.:The Illumination of Sorrow:.

RONAN PEARSON'S QUALITY HOME GOODS & DAILY NECESSITIES

Olive has little use for regrets, but they have a way of swarming when she isn't paying attention.

She told Bean to chuck their last gun into the bay shortly before they staged their get-away, but once the heat of the moment cooled and her auto-pilot shut off, she laughs at her carelessness.

A trained killer is after them, probably paid some ungodly amount considering the damage they caused, and all they have to their devices is a half empty inhaler, a small tub of high quality balm, and their hands.

Seriously?

Seriously.

They need a weapon. Immediately. Yesterday.

She doesn't want to leave Bean alone at the hotel, but dragging him out in the open is an equally terrible idea.

On a long list of poor decisions what harm can one more do?

Besides, she enjoys his company.

Once Olive ensures the path to their destination is free of possible assassins, she and Bean scurry to the only trusted gun shop in town. It's a cutesy place, often mistaken for a vegan cafe on the outside. Local art hangs on every vertical surface, ranging from still life sunflowers and landscapes to the late and great Lizzie Pearson's surreal, heroin induced splatter paintings.

There's a crate of mixed fruit shoved in the back corner, mostly apples and pears, gleaming like Christmas lights. Customers browse the selection of various guns and pistols, humming about engagement gifts, baby showers and other special occasions people buy guns for. Olive doesn't bother telling Bean to keep his hands off the merchandise - he would sooner burn all his school books than touch another gun.

Ronan doesn't look up from his latest issue of Metal Monthly until Olive drums on the glass showcase between them. "Ron, we need a gun. The Furaha 6000, preferably."

Caught between gasping and glaring, he settles on a crooked frown. "Are you crazy? I ain't sellin' to you. Quad'll gut me." He nods to the silent young man standing behind her. "Hey Bean, how ya doing? Your shake is looking pretty good, buddy."

Bean beams and nods back. "Day by day, it gets a little better, sir. Like white wine and beef. Or Congress."

"Quad won't know." Where Olive musters up this false confidence she'll never know. Either way, she's proud of it.

"After what you did? She probably knows where you pissed this morning. And I don't have any Furahas left. All I got are Huzunis."

She moans. "I don't want another Huzuni. Those suck. They're too heavy."

The Metal Monthly is rolled into a tube as he fondly waggles it at them. "Are you kidding me? Huzunis last forever. It's a memorable gun. This is what I'd pitch to you if I was actually going to sell you shit."

"What would it take?"

"Two tubs of balm or nothing." Ron demands.

"I don't have that much on me." Between warding off the senior citizen squad and the concierge, her balm reserves are running low.

"Too bad."

Olive feared this would happen. Seeing no other option, she casually points to one of the abstract paintings like a curator at a prestigious art museum.  "What would Lizzie think with you treating us this way?"

"It don't matter what she think. She's dead, the same as you'll be within the week."

"Liz told me about you, Ron. How blue you'd get sometimes. You couldn't even get out of bed, hugging your pillow like a baby. That's how bad it'd get."

Ron turns a marvelous shade of crimson despite his chocolate skin. Only people who knew him well enough could tell. He calls Olive's bluff. "Lizzie ain't tell you nothing."

"She told me about how you'd cry and cry, and you'd stare into shop windows wishing you had enough money to buy her a washing machine, or even something as small as a toaster."

"Thas all a lie." Ron hisses. Several customers tune into Olive's tirade, wondering what the bald woman could say to unnerve Ronan Pearson of all people. She dramatically raises her voice, hamming it up.

"The only way she could perk you up was if she rubbed your ears and called you lillydear and told you you'd be rich someday."

"Olive." The shopkeeper growls in warning. Nearby an older woman hides her laughter behind her purse.

"And you wished you could have kids of your own, but you couldn't cause of your erectile dysfun-"

"GET OUT! Both of ya! Take the stupid gun, just get out!"

"Aw, thanks, Ron. Liz would be so happy."

"Thank you, sir." Bean mockingly salutes as he backs out of the shop.

"You're both devils. I hope the hitman gets to you before Quad does."

Olive fishes the half tub of balm out of her backpack and places it beside the register as a consolation prize. "For your troubles, lillydear." She grins like the Cheshire Cat. "Maybe we'll all be rich someday."

The vein in Ron's jaw explodes. "OUT!"

Having concluded their business, the Downes siblings collect their winnings and leave victorious. Once they're a couple blocks away, Olive sobers and lays a hand on her brother's shoulder.

"Promise me you'll never use mentioning someone's dead wife to your advantage, Beanie."

He shakes. "Unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Not even then."

"What about dead aunts, uncles, and cousins?"

"Yeah, no. Extended family is fair game. Use them as much as possible."

"And erectile dysfunction?"

"Only in absolute emergencies. E.D. is no laughing matter."