the freeway, dumping him onto the asphalt. But no; the hard pleather of the steering wheel was underneath his hands, its wheels hummed on the freeway, the sleek USB ports were ready for use. Paul turned the Sirius radio on full blast, only to be greeted with a gentle Viennese waltz.
The genteel strings seemed inappropriate. He’d done magic. Real magic.
Paul flipped the station over to a classic rap station; “Gin and Juice” blared out. Imani had despised rap, preferred soft, formless R&B that was all whispers and “hey, girl”. And he’d always caved, because was music that important?
Now he knew the answer. Yes. Music. Music was everything.
He had his mind on his ’mancy and his ’mancy on his mind.
Paul’s luck held as he found a parking space in front of Valentine’s apartment on the East Side. Her apartment complex was run-down but colorful, painted in blood red with white trim. The people inside styled themselves bohemians… yet Paul knew from experience everyone inside dealt with 1930s plumbing.
She buzzed him up. He massaged his temples and pushed through the door, feeling the jittery nervousness of a man on his first date. It wasn’t quite a date – she was a kid, for Christ’s sake – but he still wanted to impress her.
She’s a killer , he told himself.
He got to the top of the stairs to find Valentine’s door open, her room in chaos.
It was a studio apartment with practically no furniture; a dirty mattress had been heaved into the middle of the floor, an oasis among piles of junk. There were piles of dirty T-shirts and panties, old videogames, Styrofoam take-out boxes, DVD cases of hentai films, Master Chief action figures, old Amazon boxes, everything layered with a sprinkling of packing peanuts.
A cardboard box next to her bed served as a bedside table; it contained a small plastic Pac-Man lamp and a black plastic tub of something called ANAL LUBE.
There was a slightly less cluttered spot before her television, which Paul guessed was where her gaming chair had once sat. It now contained one very illegal bag of crushed hematite.
This is the lair of New York’s subtlest terrorist?
Valentine rooted through the piles, not bothering to look up as Paul came in. Today’s outfit was an embroidered black shirt with glittery red hearts, and V-shaped knee-high boots.
“Can’t find my Flex bra,” she muttered, tossing a petrified McRib over her shoulder.
“…Does the right bra help with magic?”
She laughed. “No, you silly! But making Flex stinks. I’m not bringing that smell with me to the club. Oh, there you are.”
She bent over to pick up a large-cupped foam bra, then yanked off her shirt. Paul saw her ample breasts plop out before he averted his gaze. He watched from the corner of his eye as she hooked the bra in front, rotated it around her body, then stuck her arms through the straps.
There was nothing seductive about it. Valentine simply didn’t care who saw her naked.
As Valentine tugged her shirt back on, she knocked over the tub of ANAL LUBE, which rolled toward Paul’s feet.
“Oh! Sorry.” She balanced it back on the box, noting Paul’s shocked expression. “That’s not for me, you know.” She slapped her butt. “I’m an exit-only kinda girl.”
“Then why…” He looked, baffled, from the large tub to her and back. “Why’s it there?”
She gave him a wry look. “I don’t think you really wanna know.”
“…maybe I don’t.”
“Your comfort level is mine, my man. My ’man cer .” She mock-punched him on the chin, then stuffed the hematite sack into a black garbage bag. “You pick up the stuff we needed?”
“Yeah. I got a bingo machine, the copper wire, the–”
“You have the air of responsibility about you, Paul. Let us not sully that with details.”
They wrestled the sack downstairs. Between the flux pressure in his head and the heavy lifting, Paul worried he’d pop a vein before they wrestled the equipment into the
The genteel strings seemed inappropriate. He’d done magic. Real magic.
Paul flipped the station over to a classic rap station; “Gin and Juice” blared out. Imani had despised rap, preferred soft, formless R&B that was all whispers and “hey, girl”. And he’d always caved, because was music that important?
Now he knew the answer. Yes. Music. Music was everything.
He had his mind on his ’mancy and his ’mancy on his mind.
Paul’s luck held as he found a parking space in front of Valentine’s apartment on the East Side. Her apartment complex was run-down but colorful, painted in blood red with white trim. The people inside styled themselves bohemians… yet Paul knew from experience everyone inside dealt with 1930s plumbing.
She buzzed him up. He massaged his temples and pushed through the door, feeling the jittery nervousness of a man on his first date. It wasn’t quite a date – she was a kid, for Christ’s sake – but he still wanted to impress her.
She’s a killer , he told himself.
He got to the top of the stairs to find Valentine’s door open, her room in chaos.
It was a studio apartment with practically no furniture; a dirty mattress had been heaved into the middle of the floor, an oasis among piles of junk. There were piles of dirty T-shirts and panties, old videogames, Styrofoam take-out boxes, DVD cases of hentai films, Master Chief action figures, old Amazon boxes, everything layered with a sprinkling of packing peanuts.
A cardboard box next to her bed served as a bedside table; it contained a small plastic Pac-Man lamp and a black plastic tub of something called ANAL LUBE.
There was a slightly less cluttered spot before her television, which Paul guessed was where her gaming chair had once sat. It now contained one very illegal bag of crushed hematite.
This is the lair of New York’s subtlest terrorist?
Valentine rooted through the piles, not bothering to look up as Paul came in. Today’s outfit was an embroidered black shirt with glittery red hearts, and V-shaped knee-high boots.
“Can’t find my Flex bra,” she muttered, tossing a petrified McRib over her shoulder.
“…Does the right bra help with magic?”
She laughed. “No, you silly! But making Flex stinks. I’m not bringing that smell with me to the club. Oh, there you are.”
She bent over to pick up a large-cupped foam bra, then yanked off her shirt. Paul saw her ample breasts plop out before he averted his gaze. He watched from the corner of his eye as she hooked the bra in front, rotated it around her body, then stuck her arms through the straps.
There was nothing seductive about it. Valentine simply didn’t care who saw her naked.
As Valentine tugged her shirt back on, she knocked over the tub of ANAL LUBE, which rolled toward Paul’s feet.
“Oh! Sorry.” She balanced it back on the box, noting Paul’s shocked expression. “That’s not for me, you know.” She slapped her butt. “I’m an exit-only kinda girl.”
“Then why…” He looked, baffled, from the large tub to her and back. “Why’s it there?”
She gave him a wry look. “I don’t think you really wanna know.”
“…maybe I don’t.”
“Your comfort level is mine, my man. My ’man cer .” She mock-punched him on the chin, then stuffed the hematite sack into a black garbage bag. “You pick up the stuff we needed?”
“Yeah. I got a bingo machine, the copper wire, the–”
“You have the air of responsibility about you, Paul. Let us not sully that with details.”
They wrestled the sack downstairs. Between the flux pressure in his head and the heavy lifting, Paul worried he’d pop a vein before they wrestled the equipment into the
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