Free Take the All-Mart! by J. I. Greco Page A

of Louisiana Bayou accent under the half-drunk, half-hung over slur. Trip looked back over his shoulder to see the owner of the voice making his slow way across the warehouse floor, flanked by the two warehouse workers Shemp had sent to go fetch him. He was this little bald Korean guy with a scraggly beard and a milk jug of beer that looked like it was a permanent extension of his hand. He was wrapped inside a dingy, oversized bath robe.
    “These the idiots?” the man in the robe asked as he stepped unsteadily up in front of Rudy. Wavering there, he squinted down at Rudy with one clouded eye, while the other, crystal clear but uncontrolled, stared at the wall. “Don’t look like they could steal their own piss if they had a bottle.”
    “Oh, hey...” Trip leapt to his feet and put on his friendliest half-smile smirk. “Howdy. I’m Trip. That’s Rudy. The shiny one’s Hunt-R, but he’s a stinkin’ traitor who can be safely ignored for our purposes. And you must be?”
    “Morty,” the man growled. “I’m sorta the king here.”
    “So I’ve been hearing. And exactly the man I wanted to see.”
    “I’ll bet.” Morty brought the milk jug to his face, and in a practiced maneuver, chugged down half of it, then thrust the jug menacingly at Trip. “Your kind makes me sick. You come here and mistake our generosity for naivety. The wasteland breeds a hearty people — just because we like our drink doesn’t mean we’re stupid. We watch what’s ours. Protect it. Share it, yes, but only with our friends.”
    “We’re your friends,” Rudy said feebly.
    “You took advantage of our hospitality. There’s no greater crime.”
    “Crime? What crime?” Trip asked. “Oh! Did I forget to mention we’re freelance security consultants, specializing in surprise testing of security systems to show just how most are extremely vulnerable when targeted by bad people?”
    “You expect me to believe that?” Sorta-King Morty asked, that cloudy eye staring up at Trip.
    Trip smiled encouragingly. “I’d be extremely grateful if you did.”
    “Okay,” Sorta-King Morty said, slugging down the rest of the beer in the jug. He handed the empty jug to one of the workers standing next to him then spun unsteadily around. “I’m going back to bed. String ‘em up on a grain silo as an example.”
    “What?” Trip blurted.
    Rudy leapt to his feet. “Wait a minute — don’t we even get a trial?”
    Sorta-King Morty stopped, almost falling over. One of the workers helped him steady himself. “Trial? You were caught in the act.”
    “So?” Trip asked. “We’re still in what used to be America. You have to have a trial.”
    Morty shook his head. “Shemp, who’s King here?”
    “You sorta are, Morty,” Shemp said. “Ever since you came to town and taught us how to make beer.”
    “There you go,” Morty said, smiling at Trip. “No trial needed. We can proceed directly to the fun part.”
    Trip smirked. “Fun for you maybe —”
    Movement at the other end of the warehouse got his — and everyone else’s — attention. The workers had suddenly stopped stacking kegs and were gathering around the loading bay doors, their conversational din gone dead silent as someone outside banged hard to be let in.
    “The wagon from Pittsburgh must be here,” Shemp said.
    One of the day-shift workers hit the button and the door slowly rattled open. But it wasn’t a wagon waiting. It was a girl wearing a brimless baseball cap, corset and knee-length leather skirt covered in road dust, straddling a Vincent Black Shadow that was about a foot too tall for her. She was up on tiptoes, struggling to keep it upright. The second the door was open far enough, a couple day-shift workers ducked under it to hold the bike for her. Another helped her off the bike — and to keep standing once she was. The other workers gathered around her as she coughed out a few words, then collectively pointed at Morty.
    “Isn’t that?” Rudy asked,