Eight Legs Too Many || ONC 2021 and 2022

Chapter 6: Shiori really wishes the plot didn't involve a crowded bar...

Full chapter title: Chapter 6: Shiori really wishes the plot didn't involve a crowded bar in the middle of Mexico. The character count for chapter titles is killing me! 

~*~

It was past midnight.

And the fiesta. Was. Still. Going.

What was even happening? It was out of control. A nightmare gone wrong. Shiori had lost count of the number of times she had to turn away sketchy men asking her to dance with them.

Who in their right mind enjoyed this?

Well, Yoko apparently. She was laughing at the bar beneath the large sign denoting what was presumably the bar's name—El Jalapeño Grande—with some friends she'd made, totally drunk, practicing her terrible Spanish on her unwilling victims. And Devland. Who, to Shiori's utter lack of surprise, seemed to have decided he might as well make the best of their location and was flirting with every skirt with a woman in it.

He was a good dancer; she had to admit that. Not that she was watching him. But when she did just happen to glance in his general direction and catch sight of him—purely on accident, of course—it was apparent he was skilled. His feet moved fluidly, his body poised, and he was laughing with an easy sort of self-deprecation as he chatted with his dance partner that was oddly—disturbingly—charming.

As she watched, he glanced up, straight toward the spot where she was sitting. 

Hurriedly, Shiori looked away.

Her eyes settled on the bar again, where a very sloshed specter was demanding more tequila. Shiori was no expert in reading paranormal body language, but Death didn't seem to be enjoying himself much. Which was ironic since he'd insisted on coming to this bar in the first place. He was also totally plastered. Even if he did bring them back now, Shiori gave them 50-50 odds of ending up in Shanghai instead of Philly given the rate he was downing tequila.

She wondered if Death knew what kind of torture it was for her to be here. Probably the bastard had planned it in an attempt to wear her down. Well, she wasn't going to fall for his cheap tricks—no Sirree! If he thought psychological torture was the key to forcing her to help him, he would soon realize Shiori was made of sterner stuff—

Dear God, was that another skeevy man coming out of the crowd to bother her?

Shiori glowered at this new idiot, daring him to approach. Unfortunately, this fellow seemed too sloshed to appreciate the testicle-shriveling powers of her glare. He swayed toward her with a smile, extending both hands. "¿Has visto a mi esposa por casualidad? Ella tiene el pelo largo y un sombrero rojo, la estoy buscando—"*

"NOT INTERESTED!" Shiori leapt down off the barstool and scrambled away, ignoring his bewildered, "Never mind."

To her consternation, in her frantic scramble to get away, she crashed headfirst into the last person she wanted to collide with.

YOU, Death slurred.

It was the first time all night she had not seen him in a seat at the bar. Hope flared in her chest. "Are we finally leaving?" she said.

NO. Death let out a giant, tequila-flavored hiccup that sent Shiori reeling backward. I JUST NEEDED TO RELIEVE MYSELF.

"I see."

I WANT ANOTHER ONE OF THESE ... WHAT ARE THEY? THE LITTLE PINK ONES, WITH THE OLIVES...

Shiori glanced back the way she had come, but someone had already stolen her seat. In fact there were no empty chairs left, none at all... except, of course, for the ones on either side of Death. Everyone, unsurprisingly, seemed inclined to give him a wide berth.