The plump, well-dressed Mexican pushed the shotgun deeper into Bad Mother's ribs. "Dammit, you keep your arms up there or I'll blow you in half!"

"This tux is totally rented, dammit. I don't own a tux. Do I look like the kind of guy who owns a tux?" With his hands in the air, pointed almost casually at a crooked angle away from him, the twin 45s holstered under his jacket were plainly visible. The Mexican's burly sons began disarming the Bad Mother.

"You're going to do right by my daughter, you damn dog!"

"Your daughter?" Bad spun around to see a pretty, coffee-skinned girl, an infant swaddled in her arms.

"No way! I only bagged your daughter two weeks ago, man!"

"Your son," she chirped sweetly, extending the curly-haired, dark-skinned baby towards Bad.

"NO WAY! That kid's black!"

"Get up there, you damn dog," The old man pushed, and Bad pushed back. With a casual sweep of his leg, Bad Mother doubled over, spun around, and launched a mighty kick to the Mexican's gun hand. The sound of the bones breaking against the tender meat of his fat mitt was like fat popping on the griddle.

The BadAss Mobile roared from behind the wedding cake, just as Bad Mother ripped the shotgun from the old man, putting a hole in the eldest son with his armed hand, ripping the nose off the other with his free hand. Superbad spun out in front of the champagne fountain.

"Dammit man, how does someone get tricked into wearing a tuxedo to his own shotgun wedding?" Superbad leaned out from the driver's side window. He was firing wildly into the crowd.

Bad Mother retrieved his 45s from the screaming, useless sacks of flesh that were once the old man's sons. "I got an invitation, all engraved." He popped the pastor through the right kneecap. The screaming threatened to deafen their conversation. "You gotta dress up for a wedding - it's just polite."

Superbad cursed and spun the wheels of the BadAss Mobile as Bad Mother dove through the back window, firing behind him as he leapt. "You ask me," Superbad advised while peeling out through the topiary garden, "You just got burned."

"Aw shit," Bad Mother slapped his forehead with the flatside of his weapon, "Speaking of burned, we gotta get our asses to Chicago, pronto."

"What are you on about? Dammit, and don't you start taking that gaddam tux off here in my car! I don't wanna see your naked hairy bare legs and shit!"

His shirt over one arm, Bad Mother swung his 45 to Superbad's temple. "Shut up, drive, and hand me a full bottle, gaddamit."

***

Outside the Eastside warehouse, the big men in dark blue suits stared disdainfully at the 'Bads. "Ms.Bitch doesn't ever see anyone after nightfall. You two cheap punks can come back in the morning. Maybe."

Bad Mother stepped up "By morning, we'll already have done your girlfriends and robbed your gaddam apartments and be on our way out of this Midwestern hellhole to some REAL damn city what doesn't close up at ten, ain't been built on the bodies of dead wop gangsters and doesn't burn their pizza. Winsome Bitch asked to see us, and we came far damn out of our way to get here! You know how far it is from your momma's cathouse?! Damn! And I had five whole dollars to spend, too!"

The big men reached inside their jackets.

"That's it, Superbad! Give me two dollars!"

"Hell if I got two dollars. All I got is eighty-seven cents in change and a hundred dollar bill. What do you want two dollars for?"

"I'll take a dollar each to kill these goons. Gimme two dollars."

Guns flashed in the early evening darkness, streetlights reflected like comets from the polished steel and silver of drawn weapons.

A voice came over the intercom.

"If that's the Bad Mother and Superbad, you send them right in."

The men in blue suits paused, reluctantly holstered their weapons. As they pulled the doors of the warehouse aside for the duo, Bad Mother whispered through a tight grin "Damn right. I'll get my two dollars yet."

***

"It's about time," she said, "I was beginning to think I got burned."

"Damn, you did get burned." Superbad lit an ebony black cigarino. "We forgot all about this. We just got back from Tijuana and I was spinning our wheels for Santa Monica when Bad Mother remembered he left his ugly-ass Hawaiian shirt here last time we was over."

"That's right, give me my shirt, dammit. Or give me two dollars."

Winsome Bitch moved her pale, white, silk-sleeved arm in a motion like a striking snake. Seemingly from nowhere, her bamboo cigarette holder vanished and a primed Walther fit into her small palm. "How about you give me the package, and then we'll see about the shirt."

"And my two dollars."

Superbad swung a footlocker from behind him, scraping loudly on the concrete floor. Casually, he pulled his glock and shot the lock from it, kicking open the lid. Inside, the locker was trimmed with copper foil.

Winsome Bitch descended the stairs like a feather falling, and peered into the box. "Headnet implant hardware, core gene samples in a bio-stationary solution, six strands of alien DNA in a stasis-frame posit-field" she held the abacus like device aloft "You got pizza sauce on this."

"That was damn good pizza." Superbad offered.

Bad Mother shook his head. "They burned it, dammit"

The Bitch continued to sort "Plasma-field nano-conductors, la-technical amphib solution, seventy-thousand dollars in unmarked bills and a dozen kilos of pure heroin." She dabbed a finger into the white powder, pressing only a few grains to the tip of her black patent leather glove. She tasted it, and winced slightly.

"Excellent. It's pure." she slowly turned back around. "Good job Bad Mother, Superbad. Feel free to shoot somebody on the way out."

They straightened their lapels. "Damn, Superbad," Bad Mother whispered through a tight grin, "Give me a dollar."