Free Repo Men by Eric Garcia

cancer patients by launching into a jump-roping act using a prop aorta while Larry the Lung clapped in time to the music.
    I dated the girl who played Patty Pancreas once, but the relationship didn’t take. Every time she climbed into that costume I had to fight back the urge to rip her right out again.
     

    I left most of my weapons in the hotel this afternoon; it’s hard enough to get through the weapons detectors without worrying about loose scalpels falling out of my pockets. Even in the city, it’s the kind of thing that might attract suspicion.
    I chose the Mauser, one of my smaller handguns, and loaded it with enough ammunition to get me out of a moderate jam. Should I find myself up against a Bio-Repo man , I told myself this morning— even two—three, if they’re fresh meat newly culled from the short training program—I will not hesitate to blast my way to safety. Should I find myself up against more than that, or even a single Level Five Bio-Repo, I will run like a roach with the lights turned on .
    Turns out I was being optimistic. Go figure.
     

    The weapons-detection device at the Mall was easy enough to beat, though it’s a sad state of affairs when you can sneak through any object as metallic as a semi-automatic German handgun. I followed my plan, culled from years of collected tricks and treats:
    On the way downtown, I jumped into a china store and pilfered a leaded-crystal vase, along with an attending box from the trash Dumpster outside. My movements were swift and assured, but it didn’t preclude me from taking momentary glances over my shoulder or executing 180-degree spins to check for tails. For all I knew, a team of Bio-Repo men could have been waiting for me just beyond the next corner, ready to snatch me up in their arms, throw me into the back of a waiting van, and end it all right there and then. I didn’t think I’d been spotted or followed, but that’s the lure of many a talented repossessor. Silence is bait.
    A quick ride on public transport—here the odds of being recognized dropped considerably, as the hangdog faces inside the bus didn’t even look up as I entered, more concerned with their own misery than that of a fellow sad sack—and soon I was a block away from the Mall, a massive structure faced in beige travertine sprawling across 200,000 square feet of prime real estate. Word was they knocked down a V.A. hospital for this place, memorial stones and all. A steady stream of customers poured in and out of electric sliding doors set into the three-story structure; those entering did so with looks of determination and not a little anxiety, while those leaving were broken into two camps: smiles and tears. Hey, that’s the breaks—sometimes you get a loan, sometimes you don’t. But thanks to today’s no-equity credit application, it’s the rare down-on-his-luck sap who doesn’t qualify for at least a bladder at semi-usurious rates.
    Stooping by a small hedge, I unearthed the Mauser from within the folds of my jacket and buried it beneath an outcropping of leaves, digging the barrel into the dirt, using the gun like a miniature shovel. Standing up again, I strode purposefully toward the Mall, making sure to place the proper look of pain, degradation, and anticipatory humiliation on my face. The fake mustache and beard I wore were affixed with a strong resin that I had fished out of the trash behind a costume shop, and I hoped that it wouldn’t give way to a firm tug by a security guard, let alone a strong burst of wind.
    “All packages on the belt,” droned the X-ray tech. I was twelve back in line, the lone metal detector able to accommodate only one customer at a time. Behind me, a young man held a small shih tzu dog to his chest; the fluffy thing panted heavily, its fur undulating with each breath.
    “He’s not feeling well,” said the guy, noticing my stare. People rarely brought their animals with them into the Mall; it was very low class and generally frowned