The first rays of a new day glowed around the edges of drawn curtains. Vincent stirred from his claim at the foot of the bed. Rapid blinks brought the previous night's events to the forefront of his mind. The mist. The screams. The inexplicable horror that had stalked the corridors…

Compressed vertebrae ached from the tension of an awkward position. Tense muscles cramped when he stretched his limbs. Sierra was still asleep, cocooned in the pillows and blankets he forfeited without protest. Popping joints echoed creaky mattress springs when he stood up. Peeping through the gap in the curtain confirmed whatever had happened last night was not just a nightmare.

“I want you to close your eyes and don’t open them until I say so.” Vincent tightened the straps securing the girl to his back. Her arms loosely coiled around his neck. He made carrying her, the lightened backpack on her shoulders, and his arsenal look easy but he was taking effortful steps and deep breaths.

Hinges clicked as he pushed open the door. Sunlight would have blinded Vincent completely if not for the paralyzed pupil. Sierra squinted at the intense glow filtered through her eyelids. Weathered floorboards moaned under their combined weight. Clinking accouterments were out of sync with droplets. Like a leaky faucet, she noted successive taps drawing closer, closer, closer—Rubber soles squeaked, hushing Vincent’s foul mumbles for the present situation, but she could feel him shudder. However, it was the smell that nearly broke Sierra’s resolve to keep her eyes shut. Pungent. Warm. The stench harassed her the moment they left the room, a choking miasma of copper and decay that churned her stomach on the longest shortest trek.

“You can look now,” Vincent said. The iron tinge sticking to the back of her throat faded, replaced by the stronger scent of sagebrush. Sierra blinked against the harsh sunlight, partly blinded but relieved to be out of… whatever he didn’t want her to see. “Shit.”

His sharp curse stole her attention and the first thing she laid focused sight on was the motorcycle, and their latest obstacle. Metal skin was pitted and corroded. The leather seats cracked and peeling. Chrome exhaust had eroded away as though eaten by acid. Exposed inner workings melded together in undefined, sharp conglomerates of rust. She glanced at Vincent, finding his complexion was unusually pale and clammy despite the rising temperature.

They were on foot—Vincent actually. He pushed and steered the motorcycle leaning against him. Sierra was secured on the seat but still clung to him for fear of going down with the bike. Occasional glances checked that the kickstand was still popped out. It seemed too flimsy and the sweltering ground was a long way down. The sticky goop coating exposed skin that would supposedly protect her from the sun only furthered her discomfort when the white sheet layered atop her head got stuck on the translucent coating. But that was also the least of her worries.

In sporadic intervals, Vincent stopped. There was no way of telling time here, rather only marking distance by vague parameters such as the motel shrinking in the right rearview mirror. He wiped the sweat from his face and sated his thirst. Silence was heavy between them. It swelled with the heat and spoke more than words would have when Vincent stared into the box on the back of the bike. The box held a couple jugs of water and the last of their food—both diminishing. He let the lid close and came back to the front. Sierra watched his every move as he attempted starting the bike for the third time.

After a couple tries, Vincent decided to conserve his energy. His hands fell to his lap as he exhaled a frustrated sigh. The soft voice behind him asked, “Are we stuck?”

“No,” he said, not wanting to entertain the thought for his own sake as well. “Worst case scenario we turn around.”

Sierra hesitated to ask her second question. “What about after that?”

“That’s for me to worry about.” Vincent stood up and prepared to continue pushing his bike. He didn’t want to abandon it—Not yet at least. It was still useful to carry their burdens, but… He raised his head and stared down the simmering highway stretching infinite miles. There was nothing on either side of them for even longer than that. Then a sunburst invaded his peripheral vision. He looked ahead for the source, finding it as it intensified so much that even his pinpoint pupil didn’t like it. Then it suddenly died down, revealing the tilted chrome saucer seemingly hovering over indiscriminate shapes shaded beneath. Adjacent to it was a building the saucer balanced its oblong top on; a simple white square smeared by a heat mirage.

Vincent took a break once under the saucer’s shade, lingering on the edges where the sun and more worldly hostiles couldn’t reach them. “A gas station?” Sierra spoke up, evaluating the lot as Vincent did. It serviced a single car at its shiny red pumps, pristine and colored the same hue as the malicious diner Vincent feared this place would be. He guided the bike to an adjacent pump, cautiously eyeing the family sitting in the sleek pastel blue machine. They looked like the mannequins in the diner. Too perfect and unblemished like the white leather seats colorful and fine pressed clothes livened.

