Pink. Shiny. Sparkles.
Just like Tammy’s, but heavier. Better balanced.
An upgrade.
I give it a test swing in the aisle.
The lady two rows over yelps.
I smile.
Perfect weight for turning a Russian mob boss into pulled pork.
If I hit her fast enough, she won’t get the safety off.
And that gun?
That’s going in Vitaly’s nightstand.
A trophy.
A promise.
I drop the bat in the cart.
A bony, glitter-smudged, disturbingly reverent hand reaches in and plucks it out again.
“No,” says a voice like vape smoke and expired coupons.
I whirl, already halfway to throat-punching whoever the fuck he is.
And I freeze.
Because standing before me is a man in a yellow mesh crop top that reads: “I CAME FIRST. SO DID THE CHICKEN.”
He’s wearing feather-print bike shorts, a Bluetooth headset taped to his temple with medical gauze, and one Croc. Just one. The other foot bare and inexplicably dusted in what looks likecrushed Cheetos. A single chicken feather earring the size of my forearm.
I blink.
He clucks.
Loud.
Authoritative.
Judgmental.
Then he lifts my bat in both hands like it’s diseased and whispers, “This one knew cowardice. Over easy. Betrayed the flock.”
“Hey,” I start.
But he’s already swapped it. My bat’s gone. Replaced with a different pink one. Matte finish, darker hue, subtle gold shimmer like someone dipped vengeance in Pepto-Bismol and rolled it in unicorn blood.
He slides it into my cart like he’s offering a weapon to Joan of Arc.
“The Coop offers you this.”
I stare. “I’m sorry. The... what?”
