Ketchup

The Illuminati met every second Thursday of the month at Da Vinci’s Pasta Palace. Bob always reserved the Pope Room, in which a plastic bust of Pope John Paul II rotated slowly on a lazy Susan at the center of the table to grin beatifically at the diners. The Pope Room wasn’t big enough for the full Illuminati. The big annual meeting always took place the last weekend in November, when the guys told their wives and bosses that they were deer hunting. Sometimes, there were strippers at the annual meeting. These monthly get-togethers at Da Vinci’s were just for the West Indiana Synod, which consisted of Bob, Earl, Mike, and Stuart. Disappointingly, there were no strippers at the monthly meetings.

Bob leaned back from the table, patting his fettuccine-filled belly. Bob still insisted that his waist measured thirty-two inches. As if to defy gravity, he belted his pants below his belly, which spilled over the top of his highway patrolmen’s uniform slacks. “So, is it time to play the Wheel of Destiny, men?”

Mike slouched, shoving his lasagna around. He hated playing the Wheel of Destiny. He’d lost three times in a row, and it was really beginning to impinge on his social life. “After dessert.”

Earl slapped him on the back, fixing him with a bleached-white smile. “You’ll have better luck this time, kiddo.” Earl could sell RV’s and used cars to little old ladies, but he still couldn’t sell Mike on improving his odds.

“Actually, the odds are the same each spin,” Mike mumbled around his lasagna, “assuming the Pope is well-balanced.” That was met with a chorus of snorts.

“Let’s just spin and get it over with,” Stuart picked pasta sauce from his T-shirt, which announced that ‘Chicks dig Unix’ in black letters. Stu had spent the majority of the evening trying to explain the difference between Unix and eunuchs, a distinction lost on the less-technologically advanced members of the Illuminati. “Bert’s getting hungry, he’s bored, and he’s hogging all my bandwidth.”

“You should never have let him have the internet,” Bob admonished.

“When Bert moves into your basement, you can restrict him to dial-up. Besides, he ate the dog the last time he got bored.”

“Let’s just spin the Wheel.” Bob twisted the knob on the top of the Pope’s head. John Paul II went spinning clockwise.

Mike knit his fingers around his napkin. Please, don’t let it be me again, he implored the careening plastic Pope. Not again…

John Paul II slowed to a stop, his visage beaming squarely at Mike.

“The Pope has spoken,” Earl announced gravely, taking a swig of beer.

“Dude. It sucks to be you.” Stu shot him a look of sympathy.

“Yeah.” Mike slumped in his chair. “It sucks to be me.”

“Well, son, you’ve got ten days to pick a victim.” Bob thumbed through the dessert menu. “Now…how about some tiramisu?”

***

“Can’t you get somebody from work?” Stu asked him, dangling a Marlboro out the open window of Mike’s car.

“Tax season is over. There’s nobody there to get.” Hell, Mike hadn’t worn a tie to work for the past three weeks to Adams Accounting. No one noticed his small rebellion, which depressed him a bit.

A thought lanced into Mike’s mind as they drove by the playground. “Hey, how hungry do you think Bert is?”

“Dude, Bert’s been a bitch. He’s been chewing on my couch. Why?” Stu followed Mike’s gaze to the playground. “Ohhh…”

“Maybe a snack would tide him over…”

“Uh-uh. The rules say no innocents, and that probably still means kids.” Stu smirked. “Nice try.”

“There has to be a loophole,” Mike muttered. The Illuminati fed Bert every blue moon. The rules stipulated that Bert’s dinner had to be alive and fresh.

“What about that girl you’re seeing? Allison?”

“No. Not Allison.” Mike gripped the steering wheel. “She’s off-limits.” There was a lot that Mike would do to ensure that the world kept running smoothly on its axis, but sacrificing his budding relationship with his new neighbor was not one of them.

“I don’t blame you, though.” Stu sulked for a moment. “If I had an opportunity to get some ass, I probably wouldn’t feed it to Bert, either.”

