Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Talent had always come easy for James— well, when it didn't have to do with writing, drawing, or anything frou-frou. He could sing half-decent and his noggin sure could hold a lotta information. Question is, why didn't he use that old thing? James (his friends called him Jimmy) was dirt poor without a dollar to his name. All his money went to his rent and making all sorts of knick-knacks and doo-dads that did something or other— the kind of stuff with blinky lights and cool names that probably ended in “inator.” He had a fascination for science and a passion that burned like pure potassium when it made an acquaintance with water.

His folks, Hubert and Judith, were your stereotypical middle class suburbanite family. Hugh was an automobile salesman at Mallard Motors and Judy was a housewife. They had one son, a dog, and a prize-winning lawn.

Poor guy had just graduated his first year of college and was absolutely broke. Not that he really needed to do the work— that boy was smart. Don't imagine straight A’s, this guy was a genius. Jimmy’s parents had sent him in for academic testing, and sure enough, he had about the same smarts as Einstein, even from a young age. In an effort to make some extra cash, James decided to look around town for jobs. 

The year 1965 quickly rolled around, and as soon as he knew it, the fella had earned himself a spot on stage at the hottest nightclub/restaurant in Retroville— the Candy Bar. Sam Melvick, the bar’s owner, was looking to scrounge up a couple of alley cats to help around his humble establishment. Why a savvy businessman from the Bronx would move all the way to a small town in Texas like Retroville, nobody would ever know. Sam settled down in town in 1955, so his bar had been going strong for about a decade or so— not to mention, 1955 was a booming year for the Bronx! Seriously, who does that? Anyway, the man had a short fuse and a big attitude, but he paid well. He was stubby, short, bespectacled, wore a gray goatee, and had a gray receded hairline. His fashion sense was fabulous and he always wore the latest threads. It was also the norm for Sam to finish a sentence with “Yeah!”

Some nights, Jimmy would act as the busboy and clean all the dishes by hand; on others, he got handed a microphone, shoved up on stage, and busted out a tune for lovers to sway to. A hit that always resonated with the crowd was a personal favorite of his— “Unforgettable.” All the ladies in the crowd watched with goo-goo eyes as he sang. His voice had a smooth tessitura and James was classified as a tenor— at least by Miss Fowl, one of Retroville’s only music teachers besides Mr. Willoughby (the owner of the Willoughby Institute of Sound and Theater Arts). Word on the street said she wasn't the most qualified for that line of work, though…

Jim was easy on the eyes. For starters, he was quite a looker. Blue eyes just like Frank Sinatra, chocolate brown hair, a nice build... He wore his hair in a pompadour and usually wore a tuxedo while he was on stage, finishing off the night with a moonlight serenade. He always got a big round of applause for each song that he performed.

There were two other lounge singers at the bar: Liberty Folfax and Cynthia Vortex. The duo had known each other a few years. 

Liberty— she insisted that everyone call her Libby— was a pretty African American woman with a voice as sweet as sugar. Anyone could have told you that she could be the next Ella Fitzgerald. Her hair was jet black and steam pressed— it looked gorgeous on her. She usually swept up into a fancy updo with hair nets or diamond barrettes. Libby’s outfits were glitzy and glamorous, and she was the belle of the ball each time she graced the bar with her presence. The crowd went wild for her. Now, Retroville had never really been that bad of a town— especially for the South. Retroville was in the middle of nowhere, so it didn't get much traction besides anyone trying to lay low— it was home to all walks of life. Nobody cared what you looked like in Retroville. It was one of the few places that Libby could do what she loved (singing) without any trouble with others who couldn't appreciate good content for what it was. Since she was born and raised in Georgia, she often dealt with the latter. Libby was sassy, smart, sophisticated, and smokin’.

