And he did. His teeth clicked like a bear trap.

Come down here and give your Daddy a little smoochy woochy.

She emptied the can dead center on his face. He made a sound like a pig drowning, but no sign of pain or even discomfort. His mouth opened and his tongue extended, and he drank the stream of liquid fire. Lola aimed for the eyes, hit them perfectly, yet he didn’t flinch. He only strained harder to catch it.

“Arrest him. Get him out of restaurant.” The Chinese man whined and tossed bits of his native language between orders. “Do something.” He shoved the Mexican man in the back as if he wanted him to assist Lola in some way.

“No se,” the bus boy said and side-stepped away from the frantic Asian. He locked eyes with Lola as if to ask if she wanted his assistance. His eyes kept darting around the room, hands wrestling with each other and feet shuffling.

Lola waved her hand, signaling for him to step back. The Asian man didn’t agree and let loose with racial slurs and threats of termination. Even in the pandemonium, Lola felt sorry for the Hispanic bus boy. The sting of mace floated in the air, and Lola did her best to squint and hold her breath to lessen its assault on her senses. The two men became just as aware of it simultaneously and hid their faces behind the collars of their shirts. None of the others seemed to notice, which Lola didn’t find surprising at that point.

She didn’t see or hear the fat man climbing to his feet while she’d been momentarily distracted. Jennings didn’t give any kind of warning, but he had his hands full with the woman as he continued to struggle with her. The woman growled and whimpered, her eyes on her unfinished plate of food. Her family had returned to the table with new plates, mountains of unrecognizable meat and fried things piled in front of them.

But Lola now had her full attention on the fat man covered in blood. He’d made it to his feet somehow, though it seemed impossible for him to have done so unassisted. He reached for her, mouth hanging open, rattling breaths dripping past dead-weight lips. The hair on his arms was matted down with blood and liquefied food.

“So…hungry.”

“Don’t do it. Stay back!”

“Hold still, lady. You’re losing too much blood.”

“I’m not done…not done.”

“H-hungry…”

“Don’t you take another fucking step.”

“I fire you. Stupid wetback bus boy. Good for nothing.”

“¿Que quieres que yo hago?”

Come to Daddy.

Lola went blind with rage. She’d been backing away, her gun back in her shaking hands, held out in front of her with unsteady arms. The man took thundering steps, each one sending tsunamis of fat rippling over his tremendous gut.

She holstered her gun and went for him. An open-palm was thrust into his sternum, but it felt like slapping a water balloon filled with pudding.