They pulled up to Stu’s house, a yellow Victorian bungalow with a cheery red front door and heavy-duty gingerbread trim. Stu’s house had been built on one of the Gates to Hell. Stu had bought it about five years ago with some internet stock, before the dot-com bust. The Illuminati had shown up the day after closing with a casserole, a case of Bud, and a membership card. Stu had thought that they were full of shit, and threw them out. Two days later, a sleepless and strung-out Stu had washed up on Mike’s doorstep, ready to join up.

Stu had met Bert, the Guardian of the Gate.

Stu jiggled his key in the latch. “Honey, I’m home!”

The door opened into a dark, sparsely-decorated living room. Streetlight illuminated a hideously plaid couch and a large-screen television. Stu reached under the fringed skirt of a lamp molded in the shape of a showgirl’s leg to switch it on. It was probably the closest he would get to a real woman. Mike headed into the kitchen for a beer and to give Stu and his lamp some privacy.

As he rummaged among the science projects in Stu’s fridge, his eyes drifted to the basement door. Green light played beneath it. He extended his middle finger at the door and what lay behind it.

Screw Bert.

Screw the Illuminati.

He sunk down on a folding chair that served as Stu’s dinette set. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mumbled, wiping the frost from the beer can.

Finished fondling his lamp, Stu leaned in the doorway and jabbed a thumb at the basement door. “Look at the bright side. At least you don’t have to live with Bert.”

A growl that issued from under the basement door sounded like what might happen if lions could speak: “I heard that.”

Making a face, Stu crossed the scarred linoleum and jerked the door open. Green light flooded up into the kitchen. He stalked down the wooden stairs. Sighing, Mike followed. The stairs popped and creaked as he descended. Muffled cries and screams echoed tinnily.

Limned in green light at the foot of the stairs, Stu parked his hands on his skinny hips, jingling his wallet chain: “Bert!”

Mike heard the sounds of scales shifting and slithering.

“Um, just a minute. I’m almost done…”

“Bert…” Stu’s voice took as much of a threatening undertone as he could muster. Mike never thought that threatening a demon was a good idea, but since they shared a bathroom, Stu might have special privileges.

Demonic laughter rasped through the basement, sounding like gravel rattling in an oil drum.

“Bertasimus.”

The laughter died down. Using the demon’s proper name often brought him to attention. Above the computer desk in the corner, a pair of pointed ears lifted. Light from the monitor cast shadows against the wall. A tail undulated against the floor, glittering in the low light.

“You’re not surfing for porn again, are you?”

The ears twitched, and the demon snorted. “Why surf when I can browse all the underage ass I want on your hard drive…Damn!” A video game joystick skidded across the floor. Electronic howls of anguish emanated from the speakers. “You made me lose, you prick.”

“What are you playing?” Mike tried to make light conversation, relieved that Bert was only playing video games.

“I was playing Broads of Bladedom, until I got distracted by you tools and got my ass kicked by the Queen of Carnage.”

Mike mouthed the title to Stu, who shrugged. “I got it for Christmas.” He viciously yanked the chain on the one bare bulb in the basement.

Blinking, Bert climbed out from behind the desk. He easily stood seven feet tall, and walked on two legs, but the resemblance to anything human ended there. Bert was covered by greenish scales shading to red on his belly…Mike couldn’t help but think of the color as a particularly virulent shade of “sinus infection.” Slitted yellow eyes perched on the sides of a reptilian head, over a forked tongue that seemed to wander past his mouth when he was thinking too hard. Doglike ears swiveled on his head, listing forward. His tail lashed against the floor in irritation. Leathery wings were folded against his back, crossed with softly-shaded veins. Bert was not an attractive demon, made even less so by the T-shirt he wore stretched over his belly, proclaiming: “I do evil things.” The shirt would be humorous on a skater punk; it lost its intended effect on a four-hundred-year-old demon.

