No Crazy Matches Our Crazy

Pros & Cons

{1 year ago}

Emma's POV:

After we get ourselves together from the breast cancer bomb I dropped, I join Wade for a drink at Sister Margaret's.

Weasel: "Wade. Emma. You two look like you need Blow Jobs and showers. Though courtesy calls for the latter first."

Wade: "How about three shots of Patrón?"

Me: "Or 3 bottles of whiskey."

Weasel: "Or how about triticum aestivum, wheatgrass? Excellent for the immune systems."

Wade: "Jesus Christ. You sound like Vanessa. No offense, Em."

Me: "None taken. I love my sister, but if I have to drink any more shit that tastes like a lawnmower, I'll shoot somebody."

Wade pulls out pamphlets to show off to Weasel.

Wade: "Check it out. She's sending away for all these colorful clinic brochures. I'm sure they're all FDA approved. Chechnya. Isn't that where you go to get cancer? You got China and Central Mexico. You know how they say 'cancer' in Spanish?"

Weasel: "No."

Wade & I: "El Cáncer."

Weasel: "Oh, I could've guessed that."

Weasel holds up a picture from the moment Wade proposed to Vanessa, and one from the last Halloween we were all together.

Weasel: "Look how happy you look here. Mind if I keep these? Put them up, so I can remember when you looked alive. At least now I'm gonna win the dead pool. Now that you're gonna tragically die from cancer."

Wade: "We got it, Weas. Thanks."

Weasel pulls two black cards out of his shirt pocket.

Weasel: "Oh. And, uh, that guy came in looking for you two. Real Grim Reaper type."

Weasel points to a man sitting across the room from us.

Me: "Both of us? Why?"

Weasel: "I don't know. Might further the plot."

We go to sit across from this mystery man.  He dons a creepy smile when he sees us.

Smith: "Mr. Wilson. Miss Johnson."

Wade: "How can we help you? Besides luring children into a panel van."

Smith: "I understand you've both been recently diagnosed with terminal cancer."

Me: "Stalker alert."

Smith: "It's my job. Recruitment. I'm sorry you've had such a tough go. Miss Johnson, abandoned by your parents, tossed around the foster care system, only to be paid by the very people Mr. Wilson is sent to kill."

Wade: "That's enough."

Smith: "But you're both fighters. Special Forces. 41 confirmed kills."

Wade: "One every 7 weeks. Same rate most folks get a haircut. It's tough to forget being so impressive."

Me: "I'll drink to that."

Wade and I clink glasses as we down our drinks.

Smith: "And now you spend your days sticking up for the little people."