“Well, I suppose that went as well as I expected,” were the first words I heard upon waking. I took a moment to examine my surroundings before I opened my eyes. Head still attached, check. Extremities mobile, check. Lying on some ludicrously hard surface, check. LOUD wherever I was, check. I decided that since I was still alive, I may as well let everyone know it. I opened my eyes to see Cain and Emily standing over me, backlight by pink neon.

“Where am I?” I asked woozily.

“Really? Isn’t that just a stereotype? Do people really ask that?” Emily asked.

“They do when they wake up someplace that’s different from the place where they were last conscious. When you take into account the last time Poppa here was awake he was learning to fly, and doing a poor job of it, it makes a little more sense.”

“Shut your piehole, smartass. Emily, where am I?” I repeated, somewhat less woozily as the pain in my head and jaw started to blossom.

“Bourbon Street. Or rather, the sidewalk in front of Big Daddy’s. You were thrown out. Literally.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” I groaned and weaved a little as I started to get up.

“Whoa, tiger, where do you think you’re going?” Cain caught my arm and kept me from falling off the sidewalk into the throngs of people tossing beads and flashing bits of flesh.

“Back in there. We gotta get Eve.” I might have been concussed, but I was hanging on to that thought with a determination that made me
a little proud. Even after getting impromptu flying lessons thanks to a kick in the gob, I still remembered my primary objective. Kirk would have been proud.

“Wow. I obviously kicked you harder than I thought. I’m right here, asshole. Now before you try, and I mean try, to go back in there and get the shit beat out of yourself by Clarence, who is a very nice man and does not deserve any trouble from meddling immortals, why don’t you tell me exactly what the hell you want?” I wish I could say that her voice sounded like a choir of angels, but aside from the fact that I’d never been around angels in enough number to make up much more than a barbershop quartet, the sad fact is, it didn’t. It sounded more like really pissed off fingernails down a chalkboard. Only shrill.

“Hello, Eve. Nice to see you. Nice kick.” I said as I allowed Cain to turn me around and face Eve, who was leaning against a window into a shop selling Father knows what. She had obviously taken the time to dress, such as it was. She had tied her hair back into a ponytail, and wore cowboy boots even more garish than Emily’s that led to black fishnets criss-crossing her legs up to a black leather miniskirt. Ever the ironic, she had on a “Got Christ?” tank top that I was pretty sure didn’t look like that in Clerks 2. At least Jason Mewes had never filled one out like that. Apparently Eve only wore a bra when she intended to take it off soon, because nothing was evident under the tank top but Eve. Damn, she looked good. Trashy, but good.

“Thanks, I practiced for years just in case you decided to drop back into my life. Now, What. Do. You. Want? Asshole.” She appended just for good measure.

“It’s a long story. Could you just come back to Cain’s place with us and have a little coffee and Advil cocktail?”

“No. I don’t think I’m going anywhere but home. And you’re not invited. And then tomorrow I’m going to wake up, and I’m going to leave New Orleans, a city that I quite like, thank you very much, and I’m going to have to go looking for someplace else to live. Someplace with a few less assholes. Or really, just ONE less asshole.” She was starting to find her rhythm, and I knew that in a about two and a half minutes she was going to reach deeper into her vocabulary than just “asshole” for descriptions of me.

Usually, when faced with a woman in the throes of this type of blind, unreasoning hatred, there are a couple of things I try to accomplish. The first is simply to keep her from killing me, or inflicting a fair amount of pain in the attempt. The second is to keep her out of the public eye enough to keep the authorities from becoming involved. And the third is to reach some type of amicable exit strategy that doesn’t involve me being chased by large portions of a father’s segment of the Roman Legions (Yes, it happened. Yes, it was my fault. Yes, the Roman Legions can run very fast. Yes, being staked down over an anthill with honey spread over your genitalia is very uncomfortable. And most importantly, yes, everything grew back just fine. Sometimes I think that Joss Whedon wrote more parts of my life than Moses did.). In this case I was going to have to make do with the first two, so I did something to Eve that I had never done before, and there wasn’t much left that didn’t involve rendered animal fat and a blender. I used The Voice.

“No you will NOT. You WILL come with us and you WILL hear what we have to say and you WILL fulfill your duty to the Father and to all of these, our children.” It hurt my back a little to stand at my full height, and I was pretty sure there was broken highball glass wrapped around a rib somewhere, but I held myself upright and locked eyes with Eve. For the first time in thousands of years of our running into each other and having these little confrontations, she blinked first. She looked down and away, and I think I saw a glimmer of real surprise in her eyes.

She stood there for a moment, and then I saw her eyes spark back to life. She threw her head back, stuck her jaw out and got ready to unleash an absolute torrent of bile in my direction when Emily stepped in.

“Please?” That’s it. One word. All she did was look up into the face of her ultimate grandmother and say, in a very small and innocent voice, “Please?”

“Well…shit. Alright, I’ll go hear you out, but don’t think we’re finished, asshole.” She picked up a bag that looked big enough to carry a sawed-off shotgun, and started off down the street.

“I’ve never thought we were finished, Eve. Never.” I murmured as we followed her, my arm over Cain’s shoulder as my balance slowly returned.

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