The woman in the passenger seat gave him a shiver. Her magazine-perfect face was framed by a brunette bob that was fashionable centuries ago, but that eye-wrinkling, shiny toothed and pink-lipped smile was like something pretending to be human. He wasn’t particularly fond of children but the three in the backseat didn’t even look real. Perhaps that was inherited from their parents. The father stood at the pump, staring vacantly at it and holding a friendly smile too. Sky blue plaid fluttered with a weak breeze. His brown-blonde hair had not a strand out of place. Clean shaven skin didn’t have a shadow or nick on it, and his eyes were far too bright for any wastelander.

The pump confused Vincent as well. He’d never seen one in working order, and only imagined what it pumped was what he called, and hoped to be, gas. He glanced back at the clean cut man, discreetly noting a hose connected to a port in the car before finding the one at his pump. He unscrewed the reservoir cap on his motorcycle then took out the hose, finding it heavier than expected and with a metal nozzle attached. Pinching the lever did nothing and he pulled it out to confirm that hypothesis. Vincent squinted at the machine as though it could suss out its secrets, but the number slips stared back at him from behind clear glass, unwilling to comply.

“Point thirty-six?” He looked at Sierra. “What do you think the numbers mean?”

“Oh, that’s the price.”

Vincent jumped to attention. Sierra’s wide eyes followed to find the voice's owner. Second-nature sent a hand to Vincent’s right holster. “The price?”

“Yeah,” the man smiled. His voice was noxiously enthusiastic. Fake like his white teeth and dewy skin. “The price per gallon.”

“How do you pay a fraction of a cap?” Vincent inquired. His hand lowered once he observed the man to be unarmed—just another strange thing about these odd people in a bizarre land. 

“A cap?” A hint of confusion broke his cheery facade but not by much.

“Yeah, caps,” Vincent asserted. “To pay? Or do we trade supplies?”

He chuckled. Blue eyes gleamed innocently. “Oh, these pumps don’t take currency.” He looked at the number cards flipping behind the glass for a moment, then to his stark opposite at the other pump. “What were we talking about?” The stranger turned about-face to the woman in the passenger seat. “What were we talking about, honey?”

She looked at her husband. The breeze rustled a few strands of hair loose. They stuck to her glossy lipstick as she asked, “who are you?”

Vincent and Sierra exchanged glances. The girl was obviously perturbed, unable to hide it behind a practiced poker-face as Vincent had cultivated.

“You pay with a piece yourself,” another overly friendly voice announced. Vincent’s hand found its way back to the butt of his pistol as he watched the short, squat figure creep around the pump. This one wasn’t as artificial looking as the family in the car, but was rather creepy in his own way.

“What do you mean?” Vincent entertained him.

“Surely, there is something you don’t mind parting with.”

Their gaze seemed to battle the others. The creature’s spindly hands steepled together. Sunken eyes focused intensely on Vincent’s mismatched pupils and for a fleeting second, Vincent feared he met his match. The stranger’s gaze broke for a second. Dark eyes settled on Vincent’s side and he became more aware of the twine circling his wrist. The frayed ends tickled his palm. The flattened cap absorbed his skin’s warmth—he blinked away the images in his head.

“No.”

“No gas for you then,” the attendant raised a bony finger just to wag it at Vincent.

“Do you trade anything else?” Sierra asked, but as soon as oval eyes rolled over to her and sent a shiver across her skin, even down her legs, she regretted it.

“I also deal in… Favors.”

“No.” Vincent stepped between them, brow-beating the shorter man as his first and final warning. The attendant slinked away from Vincent’s reach. Thin fingers smoothed out the wrinkles in his jumpsuit uniform as he shuffled around the motorcycle. Dirty and yellowed nails honed to a point stood out against navy blue.

“Think of it as credit.” A salacious and solicitous smile followed his raspy words. “I won't collect on this favor now, but later on. Zero interest introductory rate!”

Vincent barked at the squat man, “I said no!”