Cynthia— only a few people were allowed to call her Cindy— was a feisty Caucasian fly who had green eyes and a mane of voluminous blonde hair. She was the one you had to be careful with; she could shoot venom right at you like a snake. Her hair was almost always pulled back, but every now and then, she would style it with big, poofy pin-up curls and root volume— each time this happened, James would sneak a few extra glances. She was a sight for sore eyes. Cynthia wore makeup that made her emerald green eyes stick out like a sore thumb and her lips were almost always a bloody red color. She'd been in the Willoughby Institute of Sound and Theater Arts choir for as long as she could remember. Her mother, Sasha Vortex, was the resident shrew of Retroville. Everyone knew her; nobody liked her. Cynthia didn't take a liking to James— she was very competitive and thought she might lose her job to a fool like him. What she didn't anticipate was that James would respond with the very same ardor, which really ruffled her feathers. Another thing that got under her skin was when James would call her by her exclusive nickname with a big smirk on his face— it made her blood boil. She wished she could wipe it off like a clothes iron does wrinkles. Cindy also had a habit of addressing people by their last names; James, in particular. She'd go out of her way just to insult him on a daily basis. Often, she'd scowl at him from inside the wings of the curtain just hoping he'd glance at her.

He never did.

There were two individuals who stuck out that worked at the bar as well. One of them was a crazy, dim-witted second-generation Mexican American named Sheen Estévez, who was the bartender. He was gangly, tall, and a bit of a chatterbox. Sheen was a fun guy to talk to and he could keep you in a good mood for as long as you needed. Sheen was a people person through and through. He made fast friends with Jimmy and the two hung out in the break room when Sam would take over the bar to try and coax a few extra coins out of the exhausted wallets of his patrons. His mother unfortunately passed away when he was a little boy and he was raised by his grandmother and father. For a chucklehead like Sheen, it was surprising to hear about any of his personal information. You'd never think a guy like him would have had such a hard childhood. Sheen wasn't much of a dreamboat, but he could make a drink and tell a joke or two. He never had ladies chasing after him, but that was just okay with him. Besides— he had a little fancy towards Miss Libby anyway.

The other employee was Carl Wheezer. He was slightly overweight, wore big, round glasses, suspenders, and was the bathroom attendant in the men's restroom. He was allergic to nearly everything and he was a bit of a coward. Carl had red hair, beady eyes, and a pudgy face. He was the kind of friend who would support you on anything and would generally just go with the flow. He called James “Jim” on a regular basis and formed a very close bond with Sheen and James while in the break room together. He was neurotic and a bit of a clueless dolt, but Carl grew on you. He also had an obsession with llamas, but that was because he'd gone to Peru a few years ago. Rumor had it that he was still high on the feel of llama wool. Another fun fact about Carl was that he couldn't keep a secret for the life of him— Jimmy found that out the hard way. Never let Carl in on the situation unless you wanted word to get out.

It was about seven o’clock on a Saturday night. The Candy Bar was the busiest on Friday and Saturday nights. Jimmy was scheduled to sing most of the night, and he was in the break room, looking at himself in the mirror. He was preening himself and making sure he looked decent for his performance when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Cindy, who came to tell him that she was praying upon his downfall. She did this nearly every time it was his night to host the music section of the bar.

“Yes, Cindy?” James asked with a smirk, not looking away from his reflection.

Her face seared with anger. “I thought I told you not to call me that, Neutron,” Cynthia spat with a glare, crossing her arms. Her forest green sequin-adorned dress glimmered in the low light of the break room.

“Come to tell me that you wish I had an aneurysm again?” he chuckled, combing his hair rhythmically and repetitively to get the chocolate brown swirl just right. “Hate to break it to ya, but I think I've heard that line before.”

“No, but why would you think that?” she sarcastically asked. As much as she didn't like to address it, he knew each of her tactics and could one-up them with ease. Cindy had overused that insult a few times too many.

“Just a hunch, Vortex,” James casually replied, tying his black bow tie. A sly smirk was plastered on his face. “Now tell me, why were you here again? I have to get on stage in a few.”