Bert crossed his arms. “What, now? Did we run out of beer?”

“Why are you wearing my shirt?”

“You left it in the dryer. I assumed that you didn’t want it.”

“Bert, you cut holes in it.”

“Duh. Observe the wing action.” Bert flexed his wings. “You couldn’t expect me to stuff them, did you?”

“I expect you to leave my laundry alone. Are those my boxers?”

Mike grimaced at the black boxers with a pattern of chili peppers covering the demon’s nether-regions. He took a swig of his beer. “That’s gross.”

“Hey, I didn’t have to cut a hole in these. See?” Bert turned around and wiggled his ass. His tail protruded from the fly.

Mike spat out his beer. “When did he start wearing clothes?”

Bert looked over his shoulder. “When goth-boy over here closed off the vents to the basement. I’m a reptile. I get cold.”

“I was hoping that you might hibernate, or something.”

“How could I hibernate? You make too much friggin’ noise.” The demon paced the length of the basement, past the Gate. It always gave Mike the willies when Bert was close to the Gate. The wooden door in the floor of the basement creaked, as if something behind it recognized Bert and wanted to come out to play. One Bert was bad enough.

“So…have you found me a snack, yet?” A human sacrifice was a bribe to keep Bert’s watchful eye on the gate, to keep it closed and keep the others of his kind from running roughshod over humanity and stealing their laundry. It was in the contract: demons in hell could only steal socks in washers and dryers under the current arrangement, but if they ever got free, no laundry would be safe.

Bert’s face brightened. “Can you get me a chick? Please?”

“I got you a chick, once,” Mike grumbled.

Bert stuck his tongue out, scrubbed it across his sharp teeth, as if he were trying to exorcise a taste from his mouth. “Bleh. You got me an old lady, tough as beef jerky. Get me something sweet and tender this time.” He pointed to the wall with a claw. “Get me something like her.”

The dog-eared poster of a blonde porn star straddling a motorcycle was stuck to the cinder block wall. She stared down at them with silicone insouciance.

“She doesn’t have to be naked. I’ll peel her myself.”

Stu guffawed. “Bert, if we could get a piece of tail like that, there’s no way that we’d give her to you.”

Mike stared at the poster. “Hmm.”

Bert brightened. “Hmm?”

***

Mike’s beat-up Datsun slowly cruised the downtown street. In the passenger’s seat, Stu practically bounced up and down with joy like a poodle on meth.

“This is so friggin’ cool.” He kept saying it over and over.

“Shhh,” Mike hissed. “Here comes one.”

Mike slowed down at the stoplight, tried his best to look nonchalant, though his heart jackhammered in his ribcage. The window jerked down with a scrape on the passenger’s side, and breasts filled the window. Stu wriggled with joy, and Mike had to smack his hands to keep him from touching.

A face appeared, a plain face with just a smidge too much eyeliner. The woman smiled. “You boys looking for a date?”

Mike swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, we are.”

She looked up through her eyelashes from Mike to Stu and back again. “Well, I don’t ordinarily party with two…but you look like nice boys.”

“We’re harmless,” Stu croaked. Mike kicked him.

Ever the accountant, Mike had to ask: “Um, how much?”

The woman sighed, shook her head, reached in her purse. The startlement of a siren blast caused Mike to jerk against his seatbelt, and the interior of the Datsun was bathed in red and blue strobe light. The woman flashed her badge. Mike rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Shit.

“This will cost you fellas a lot more than you thought.”

***

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Bob led Mike and Stu away from the county jail. Bob was pissed. He had to call in a couple of favors to get them out of jail, part of the perks of being a member of the “law enforcement brotherhood.” The first pink of dawn flushed the horizon as Bob shoveled them into the back of his Highway Patrol cruiser.

“I mean, really, it takes a special kind of bad luck to pick a cop on your first try. What are the odds of that?” Bob shook his head.

Mike stared down at his stained shirt. A drunk had vomited on him in the holding tank. Stu edged away from him, wrinkling his nose.