The attendant chuckled nervously. He hurried his shallow pace to escape Vincent’s stride. “For yourself, but for the lady—”

Vincent snatched the creature by its collar, lifting it high so its short legs thrashed uselessly in the air. It shrieked, lips curling back in a blackened snarl, its long, pointed nose wrinkling with desperation. With a contemptuous thrust of his arm, Vincent sent the creature tumbling across the cement. It went rolling rather comically, yelping, before scrambling back to its feet.

“Reject!” The attendant batted dust off himself before resuming his shrill accusations. “Reject! Reject!” A stained claw pointed at Vincent. “He didn’t want you the first time!”

Vincent hadn’t moved from where he tossed the attendant, content to watch the outburst but that last accusation piqued his curiosity and he started towards this peculiar man. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The attendant let out a screech as short as him and hustled to the gas station’s door. He slipped inside before Vincent could catch him. Blind slats flipped close when Vincent made it to the door. He rattled it by the handle, riling up the thing hiding inside. A little sign in the window turned over: ‘Sorry, we’re closed’. Then the window blinds lowered, closing hastily one by one. Vincent crossed his arms, eyes following where he could hear the stout attendant waddling to and fro. Shuffles eventually paused at the door. White slats parted and two large black loops peered from the safe dark. “Even the devil don’t want you.”

The whisper came like a nightstalker hissing in Vincent’s ears and not like a voice that should have been muted behind the glass panels of a chrome finished door. He scowled at the creature before slamming his steal toe in the door. Rattling glass and blinds sang along to the attendant’s yelp. It disappeared from the door, probably slithering further into the sanctity of the darkness inside while Vincent sauntered back to his motorcycle.

Sierra watched him approach, her eyes wide and curious instead of the usual fretful look. “What was that about?”

Vincent chuckled it off. “Like that show? I’ll take you to Freeside and you get a front row seat to that kind of crazy any day of the week.”

The gas pump chimed like a winning slot machine. Number cards flipped rapidly and didn’t stop as the nozzle gushed out a pungent, rot colored liquid. Vincent quickly shoved it into his bike and once that filled up, Sierra handed off the gas canister to fill next. The cheery bells and clicking numbers halted once the can was full.

“Ain’t that some kind of luck?” Vincent laughed, hanging up the nozzle. “Think we could find a mechanic—”

The sense he was about to have a winning streak was dragged down by his stomach as he looked at what had appeared across the highway. Sierra reluctantly looked too, blinking at the humble mechanic’s one bay garage and the variety of stacked tires dancing in place.

He cautiously crossed the highway, squinting suspiciously at the garage should anything like that attendant emerge from the shade. There was definitely someone inside among the clutter of toolboxes and odd items that gathered in such a place. They rolled out from under the car and Vincent immediately stopped. The figure sat up and slowly came to his feet. He was a giant of a man, his skin as gray and hard as stone. Long black hair leaked over his face like poured oil and stained his worn jumpsuit in black smears. Thick hands wiped themselves on a well used rag and he asked, “need her fixed?” Despite his imposing appearance the mechanic’s voice was soft and gentle.

“I do,” Vincent replied from the highway’s threshold.

“Looks like mist exposure,” the mechanic noted, finally coming out of the shade and into the sun. Vincent reluctantly met him half-way. He wasn’t armed, but size was nature’s weapon. “It won’t take too long to fix up.”

“Good to know. What am I looking at cost-wise, though?” Vincent didn’t break his gaze off the stranger. The mechanic swiped slick hair from his face, revealing his shy eyes that refrained from looking too long at Vincent’s. “Memories like the guy across the street?”

“No, no,” he shook his head. “I prefer simple favors.”

“And what would that be?”

The mechanic shrugged. He wiped his hands on his jumpsuit as his habit required. One then reached inside and produced a white envelope. “Could you deliver a letter for me? I’ll let you borrow that bike over there. Not as pretty as yours but she’s loyal, and’ll show you the way.”

The machine in question peeked out from under the frayed holes of a ratty tarp, like certain memories of another life that rarely surfaced to his conscious mind. Steel didn’t shine. The tread was worn out. It coughed like a smoker hacking up tar from the lungs. The engine rattled like an ancient fossil, but it got them to their destination, and had he one of these as a courier, maybe he could have avoided headbutting a bullet. And then, maybe, he wouldn’t be here.