“I just swung by to tell you that I hope every audience member remembered their ibuprofen tonight— they're gonna need it,” Cindy responded with a fake grin that effortlessly turned into a nasty scowl. For weeks, she'd been hoping that he'd choke on a piece of steak or something and croak. “You’re never gonna go anywhere with a voice like that, you know.”

James shot her a glare. “Jeez, it's no wonder you're never on the list— you sound like you've been possessed with words as nasty as the Devil himself. Few people respect that nowadays, Cynthia.” He tsked at her and shook his head, feigning disappointment.

Cindy huffed, putting a hand on her hip. She was so angry that she could fry an egg on her forehead. She took a step towards him, glowering at that imbecile. Everyone knew who Sasha Vortex was, and it was clear that Cynthia really took after her mother. “Excuse me? Please, I can get work without any ifs, ands, or buts, thank you very much.”

“Apparently not,” he shrugged as he continued to comb his hair. He was made in the shade when it came down to Cynthia's poor excuses for an insult.

Within a quarter of a beat, Cindy stepped closer, snatched the black plastic comb from his hands, and snapped it in half with a loud crack. While batting an eyelash or two, she handed the comb, now in two, back to him.

Jimmy stared at it and, without a moment’s hesitation, threw the broken comb back at Cindy. He turned to face her and crossed his arms furiously. “What was that for?”

“Because you deserved it,” Cindy told him, rolling her eyes with an irritated look in her eyes. She was acting childish, but she didn't care.

“Oh, for the love of—” Jimmy facepalmed and scoffed. “Really? You're that petty? Going to the extent of breaking people’s personal belongings just to spite them because you're jealous? That's low, even for you.”

“Blow-hard!” she shot back, stomping a foot. 

“Witch!”

“Mmm, I bet that feeds your ego real nice. Go drink some warm milk and go back home to your mother's chest hair, why don't ya?”

“Termagant!” he insulted, his brows knotted together like macrame.

“Take that back, Neutron,” she growled, staring daggers at him. She nearly crushed his foot when she dug the stiletto of her heels into the leather of his shoe. She drew the line at termagant, but not witch? But then again, knowing Cindy, she was probably starting to like being called a witch. After all, the shrew did wear a lot of green.

“Don't have a cow, Vortex,” Jimmy grumbled, rolling his eyes.

Sam butted in. “James! Quit ya bickering with Cynthia and get on stage!” he shouted. “Don’t make me drag you out there by your ears, yeah!” Sam added, shaking a fist.

In an instant, their loud detestation of each other had ceased. Their silence was filled with angry tension. Cindy was jealous of him, and he was angry at her incessant pestering. If they were gonna be rivals, so be it— he didn't care one bit. Jimmy straightened his bowtie before walking out of the break room to the stage entrance. 

Miss Libby, who had overheard Jimmy and Cindy's loud exchange, waltzed over to check in on her friend. “Everything alright, Cindy?”

“Oh, just dandy, Libby,” she answered through gritted teeth. 

“Mmm,” Libby huffed, patting Cindy's shoulder. She was wearing lace gloves that matched her bubblegum pink satin frock. “Tell me about it.”

Cindy knew it was a rhetorical statement, but she couldn't help herself— Libby was easy to talk to. Before she knew it, Cindy was spilling her guts on how much she hated that stupid miscreant. He deserved nothing but to be stoned. She despised him with a burning passion. “James just thinks he's so smart, and he's not really all that special. He's arrogant, selfish, and obnoxious. I want to beat his teeth into his face,” rambled the blonde angrily. She popped open the half-filled bottle of vintage ‘37 Purple Flurp and poured Libby and herself a glass. Taking a sip and swirling the wine glass, she continued. “Not to mention, he can't even get a woman! I've never seen a fool with so little game.”

“Well, you ain't wrong there, honey,” Libby agreed, a small smile on her face. “That James is a complete greenhorn in the field of romance.”