“Thanks for getting us out, Bob.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Bob.” Stu echoed, staring down at his shoes. “And, uh, thanks for keeping me from becoming that drunk guy’s bitch, Mike.”

“No problem. He was just confused by the hair.”

Stu fingered his ponytail. “Um. Do you think I should cut it?”

Bob rolled his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I think that y’all might have better luck in a bar…if Stuart cuts his hair, that is.”

Stuart tangled his fingers in it, caught between offense and considering.

Bob dropped Mike off at his apartment, a neat garden-style complex in the suburbs. He climbed out of the back of the cruiser, jammed his hands in his pockets, and started up the walkway.

“Hi, Mike.”

He looked up, cringed. It was Allison, carrying a laundry basket. Allison, with curly brown hair, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, on her way to the Laundromat. Allison, taking in the fact that it was seven a.m., and he was just getting out of the back of a police car wearing a vomit-stained shirt.

“Uh, hi, Allison.”

She looked him up and down, blushed. “Late night?”

“Sort of.” He could feel the weight of Stu and Bob’s gazes on her, assessing her suitability as Bert kibble. He gestured toward the car. “This isn’t really what it looks like.” From inside the car, Stu and Bob waved cheerily. “They’re my friends.”

“Oh.” Allison gave a little finger wave. “Hi.”

“Let me help you with that.” Mike took the laundry basket from her and walked down the steps to the laundry room. The sooner he got her out of the Illuminati’s sight, the better.

“We always celebrate the end of the fiscal year,” Mike explained lamely. “Just once a year. At work. But friends are welcome.” He forced himself to shut up.

“Ah,” she said, following him through the laundry room door. “We don’t have parties at the office where I work, which is probably a good thing. Though…”she grimaced, “my sister is having a Chi-Chi Chef party at my apartment tomorrow.”

Mike set her basket down on the folding table. “What’s a Chi-Chi Chef party?”

She rolled her glass-blue eyes. “They’re stupid parties where the hostess tries to sell inane kitchen gadgets to people who don’t need them. Garlic presses, sandwich makers, that kind of thing. Unfortunately, I don’t know most of the people that will be there, but at least there will be appetizers.”

The wheels in Mike’s head began to turn. “Appetizers?”

She laughed. “Sure…meatballs and finger sandwiches.” She cast her eyes down for a moment. “You’re more than welcome to drop by. I, uh, haven’t met my quota of guests to invite. Not that you have to buy anything,” she added quickly.

“I’d like that,” he said sincerely. “I’d like that very much.”

Allison smiled at him. “Great. Now, take off your shirt.”

Mike blinked. “Excuse me?” But his fingers were already at the hem of his shirt.

“It’s pretty gross. I’ll throw it in with my laundry,” she said matter-of-factly, dumping her clothes into the first open washing machine.

Mike raised an eyebrow, pulled the vomit-stained shirt over his head. She took it from him and smiled with an intoxicating mix of shyness and sauciness. “That sounded a little forward, didn’t it?”

He grinned like an idiot. “I don’t mind.”

She tossed it in the wash and began measuring detergent. “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven?”

He was still grinning like a fool. “Tomorrow, at seven.”

***

Mike didn’t know what the proper attire was to attend a Chi-Chi Chef party, but he made the effort to put on clean khakis and a blue golf shirt. He didn’t think that he was supposed to dress like a chef. He thought that flowers might be a bit over the top, but he did remember his wallet.

Walking over to Allison’s, he glanced down the street, where the brown Impala he’d borrowed from Earl was parked. Earl said that it had the largest trunk space of anything on his lot, and Mike was determined not to leave the Chi-Chi Chef party without a doggie bag for Bert.

He rang Allison’s bell, and the door opened. She was gorgeous, dressed in some sort of floaty print blouse and tan skirt. She had great legs.

He grinned. “Hi. You look nice.”

