“Great job out there, champ,” says the first guy.

“Oh, man, you really put old Jimmy Boden in his place,” says the second one. He’s practically beaming. “Couldn’t have happened to a better man.”

I stand there, nodding. I keep a polite grin on my face while still holding the frozen peas to my jaw.

“I’m Tweedledee,” says one.

“I’m Tweedledum,” says the other. “Most people call us Dee-Dum for short since they can’t tell us apart.”

“You’re joking, right?” They shake their heads in unison with identical friendly smiles. They look more like a couple of underfed scarecrows than the chubby Tweedledee and Tweedledum I remember from childhood. “Why would you call yourselves that?”

Dee shrugs. “New world, new names. We were going to be Gog and Magog”

“Those were our online names,” says Dum.

“But why go all doom and gloom?” asks Dee.

“Used to be fun being Gog and Magog when the world was Tiffany-twisted and suburban-simple,” says Dum. “But now…”

“Not so much,” says Dee. “Death and destruction are so blasé.”

“So mainstream.”

“So in with the popular crowd.”

“We’d rather be Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

I nod, because, what other response is there?

“I’m Penryn. I’m named after an exit off Interstate 80.”

“Nice.” They nod as if to say they understand what it’s like to have parents like that.

“Everyone’s talking about you,” says Dum.

Not sure I like that. That whole fight thing didn’t really go off the way I had planned. Then again, nothing in my life has gone the way I had planned.

“Great. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go hide now.” I tip my bag of frozen peas at them like a hat as I try to step between them.

“Wait,” says Dee. He lowers his voice to a dramatic whisper. “We have a business proposition for you.”

I pause and politely wait. Unless their proposition includes getting me out of here, there is nothing they can say to get me interested in any kind of business idea. But since they aren’t moving out of my way, I don’t have much of a choice but to listen.

“The crowd loved you,” says Dum.

“How about a repeat performance?” asks Dee. “Say, for a thirty-percent take of the winnings?”

“What are you talking about? Why would I risk my life for a measly thirty percent of the winnings? Besides, money doesn’t buy you anything anymore.”

“Oh, it’s not money,” says Dum. “We just use money as a shortcut for the relative value of the bet.”

His face becomes animated like he’s genuinely fascinated by the economics of post-apocalyptic gambling. “You put your name and the bet you’re making on, say, a five-dollar bill, and that just tells the bookie that you’re willing to bet something of greater value than a dollar bill, but less than a ten dollar bill. It’s the bookie who decides who gets what and who gives what. You know, like maybe someone loses a quarter of his rations and gets extra chores for a week. Or if he wins, then he gets someone else’s rations to add to his, and someone else scrubs the toilet for him for a week. Get it?”