Cindy snickered and rolled her eyes. Libby always had a way of making her feel better when she was having issues with people. That's what true friends were for. She took a sip of her Flurp. “Gosh, it'll be great when he finally gets enough cash to quit,” she sighed. “Then everything will be how it should be.”

“You said it,” Libby chuckled, raising a glass to toast her Flurp with Cindy. 

“To getting rid of Neutron!" Cindy cheered.

Their glasses made a small clink noise and they both took a sip. The Flurp itself was fruity, tangy, and somewhat bitter. It possessed a deep berry color. Overall, it wasn't bad, but it wasn't the best, either. A few moments passed before one of the two dunderheads made his way into the break room to have himself a little sip of the Flurp.

“Oh, hey, chicas!” This was Sheen’s attempt at being ginchy. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't working out so well. 

“Get lost, troglodyte!” Cindy barked, pointing a finger to the door.

Sheen did a 180 and was out the door within seconds, exclaiming some curse words under his breath.

The Candy Bar wasn't the most peaceful environment when it came down to workplace relationships— they really needed an HR department.

Bright white spotlight hit him like a pillowcase full of bricks— it was warm and nearly blinded him. Saxophones, violins, cellos, and piano keys filled his ears. Jimmy adjusted the height of the microphone and took a deep breath. He began to articulate the lyrics of another jazz standard that was another crowd pleaser: “I Could Write A Book.” The gaggle of people seemed to stop and stare as he began to sing into the microphone— starting out always got the best of his nerves, though. Their gaze seemed to see right through him. Young women’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when his voice hit their eardrums. Couples, young and old, pushed in their chairs and began to sway to the whimsical, lovely melody of the song. 

It always warmed Jimmy’s heart to see lovebirds dancing the night away with their soulmate as the night progressed in its usual way. That was one of the reasons why he hadn't quit his job yet. If anything, Cindy was going to be a leading factor in his hypothetical permanent leave of absence. As the ladies in the crowd gawked at him, he threw in the occasional wink when he inevitably made eye contact with one of them. 

He shouldn't have been so mean to Cindy, but that was just how they worked. The burning fury of hatred was strong in both of them. James and Cynthia were competitive down to their very last atom and craftier than a fox, which ultimately led to the downfall of what could've been a wonderful friendship. They seized each opportunity to one-up each other with all of their might. Eventually, it became far too much for either to handle, so they resorted to verbal assault to express their feelings of pure resentment for each other.

The night wore on, and Jimmy’s voice was sputtering out like a broken-down engine. It was Cindy’s turn to serenade the crowd. 

“Vocal fry, huh? Maybe that'll teach you to keep your mouth shut for once,” Cindy snickered, bumping him hard with her shoulder as he passed her. 

He ignored her, and that was the worst thing that James could do to a woman like Cynthia. Jimmy was tired, and he was about to call it a night— if it was alright with Sam. 

Sam had an office in the back room behind the bar. It was next to the kitchen. Jimmy trudged inside Sam’s office, dragging his feet. 

“Sam?”

“Yeah, what is it?” Sam barked.

“Is it alright with you if I go home early tonight?” James asked.

“Sure thing, Jimmy…” Sam shrugged. “One thing before you go— could you take the trash out to the dumpster, sport?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Thank you, Sam,” James smiled as he was on his way out the door.

“And be here early tomorrow! You're making up for that lost half hour of your shift!”

Because of course Sam was going to do that. Sam might have been a little lenient on late nights, but he did expect you to make up your shifts if they were cut short. Was it legal—? Probably not, but what was anyone going to do about it?

Jimmy took the trash out to the dumpster and walked home to his house. Tinkering around with his little gadgets was his only remedy for a night as stressful as this one.

Chapter Text

James and Cynthia were having their usual spat as they were doing vocal warmup behind the long, velvety red curtain of the small wooden stage that resided in Sam’s bar. Someone did something, and now they were both angry with each other. It wasn't so much explosive as it was lemon juice to a paper-cut. Jimmy wanted to shove a ceiling fan down her throat to shut her up, but that wasn’t anatomically possible. Cindy wanted to put radium in his Purple Flurp— it wouldn’t do damage right away, but soon enough, that fella would lose his jaw, thus making him unable to talk. She’d have the upper hand in all of their fights. At the moment, their petty squabbles consisted of what really qualified as a trained singer.