“Thank you.” She blushed. “Come on in.”

Allison’s apartment was decorated in what he could best describe as “post-college-chick”: beige sofa with flowery pillows and lots of unlit candles. Voices bubbled in from the kitchen.

“Thank God you’re here,” she whispered. “It’s like a friggin’ slumber party.”

She led him by the hand to the kitchen, which was headily full of estrogen. At least a dozen women crowded into the small space, chattering, drinking, nibbling on food. Mike thought that any one of them would fit in the back of the Impala. Maybe he could even get a two-for and freeze one for later.

“Everyone, this is my neighbor, Mike.”

The women looked up. Nearly in unison, they chimed, “Hi, Mike.” Allison chirped a dizzying round of introductions that Mike immediately forgot. A dark-haired woman that looked like a slightly-older and bustier version of Allison leaned forward, exposing her assets.

“I’m Tricia.”

“Nice to meet you.” She rubbed her assets against his arm.

“That’s enough, Tricia,” Allison hissed, casting an apologetic look at Mike. As if he minded.

Tricia turned her back on her sister and clapped her hands together, sending her ringlets and everything else bouncing. “Is everyone ready for some Chi-Chi Chef?”

The room burst into delighted squeals.

***

Wolfgang Puck would have been pleased.

Two hours later, his giggling acolytes were strewn about the living room in various stages of debt and inebriation. Mike felt like an anthropologist, having accidentally been admitted into the female tribe. To his own credit, Mike had purchased a pizza stone, as it seemed the most manly item up for sale. He scanned the room for a suitable sacrifice for Bert, and had been giving serious consideration to a blonde.

The blonde tried to stand, stumbled. He disengaged himself from Trisha, and offered the blonde his arm. He dredged his mind for her name. Emily.

“Let me hail you a cab.” He tried to smile. She seemed like a nice girl, but he hoped that she wasn’t too innocent for Bert.

She let loose a mighty belch, then smiled demurely.

“That would be wonder-under-ful.”

He carefully walked her down the sidewalk toward the Impala, carrying her gingerbread house mold in a pink plastic bag as she teetered on her heels. She was babbling blithely on about something or other to do with reality television. Mike decided that made her evil enough for Bert.

He glanced furtively around, saw that no one was watching. Mike grabbed her wrist.

“Hey,” she slurred.

He tried to pick her up by her waist, but one of her heels speared him under the kneecap. He stumbled, and she twisted away from him.

“You asshole! I thought you were gay!”

Suddenly, his vision was blurred, and his face stung. At first, he thought that she’d slapped him, but then he realized that he couldn’t breathe. Tears leaked out of his swelling eyes.

Pepper spray. What were the odds?

He sat down, gasping, on the bumper of the Impala, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He could hear the uneven staccato click of heels storming away. After some time, his vision cleared, and he found that he could breathe without wincing. He stared up at Allison’s porch light. Damn it, Bert needed to be fed…

Resolutely, he climbed her stairs. He found the door ajar, pushed it open. He could hear the sound of an argument inside:

“Remember, those plastic fun bags are on my credit report.”

“You’re just jealous. You always were.”

“Not anymore.”

A loud crack echoed through the small apartment, and the argument collapsed. Mike tiptoed to the kitchen.

Allison stood over her sister’s crumpled body on the floor, a waffle maker in her hands. Her shoulders shook in anger. God, she was hot.

“Allison?”

She looked up at him. “I can’t tell you how many times I wished she was dead,” she whispered. “She used my identity to apply for credit cards to pay for her damn boob job. She stole every man I was interested in.” She made a fluttering gesture from her to him. “I just got tired of it.”

Mike knew that he should be freaked out, but felt oddly flattered. He gently took the waffle iron from her. It was one of the ones that was supposed to make heart-shaped waffles.

He knelt down. Tricia’s temple was purple, a bit of red leaking from her ear. He pressed her fingers to her neck. A pulse still beat, threadily.

Elated, Mike sat back on his heels.