Vincent squinted harshly behind dark lenses. The pale blue exterior blinded onlookers, even the ones with a singular tiny pupil resistant to bright lights. It had two storefronts sharing a dusty concrete slab and the salmon-pink poles holding the roof overhead. He rolled the bike in the veranda’s shade, passing a boarded-up door and the matching window job until their reflection was framed in the standard glass of, what was highly likely, a post office.

The bell above the door jangled discordantly as Vincent stepped inside. Frigid air raised little bumps on his arms, or so he was certain it was the sudden chill. The post-office was empty, warmly lit by the desert sands’ reflection despite the coldness he couldn’t ignore. Locked boxes claimed just about every inch of the walls. Each little cut-out bore a unique number, growing in size as Vincent turned his head up to the ceiling where they twisted upward into a dizzying, infinite tower of fractals and every possible number beyond what the little building could contain. He fumbled backwards. Hands groped for anything to regain balance, but he instead thumped the window behind him, and the one in his head as well. Vincent blinked at Sierra on the other side.

 The girl was equally confused but had the sense to ask, “are you ok?”

Vincent nodded, playing off the gaff as he went straight to the square counter embedded in the wall. It had its own window cut into it, albeit so minuscule enough to conceal whatever was on the other side. Next to it was a peculiar little easel, holding up finished canvases of postcards in grainy, faded colors.

“I wish I wasn’t here.” Elegant whirls arced above the image, which, upon closer inspection, was strangely familiar. It was here. The same highway out front. The same building, desert, cloudless sky, and relentless noon sun baking the scorching gold sand and all in its gaze. However, he squinted suspiciously at the blot on the porch shade. How odd it looked liked a motorcycle—

Vincent spun around. Sierra jumped seconds later and they were back to sharing strange looks. He slid the envelope into the slot without looking back. The great beyond groaned like an earthquake, but Vincent was focused on the encroaching highway patrol officer veering off the highway. The dry heat sucked the chill out of him with a jingle. In seconds he was burning up in short tides.

“This is a no parking zone,” the officer stated flatly while his leather gloved hand dramatically flicked a pen across his notepad. Vincent’s brows furrowed, unable to find relevance in the statement. The officer looked up at the rude silence. Vincent’s cross expression squinted back at him in the dark lenses obscuring whatever the man hid beneath. With a swift motion, he tore the ticket from his book and snapped it shut. The paper fluttered as he placed it on Vincent's borrowed seat. “And you’re still here…”

In a split second, Vincent’s squint turned from crossed with a dash of confusion to arrogance. He swiped the paper off the borrowed bike. It was an unfortunate character flaw he was painfully aware of, yet had a hard time turning down. Some actions didn’t need a further quip or statement to get the point across and so they merely stared at each other. A battle of ego in the reflection of sunglass lenses quietly sized up with glances to the other’s hips often resulted in the death of one man.

“I see you here again,” the officer warned, “the third strike won't be so lenient.”

If this were a game on green felt, the highway patrol officer would be bankrupt. As the officer turned towards his bike, Vincent's voice cut through the oppressive silence. “You wanna elaborate on that, buddy?”

The officer swung a leg over his motorcycle and settled down. He locked the white dome to his head, never breaking his aviator’s glassy stare on Vincent. “You can only rack up so much debt before someone collects on it.”

The bike roared to life, drowning out any potential reply from the stone-faced facade in the veranda shade. Vincent’s gums hurt letting his jaw relax. His heart rate slowed watching the black and white bike disappear down the highway with only a cloud of dust following. His hand gripped cold steel to convince him he was in control the whole time and thereafter. That never changed. Didn’t matter how confident he got, there was still the jitters. The intrusive thoughts of everything that could have gone wrong. He only got good appearances, despite what he told himself.

He felt more comfortable on his own bike. Felt comfortable with its familiar weight from the shotgun, rifle, ammunition, and all the supplies weighing it down. The engine’s vibrations were the right frequency. A frequency that felt like the swinging jive of radio New Vegas and thus felt like home. The sun retreated, smearing its hues across a blue sky like the earthy mesquite flavored the colors of a Mojave sunset. Except this still wasn’t home. It was a far cry. An imitation. A cheap imitation looking to make a quick buck in the parts of Vegas that weren’t Vegas. At least his steed was still noble and loyal, cured of whatever bad touch had tainted it last night, seemingly by magic, even though he wasn't wholly convinced of something that seemed too good to be true.

But, they made it to the diner without any issue.

