While my brother was a pain in the ass, I’d never hurt him. Well, permanently. If he ever became human again, I’d be beating common sense into his thick skull so he’d never cut a deal with the mafia ever again.
He deserved a sound beating, one that’d teach him not to be so infernally stupid.
Spewing curses that would’ve had my mother either beating the sin out of me or laughing at my creativity, I grabbed my purse, which contained the spare keys to my brother’s car. I marched for the street, where the source of my brother’s misfortune waited. The mafia could’ve taken the sporty vehicle and gotten more than they’d ordered me to give them without an issue, but no. That would’ve been too easy.
That wouldn’t have sent any messages to anyone. It wouldn’t have forced me to play their game.
Thugs like them, pasty white trash who thrived on suffering, never wanted the easy way out. They liked the hunt.
Well, they picked on the wrong woman. Not only did I get mad, I would get even, and I would bring ruin to their empire in so violent a fashion even the Devil would fear me.
My brother was damned lucky I loved him. “I swear, once you’re back to human, you’re going to be licking my feet and begging for my forgiveness, you furry little shit.”
Jonas squeaked a protest and pawed at the thin walls of his shoebox prison.
“Break out of there, and I might just eat you. You’re dumber than a fucking stump. You’re lucky I’m spending a single penny on you. Tonight, I’m spending at least an hour tearing into you over this bullshit, and you will sit there and take it like a man even though you’re a rodent-brained moron now.” I growled, and when that didn’t satisfy my flaring temper, I hissed. “And the first thing I’m doing is selling this piece of shit car of yours so I can play their game. That’ll teach you, because yes, you asshole, you had to have my name on the title because you’re so shit at money no sane dealership would sell you a car otherwise. I’ll make those goons think they’ve won, and then I’ll show them the true meaning of fear.”
Making the Devil cringe in sympathy would be my gold standard.
As I couldn’t sell his car if I damaged it, I took care with driving to the pet store. Once there, I tucked the shoebox containing my brother under my arm and strolled inside, heading for the rodent section to pick his new home. A bored employee wandered over. “Need something?”
Any other day, the country bumpkin accent might’ve amused me. The kid likely spent more on gas than he earned getting to work if one of his parents didn’t work nearby. A lot of folks with some money and little sense spent two or three hours out of their day driving to jobs that barely paid their bills.
We had an unofficial rule in our household; if we couldn’t make it to work by public transit or within thirty minutes, we moved. If we couldn’t afford the rent, we didn’t take the job.
Since we owned our house, we never moved, and we took jobs close to home to pay the property tax and keep the place from falling down around our ears.
Considering the supplies, I sighed, bit the bullet, and replied, “Actually, yes. I have a rescued pet chipmunk that can’t be released into the wild, and he needs a house. It needs to be a nice house, and I need everything for him.”
“A chipmunk?” He asked, and according to his expression, I’d said the best thing he’d ever heard in his life.
“Yes, a chipmunk.” I patted the box under my arm. “I’ll need a good travel container for him, too. He’ll be coming places with me often.”
“That’s so cool!”
Great. Not only did he likely spend more on gas than he earned, he loved animals enough he wouldn’t complain about the drive or the wasted money. Oh, well. I’d benefit from his enthusiasm even if he tired me out. “Pick out the best stuff for him, and I’ll need food, treats, and toys, too.”
The kid started grabbing stuff off the shelf and adding them to my cart after asking if I liked his choices. As arguing would only extend the pain, I approved everything, expecting to wipe out most of my bank account caring for my idiot brother.
After I got his furry ass back to human, proving the impossible could be possible in the process, I’d make him pay me back tenfold, and I’d make him quake in fear of my wrath if he screwed around again.
In some ways, I envied the kid and his carefree delight in helping me shop. I worked as a slave at the neighborhood grocery store, stocking shelves because the boss didn’t trust me with the customers. He’d caught me on the street with my ears and tail, and he’d brought the CDC into it, but their fancy meters hadn’t registered any diseases, barring me from being fired as I hadn’t done anything wrong.
To keep my job, the CDC sent a damned bureaucrat over to steal some of my blood to feed to their demonic meter, confirming I wasn’t infected with lycanthropy or some other nasty disease someone might catch from coming in contact with me. Usually, they sent some doe-eyed girl to play to my nicer side, the one who wouldn’t punch her in the face for annoying me.
The first and last time they’d sent over some damned baby devil who owed someone a favor, I’d socked him in the nose and told him to fuck off and tell his master hello. The devil had stuck around long enough to steal a drop of my blood for the meter, but I’d made him pay for it tit-for-tat with interest.
Devils pissed me off.
They reminded me of the mafia, and they worked for an even nastier boss.
“There are better chews for rodents at the cash register, but if you can give me a few minutes, I’ll ask my manager if I can use the office computer to check which diet is best for a chipmunk.”
“I don’t mind paying twice, but I’d like to get him into the carry case while you do that. Help on what to feed him would be great.”
I lied in more ways than one, as until I got a chance to vent out my anger over Jonas’s stupidity, I couldn’t care less what the fucker ate, I did mind paying twice, and I only wanted to put him in a better carry case so I wouldn’t have to hunt for his ungrateful, selfish ass if he escaped me.
I did have to give the kid credit; he was as efficient as he was enthusiastic, and while I did have to ring up my order twice, it took him less than five minutes to get the information on what my rodent brother needed to eat. Jonas squeaked his protests and beat on the smooth plastic of his new carry cage, balling his little paws into fists.
I lifted him up, stared him in his beady little eyes, and whispered, “Well, it’s your own damned fault you’re like that, so you just sit your furry ass down and be grateful I didn’t toss you out on the lawn to fend for yourself.”
My brother sat his furry ass down, which offered some hope Jonas was still in his chipmunk body somewhere—or at least understood some English.
Almost two hundred dollars later but with enough toys, treats, and chews to keep my brother fed for six months, I left the pet store, loaded my brother’s car with his new habitat, and returned home.
One of the mafia goons waited for me on my doorstep, and I considered digging out the pistol hidden in my brother’s glove box. Narrowing my eyes, I leaned over, popped it open, and grabbed the weapon, checking that the magazine had been properly loaded with bullets and making certain a round was in the chamber and ready for duty.