“How bad do you want her gone?” he asked.

Allison blinked. “That’s awful,” she said. “I’m awful.” A sob caught in her throat.

“That’s beside the point. Do you want her gone?”

She took a deep, trembling breath, and looked at Tricia.

“Yes. I want her gone.”

Mike tenderly tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I’ll take care of this. You go lie down, and I’ll be back later.”

***

Mike showed up at Stu’s house, dragging a large bread machine box into Stu’s living room.

“What the hell am I gonna do with a freakin’ breadmaker?” Stu snarked, self-consciously running his fingers over his newly-shaven head.

“It’s for Bert,” Mike growled. “Call Bob and Earl.”

Stu lifted the lid gingerly. “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick…where did you get this?”

“It was a gift. Really.”

Bob and Earl showed up within fifteen minutes with their gear. By then, Tricia was unpacked on the ugly plaid couch, speckled with Styrofoam peanuts. She was still breathing, but not much.

Mike zipped open his duffle bag and shook out his robe. They’d had them special-ordered from the internet, comfortable black robes with a surprising degree of stretch and breathability. He donned it over his polo shirt, trying to make sure that the hood didn’t wad up under his collar.

“What the hell is that?” Bob queried. “That’s not standard issue.”

Earl grinned, hands on his hips. On the chest of his robe dangled two gold tassels. Mike had to squint before he realized that they were pasties.

“I made a little enhancement.” Earl shimmied, and managed to get the tassels parked on his man-boobs spinning in opposite directions.

Stu twittered. “Nice moobs, Earl.”

Mike turned away from the jiggling man-boobs, donning a heavy necklace on which the seal of the Illuminati dangled: a pyramid circumscribing the eye of Ra.

Bob rolled his eyes and snorted. “Let’s just get Bert’s snack to the basement before it passes its expiration date.”

***

The Illuminati filed solemnly into the basement, one at a time.

Bert’s reptilian head poked up from above the computer desk, and his ears lifted. Bert’s tail stood straight up when he was happy, which looked bizarre in his boxer shorts.

“You’re dressed for dinner!” he squealed.

Mike carefully laid Tricia out on the floor, while Bob began to sprinkle salt in a broad circle. Years ago, they had measured and drawn a circle and marked the cardinal directions on the cement floor with black permanent marker and a string. Bert leaped over the salt line in glee, crouching next to the snack. He turned his head right and left, like a crow, examining her.

“She’s perfect! She’s tender! She’s succulent! She’s…” he poked at her with a claw. “…dead.”

Mike sucked in his breath. “Shit.”

Bert chortled. “Just kidding.”

Mike punched him in the arm. Bert wrapped in him in a bear hug. “I love you, man,” the demon announced, tearfully.

Bob finished the circle, except for one broken part on the east side. “In or out, Mike?”

“Out,” Mike said quickly, disengaging himself from Bert. He stepped over the broken line, shoving Bert’s tail in with a shoe, and Bob began to fill it in. The four members of the West Indiana Synod stood outside of Bert’s circle at the cardinal directions. Stu kept groping for his nonexistent hair. Earl shimmied right and left to watch his tassels shimmer. Mike began to pass out the candles, and Bob slapped the spellbook on a cookbook stand.

Bob cracked his knuckles. “Let’s get this party started.”

They went around the circle. Instead of an AA meeting, in which each member would give their name and confess to being an alcoholic, the Illuminati each gave their name, rank, and serial number and a summons to the watchtower of the cardinal direction on which he stood, marked on the floor by black permanent marker. Mike went through the motions, disgusted, watching Bert’s snakelike tongue flicker over Tricia’s face.

Bob was first. “I, Robert, Master of Ceremonies for the West Indiana Synod of the Illuminati Local 451, summon the watchtower of the East.” He made a complicated hand gesture and lit his candle with a flourish and a match.