They only agreed on one thing: Miss Winifred Fowl should have gotten her music-teaching license taken away before it ruined the dreams of a starry-eyed child...

Like his anklebiter cousin, Baby Eddie. Jimmy didn't like to think about him.

It was wise not to bring up Winifred in a work setting, ‘specially with Sam around— he was having a bit of a rendezvous with the crazy old bat. Bitter souls always seemed to enjoy each other’s company when they were hating the world together, didn't they?

Cynthia and James more than loathed each other just as much as Mr. McGregor hated Peter Rabbit. They were as unlike from each other as could be (at least that's what they both claimed), and they certainly didn’t enjoy their counterpart’s presence— it was a very drastic contrast to Sam and Miss Fowl. Cynthia and James could hardly tolerate being in the same room as each other and were very vocal when it came down to their dislike of their co-worker. Frankly, Cynthia would rather be pickled and set on fire than spit lies about how she enjoyed the company of her worst enemy. Jimmy would rather be lobotomized and put in the looney bin for an indefinite amount of time than endure any more time in Cindy’s presence longer than what was required of him.

Mr. Neutron’s argument was that a few singing lessons a year at the Willoughby Institute of Sound and Theater Arts was good enough for a genius like him since he adapted to things quicker than most. Ms. Vortex’s rebuttal was that trained singers practiced a few days a week and generally had choir experience like she did. 

Oh, Mama, it was not going well…

“Does it get through to your thick skull that you should always be prepared when going on stage? Or does it hurt your fragile ego to take advice from a woman with twice your so-called experience in the vocal department?” Cindy snapped, crossing her arms. She was hopping mad and about to beat that boy silly like her papa did to her little bulldog, Humphrey, when he came home after sipping a little too much vodka at the bar when she was a little girl. Cindy’s childhood wasn't the greatest, but she wasn't much of a complainer when it came down to the cards she was dealt in the grand poker game of life. They weren't bad, but it was no Royal Flush.

“Mm, I bet those insults sure sound good in your head, Cindy. Call me when you get better wit, would ya?” James suggested, laughing humorlessly. Cynthia shot daggers at him as he called her “Cindy” again. “And there’s plenty of famous examples of singers who don’t have any classical training,” he spat, making air quotes with his fingers, “Nat King Cole, Frankie Valli, Ella Fitzgerald? Any of them ring a bell? One of ‘em’s a smash hit right now. You’d have to be living under a rock if you haven’t heard Sherry by now,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes and folding his arms across his black velour tuxedo jacket that fit his frame a little too nicely for Cynthia to say anything about without seeming like she found him attractive.

Cynthia didn't exactly think he was an unpleasant man to look at…

It was far from that…

But that wretch of a singing partner (not that she would sing a duet with him in a million years) was arrogant, selfish, conniving, impulsive, judgemental, disrespectful, and snarky! It was hell to be around Neutron.

This was the one other thing that they could agree upon: Jimmy and Cindy hated each other's guts with such vehemence like that of a race car engine— it was crispy and toasty enough to keep the fire alive between the both of them for as long as they knew each other.

“You seem to have forgotten that two of those folks you just named off have perfect pitch,” replied the witch, turning up her snobby nose at the nicely-groomed man in front of her. “The other guy just got lucky. Either way, I don’t care for that rock and roll stuff.”

“Bobby-soxer,” the young man coughed in an effort to poorly conceal his insult (on purpose, of course) in the hopes that she would hear and feel a little sting where it hurt the most. The Candy Bar was the hive, and James was the angry wasp trying to protect his queen— A.K.A, his job, science degree in progress, and bragging rights. The insult was a little dated, he supposed, but it fit all the same. Regardless, his little jab certainly did the trick. 