It was as empty as the night prior. Ruby and an unseen chef ran the haunt. Despite the emptiness, Ruby tended to the counter with a rag and spray bottle. Utensils clacked against stovetops beyond the kitchen window. She lit a cigarette then replaced the one that was always pinned behind an ear and curly perm.

Vincent let Sierra off his back at the counter. She adjusted her position with a few winces. It was about time for another injection. The last one. Vincent unclenched his grinding teeth to tell her, “you ought to be hungry again.”

The waitress plucked her pocketbook from the stained striped apron before Sierra even glanced at the menu. Pinched fingers raised the semi-polished faux leather at its least sticky parts. She hummed thoughtfully then picked something Vincent never heard of before but was too tired to interrogate her about it.

Ruby's pencil hovered over the pad. “And for you, hon?”

“Nothing for me.”

Clapping pans orchestrated by an unseen cook in a grimy kitchen pounded the back of his head. Vincent rubbed his temples and hoped the budding headache at the base of his skull wouldn’t get stronger. Tired eyes swept over the smudged chrome counter-top to the squeaking clawing in his right ear. Dainty fingers gripped the counter to turn her side-to-side. Her legs dangled from the worn red vinyl seat, lifeless yet still colored by the blood in her veins. Bony knees couldn’t even crawl away if her life depended on it. Scabs and scrapes on her elbows attested to that. He promised to get her to safety. Escape this hellhole that undermined him at every turn. He had yet to break a promise, but his confidence was slowly chipping away like the peeling wallpaper and curling linoleum floors. A weakness revealed what he could only cover up.

Ruby slapped a shot glass on the counter, smacking him out of his brooding without ever laying a hand on him. “Looks like you could use this.” A second glass joined the first. The whiskey bottle kissed both glasses, pouring out a long gulp for each of them. Ruby and Vincent took their respective glass and knocked them back.

“What’s the deal with the gas station?” Vincent asked, fighting a numb tongue.

Ruby poured another round of shots. “Meet that little creep?” A chuckle snuck in Ruby’s buzzy voice. Something about the woman, rough around the edges, and reeking of cigarettes seemed like the only genuine and honest thing encountered in these lands. They swallowed their medicine.

Sierra eyed the two as she shoveled some disgustingly sweet and colorful amalgamation into her mouth. Vincent rested his chin on his knuckles. “Something, something ‘pay with a piece of yourself’…”

Ruby nodded. She sighed and gave into the craving for the cigarette hiding in her perm. “Everything has a price. Sometimes it's pieces of ourselves we give up to have whatever it is we want.”

Vincent looked at the residue tinting the glass a swarthy brown on the bottom. He could tip the glass upside down, try to get it to pour out, but it would linger. A permanent stain like all those pieces of himself he had given up for have what he wanted. “What is it you can’t let go of?”

A chuckle interrupted her smokey puffs. “I wish I could remember.”

The door jingled.

Vincent’s sixth sense forced a hand to his holster as he slid off the stool, turning to face the door. The highway patrol officer strolled in followed by two more that were dressed exactly like him, aviators and all, despite the inky abyss outside. The trio mechanically turned on overly-polished heels to face their target. Vincent mused the formation was practice and meant to intimidate but he was far too stubborn for that.

“Failure to abide by the law has consequences,” the lead spoke, and as he did, another jingle rang out from the far end of the diner.

The Caballera led her harem of Vaqueros across the empty diner. Confident steps clicked on linoleum, catching on inconsequential sticky patches. The Vaqueros claimed their ground for the inevitable standoff. Cigarette smoke fogged the air. Vincent's fingers twitched near his holster, his glare split between the highway patrol officers and the Vaqueros.

“Well isn’t this interesting…” The Caballera’s witchy eyes settled their glare on the officers. Maroon lips pursed, annoyed to have to be the one to break the uneasy silence. “I only want the girl.”

“The girl is unimportant,” the officer responded.

If he ground his teeth anymore, Vincent was certain he’d chip a tooth. He shifted his weight, angling his body to shield Sierra from both parties. There was a mutual agreement shared in the seconds before the officer and the Caballera set their sights on their respective prizes.

The lead officer took a step towards the counter. Polished boots squeaked against the grimy linoleum. “You are under arrest.”

 “Come, nina,” the Caballera sauntered closer, her hips swaying with each step.