“I, Stuart, Faithful Page for the West Indiana Synod of the Illuminati Local 451 and Keeper of the Beast, summon the watchtower of the North.” Stu was sullen. It was well known that he felt he deserved a promotion from Faithful Page to something entailing just a smidge more glamour. He lit his candle with a lighter emblazoned with a Jolly Roger.

“I, Earl, Devoted Officer of the West Indiana Synod of the Illuminati Local 451, summon the watchtower of the West.” Earl read from a crumpled note card that he kept in his robe pocket. He lit his candle, muttering “Bam” under his breath.

“I, Michael, Dedicated Administrator of the West Indiana Synod of the Illuminati Local 451, summon the watchtower of the South.” Mike managed to light his candle without burning his fingers.

“We make this offering to Bertasimus, in that he may keep the Gates of Hell secure until the next blue moon,” Bob intoned, as they moved around the circle in a counter-clockwise direction. Mike stared at the floor to keep from tripping over Stu’s computer cords, but stepped on the hem of Bob’s robe.

Bob continued, shooting Mike a dirty look: “Do you, Bertasimus, take this woman to be your contractual offering?”

Bert looked up at the Illuminati with impatience. “Yeah, yeah. Hail Satan, rama-lama-ding-dong.” He waved negligently. “It’s done. Now, leave me alone with my dinner.”

Bob nodded gravely, and began to lead the Illuminati away. Mike was relieved. He hated to watch Bert eat. The demon unhinged his jaws and took off Tricia’s shoes. He usually liked to start at the feet. Shoes, he told them, were very hard to digest.

“Uh, guys?” The demon sounded regretful for bothering them.

Mike turned. “Yeah, Bert?”

“Can you bring me some ketchup?”

***

Mike knocked on Allison’s door early in the morning, just as the automatic dusk-to-dawn lights were beginning to flicker out. Bert had finished his meal in short order, waddling around the basement like a pregnant woman and threatening to hack up Tricia’s implants like hairballs. But all was well with the Gate to Hell.

Mike stared down at his shoes as the door opened. He expected that Allison would be a mess, all teary and mascara-streaky, that he’d have to do some substantial explaining. Perhaps he would be lucky, and she would have had too much to drink, and would remember little.

“Hi, Mike.” She smiled at him. She looked completely normal, well-rested. She was dressed in a pink T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Hi, Allison…” he looked at her warily. Maybe she didn’t remember…

“Come on in. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

He followed her through the door. Her apartment smelled of bleach. The living room and kitchen were perfectly straightened, boxes of Chi-Chi Chef supplies neatly stacked in the corner. She opened the refrigerator, humming to herself.

“Um.” He slid onto a bar stool behind the kitchen bar. “How are you doing after…last night?”

“I’m doing all right, really,” she said conversationally, cracking an egg into a mixing bowl full of powdery baking mix.

“Ah…” He stared into his hands. He really liked her, torn between wanting to be straight with her and protecting her feelings. He didn’t want to screw this up. “How much do you remember about last night?

She looked back at him from under an errant curl, beating the mixture into batter with her spoon. “I remember everything.”

“Oh.”

He looked down at the counter.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did.” She pulled a waffle maker out from the cabinet, plugged it in, and opened it up. Mike stared at it in fascination. The irons inside it were shaped like hearts. It was the waffle maker she’d struck Tricia with.

Allison calmly poured the batter into the machine, wiping a bit of a spill with her thumb. She closed the machine, turned to face him.

“I woke up this morning feeling better than I ever have.” Her smile was pure sunshine. “I should feel awful, but…I don’t.” She spread her hands helplessly. “I hated her.” She leaned forward over the bar and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Mike raised an eyebrow, smelling the herbal shampoo she used and the sizzle of the waffles in the waffle iron. Slowly, he grinned back at her. Maybe the odds were moving a bit in his favor. Maybe the Illuminati could use a women’s auxiliary.

Indeed, Bert, he thought, Hail Satan, rama-lama-ding-dong. With ketchup.