“This bobby-soxer can do a lot more than you can do,” Cynthia claimed. 

Jimmy rolled his eyes once again and chuckled at her self-assured prognosis of her talents and abilities. “You sure about that, Vortex?”

Vortex clenched her jaw and balled her fists.

He smirked back at her. “And does a man need classical training to become a famous vocalist?”

Cindy’s point had been proven wrong. “I thought you said this was just to fund your education,” she pointed out, putting a hand on her hip. Her attire consisted of a feminine-looking dark green silk dress with satin accents and shiny beading embroidered straight to the bodice of the frock she was wearing, a pair of neutral-colored kitten heels, and some gold jewelry that was the same shade as her silky blonde hair. The hemline of her gorgeous dress hit around her mid-shin area— tea length. It had short sleeves and she wore matching gloves with it. Anyone with eyes could see clear as day where Vortex had gotten her fashion inspiration from: Miss Libby. 

The lady wasn’t wrong; James certainly needed some extra cash to fill the wide, gaping hole through his beat-up wallet. It was a chef’s need to get a bit of bread dough to rise while proofing, wasn’t it? Jimmy was that chef and he wanted to get a big rise out of that bowl of dough. And what better than by feeding it yeast? We’ll put it simply: insults and such were the only way that James and Cynthia could ever have a conversation without beating each other’s faces into the concrete outside of Sam’s Candy Bar. 

Jimmy shrugged. “So? I’m a man of many talents.”

“Maybe you should focus on your science degree rather than trying to be the next Dean Martin, hmm?” Cynthia suggested.

“How else am I gonna get the money?”

“Oh! I have the perfect solution!” replied the blonde, giving him a quick smile before it quickly turned into an angry glower within the blink of an eye.

“And what's that?” asked the man in the tuxedo, adjusting his bowtie. 

“Stop wasting your money on junk to destroy and put back together? Or, you know, have a nest egg?”

“And what, continue to work here?”

She scoffed at him and stormed out to the break room. Cynthia had just turned the tables on herself. She wanted him to quit his job and just get out of her life for good.

Jimmy stared at the woman as she made a scene backstage. Funny— it was usually the other way around. He was perplexed. James didn’t know why he put up with it. He stood to walk out— he couldn’t deal with that tramp any longer. He wasn’t about to force himself to deal with her antics when she would inevitably come out of the break room to go for round two. Touching up his chocolate brown pompadour with a finger as he did so, Jimmy snuck out from behind the heavy velvet curtain, pushing it aside as he casually meandered to the barstools with a tired frown on his face. 

“I can't stand her,” Jimmy grumbled to Sheen. Sheen was quiet, but he poured him a shot of hard, spicy golden brown whiskey out of a shiny Bowmore bottle. The elixir was the color of brown butter and had a little bite to it. Jimmy wasn't much of a drinker, so he pushed the shot glass aside. He only drank on special occasions, and this was not by any means a special occasion. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” the Chicano shrugged, snatching the shot and downing it within a matter of seconds. Sheen gulped and wiped his mouth before he ran a hand over his dark brown ducktail hairstyle. It was hard to see anyone pull that off these days, but Sheen was known for surprises. “Hey, Jimmy, quick question.”

“Shoot it.”

“If you had to choose, would you rather be stuck on an island with a man-eating monster or Cynthia?” Sheen shrugged, wiping down the shot glass he just drank out of with a wet, stained terrycloth rag— it was probably about as aged as most of the alcohol in the joint.

Jimmy stared at him. He'd rather be torn to shreds than be stuck in an island with her. “Hard pass on the latter option, Sheen. I'd have to go with the man-eating monster— at least that thing would kill me quickly than draw out my death with her miserable presence.”

“Eh, I can't argue with that one. And, say, if I'd thrown Miss Libby into the mix, who would you have chosen..?” quoth the bartender.

“Still the man-eating monster.”

