“Well, if someone points a big gun at me and pulls the fucking trigger, I can get hurt, okay, genius? Luckily, Dr. Demento and his faithful lab wretch, Artur the Psycho, were there to save the day. And by save the day, I mean commit federal fucking assault!” Fred kicked the leg of the eight foot dining room table. Said leg collapsed like it was a toothpick, and there was a tremendous ‘whud’ as the thing crashed to the floor.

“And you two! Boning the afternoon away while we’re cleaning up the shit your ex left behind! Him and the Mafia, Thanks for nothing!”

“Phillip has ties to the Mafia?” Barb gasped.

“Had, Dr. Barb. He’s dead.”

“We did call the police and send them over,” Jonas said weakly. “How could we have known a matter for the EPA was going to turn into a Mafia-laden bloodbath?”

“On the same day both of you get laid for the first time in years? You didn’t think that was a sign of the Apocalypse? Because I sure as shit did! You two can’t have sex again, ever.”

Jonas and Barb looked at each other, then at Fred. “You mean ever ever? Or just with each other?”

“I think, to be on the safe side—” Fred stopped in midrant and put a shaking hand to her forehead. Behind her, Artur and Thomas had quietly walked up until they were each standing just behind her. “I think—I think you better not—ever—”

Then the oddest thing of the entire afternoon (and it had been a doozy) happened: Fred’s eyes rolled up until he could only see the whites and she pitched backward.

Where Thomas and Artur caught her, neat as you please, and Artur lifted her up and laid her on the couch.

“Is there any more of that wine left?” Thomas asked once he had made sure Fred would be fine. He touched his swelling eye and winced. “It’s been a helluva day.”

“If that is a drink like ale or grog, I also would like some.” Artur’s split lip was also swelling nicely.

Barb poured. They clinked. They drank. Fred snored.

Chapter Thirty-five

Fred rolled over, felt a stabbing pain in her shoulder, grabbed it, and groaned. Grabbing it made it worse, so she opened her eyes.

She was on the couch in the living room of the Presidential Suite. And it was dark out.

“Wakey wakey,” Thomas said. He was holding her wrist in one hand and looking at his watch.

She yanked her arm out of his grasp and fought the urge to blacken his other eye. The holding-down bullet-removing game had not been fun. For any of them.

“What’s going on? Where is everybody?”

“Barb and Jonas are down at the police station giving their statements. Artur is conked out in the bedroom.”