Vincent whipped out the 9mm and .45 revolver. “I’m not going anywhere.” The officer and Caballera halted in their path. Vincent's mind was racing, clouded by the desperation creeping up from his peripherals. The weight of his promise to protect Sierra bore down on him. Suffocating like the smoke around him. “Think the fucking law would have something to say about a raider abducting a child.”

“I don’t enforce laws. I enforce consequences.”

The Caballera laughed. Air became as thick as water. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and quickly running out of options. She took another step forward, close enough now that Vincent could smell the oil and leather clinging to sweaty skin. “I have a proposition. Give me the girl, and you can sort out your... misunderstandings with these… gentlemen.”

“Sorry, hon," Ruby whispered. Her graveled voice cracked when the long column of ash on her wasted cigarette drifted to the counter. "This isn't one you're gonna win.”

A small hand gripped the end of Vincent’s shirt and his heavy soul fell through the floor. No securitrons were coming to the rescue this time. His arms felt lighter than air lowering iron sights. His body was weightless as he turned to face Sierra.

“No…” She whimpered, her voice small and broken. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over onto pale cheeks. “No. No. No.” Each repetition grew more frantic than the last.

Vincent swallowed, but his mouth had dried out. He pulled her into a fierce embrace, muffling the girl’s piercing screams. Her small body shook with the force of her sobs. Each wail was a dagger twisting in Vincent's gut. He squeezed her tighter, knowing the longer this went the harder it would be to give her up.

“Don't let her take me,” Sierra pleaded, her strained voice cracking to a whisper. The words rang in Vincent's head like a tolling bell, drowning out the desperate words repeating over and over again, chipping away at a heart he'd thought long since turned to stone.

Vincent pried her arms off his waist. In those agonizing moments that stretched like an eternity, his fingers fumbled with the fraying twine bracelet on his wrist. Trembling hands secured it around Sierra's slender wrist. He came to her level to whisper in her ear, “I’ll find you.”

“Time’s up—Vamanos, chica.” The Vaqueros closed in on Vincent and Sierra. She was snatched off the stool with ease, squeezing Vincent’s hand until their bond was forcibly broken. His ears were left buzzing with the girl’s absence. “Why you even want her anyway?” The Cabellera swiped oil-slick hair over her shoulder. A smirk tugged a corner of her lips. “A grown man hanging around a little girl—”

Vincent spat out all the saliva he could muster up. A Vaquero rushed him faster than the hunk of spit sliding down the Caballera’s cheek, but an officer’s guns put him on hold.

“You got what you came for.”

The Caballera’s grimace put creases in her carefully painted face. They left, begrudgingly shooed off, but Vaqueros were prideful. No offense no matter how small or unintentional went un-corrected, especially not one against a Caballera. But she had something much, much worse coming.

“Put your hands on your head and face the counter,” the officer ordered.

Vincent complied, raising his hands slowly as the officer approached. He watched the man’s reflection smear across chrome. Keen ears listened for the right moment. And when he was close enough, Vincent cocked his elbow back with full force. He clamped his arms around the man’s neck as the other two sprang into motion. His captive shielded him from the duo dancing around, probing for an opening. They hesitated, then charged.

Vincent shoved his hostage into his approaching comrades. The collision bought him seconds but not enough to unholster a gun again. Rough hands shoved his back against the counter. The officers dug their claws in his shoulders. Every muscle in Vincent’s body tensed. He growled like a feral beast using all its strength to break free. Legs kicked out wildly, connecting with a shin. Then a gut. A face—He momentarily broke free.

An officer wailed out, loosening his grip on Vincent. Ruby swung a heavy cast iron skillet, cracking a helmet like bone. Vincent took the opportunity and slammed his freed fist in another’s face. The lead came back up, clutching Vincent by an ankle and struggling to capture the other boot flying around his head.

 “Get out of my diner!” The skillet clapped the countertop. Ruby swung again at the officer reaching over for her. 

Vincent’s legs wrestled the lead officer. Fists pounded Vincent’s shins to the beat of desperate gasps. Three successive punches dazed the one still holding Vincent down but the vice grip refused to give up. The skillet went skidding across linoleum like a stone on a lake. The third officer finally overpowered the old waitress. Vincent looked to gauge the development, meeting the glossy sheen of leather-bound knuckles.