ass too.”
“Ok, yes, but when you use the word ‘normal,’ you’re actually kind of kink-shaming—”
“What the fuck is going on?” the man in the ski mask shouted.
“Shut the fuck up,” North said. “How about that for what’s going on?”
“It is kind of rude when you interrupt,” Shaw said. “Especially when I’m defending you.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” the man in the ski mask said.
“You know what?” Shaw said. “He does kind of look like a fuckweasel. Oh, actually, I saw a video about an inflatable toy called a fuckweasel—”
“He’s a fuckwhistle, donkey-tits. Why the fuck would I call him a fuckweasel?”
“—it had this tail that was, like, velour, I think, or maybe—no! It was Duvetyne! A Duvetyne tail—”
“I said get the fuck out of here! You want some of this?”
Something like a giggle was working its way through Theo, and he had to fight it, had to struggle to keep himself centered. Auggie still needed him. Lana needed him.
“Let me tell you something,” North said. “Do you know how many hours I’ve spent in the car with him over the last two weeks? Do you have any fucking idea? And he gets to pick the music half the time. I had to listen to some shit-for-brains with his own podcast shilling some shit called ‘colon broom’ for six hours. A six-hour fucking infomercial in my car. And this numbnuts subscribes to the fucking podcast.”
“It sweeps your colon clean,” Shaw said with what Theo thought might have been pride. “Imagine someone taking a rake—the gardening kind, not the leaf kind—through your large intestine. Oh, it should be called ‘colon rake.’ I’m going to call Dr. Dimitrov and maybe I can be a guest on his show!”
“This. This is what I’m talking about. So, you’re asking me if I’d like the opportunity to beat the shit out of a trifecta of ass-breathed chumps who pick on old men and little kids? Yes. That’s a definitive yes. I would absolutely fucking love it.”
“It’s all the dairy,” Shaw said. “His moon hormones are totally out of whack; that’s why he’s so aggressive.”
No one, it seemed, knew what to say to that.
The man in the ski mask finally spoke. “We’re done here.”
“No,” North said, “you’re going to stay right there and wait for the cops.”
The pause lasted only a heartbeat. Then the man in the ski mask broke and ran for the Chrysler.
North let out a wordless shout, and steps hammered the asphalt. Theo rolled onto his hands and knees. The world spun with him, and for a moment, he thought he’d go back down again. But then everything steadied. The man in the ski mask dove into the Chrysler and yanked the door shut, and North reached him a moment later, shouting as he pounded on the glass. The Chrysler tore out of the parking lot, thumping over the curb at the turn.
A scream from the other side of the Audi made Theo lurch to his feet. The werewolf was gone, presumably inside one of the cars already. The man in the rat mask kicked Shaw away from the Lincoln long enough to pull the door shut, and then the Lincoln sped after the Chrysler. Neither car, Theo noticed, had license plates.
Then he saw Shaw, really saw him. A crushed velvet smoking jacket (maroon, of course), and a ruffled shirt, and then a pair of shorts that Auggie would have loved because they were smaller than most of Theo’s underwear. Across the back, Theo saw when Shaw turned, were the words TACTICAL PANTIES.
It’s one of those things in your brain, Theo thought. You get hit in the head, and blood pools, and you die. I can’t even think of the word. Probably because I’m dying.
Hematoma—that was it.
“Get back here, you fucking fuckweasels!” North shouted after them.
“I knew it was fuckweasels,” Shaw said. Then he squinted at Auggie and said, “What’s that?”
Auggie shook his head.
“It’s his ear,” Shaw announced. “Auggie ripped off his ear.”