“Good… good… I'd choose that, too. Monsters are groovy. But—”

“Go back and smoke a few in your hippie bus if you want to say that,” Jimmy snickered.

The dimwit didn't get it. “What?”

At least Jimmy cut him off before he said something that would make him sound like a candyass instead of a cool head. Jimmy sat and thought over his life choices for a few moments before he saw a hefty man barreling out of the men’s restroom in the middle of a coughing fit as if he'd been poisoned with mustard gas. Wisps of gray smoke gracefully wafted out of the doorway as Carl tried to catch his breath.

“There's a man smoking in there!” cried the asthmatic, pointing to the smoke cloud that was settling up towards the ceiling. He sounded like he was about to hack up a lung. “I can't breathe... Oh, I don't feel so good...”

“Carl, are you okay?” James asked, helping the poor fool to a seat.

Taking a long puff of his inhaler, Carl nodded. “Yeah, but someone should do that somewhere else.” Carl was against smoking because it triggered coughing fits— his health was on thin ice already if he wasn't careful enough. Three cheers for allergies and medical issues! “Thanks, Jim.”

What wasn't normal about smoking in the bathroom? Sure, it wasn't the ideal place to do it, but then again, everyone did it, regardless if it was indoors, at restaurants, or anywhere else for that matter. Some people needed a little smoke with their morning coffee. Then again, ol’ Wheezer was known for making mountains out of molehills… James didn't partake in smoking— in his words, it damaged your lungs to a critical point to where you could develop cancers and potentially lose your life. Smoking was not for a smart scientist like him. In fact, Jimmy thought he ought to educate whoever was smoking in the facilities about the dangers of tobacco.

Rising from his chair, he went to confront the mysterious smoker. James pushed open the wooden door and saw a face that he didn't expect to see at the Candy Bar— maybe in a newspaper, but never in person.

Leaning on an expensive mahogany cane stood Nicholas Dean, best known for his songwriting and his notorious reputation with women. The cane was composed of a shiny red mahogany staff and what looked like a solid gold handle. It reflected his social status as one of the wealthiest men in upstate Texas. His shiny black hair appeared to be a professionally styled contour. He wore a black three-piece suit and priceless gold, and silver rings set with precious stones decorated his fingers. His onyx eyes were sparkling with something that Jimmy couldn't quite name. A gold watch that complimented his olive skin tone was fastened to his right wrist just above his cufflinks. His right hand gripped the cane for balance. His left hand held the butt of the cigarette that he was smoking. The man was second generation Brazilian. Much like any famous songwriter, Dean was just a pen name— his real last name was kept so securely under wraps that not even the best burglar could uncover it. Anybody who had ears had no doubt heard his musical work. The man was handsome and could write a few ditties. He had a slight limp in his left leg from being caught in a car accident and tackling a bit of knee damage, even after patella replacement surgery.

“Nicholas Dean?” James exclaimed, his jaw dropping to the floor.

Dean was the type who loved the paparazzi, so he went out of his way to get recognized in public. “The one and only,” said the egotistical Brazilian. He held out a hand to shake, tossing the butt of his cigarette on the ground and squashing it with the soles of his expensive saddle shoes. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. And call me Nick,” the man added.

Jimmy shook his hand. His grip was firm— it was clear that Nicho— Nick had shaken his fair share of hands in his life. He was a celebrity, after all. “So, Nick, what brings you to town?” 

“Walk with me, fella,” Nick said, gesturing to the door. James followed and held the door out for Mr. Dean. He sat down at the bar alongside Carl, who was still recovering from a particularly violent asthma attack. Jimmy sat down next to Nick on one of the red leather barstools. “Say, what's your name, buddy?”

“James Neutron.”

Well, he seemed nice enough… Maybe it would put Retroville on the map...

“Well, Jamesy, I was lookin’ to write a song about a small town and this one popped up on my register. I saw the sign on the highway and figured it’d be worth checking out. It is worth checking out, right?”

“Well, Retroville is nothing special whatsoever,” Sheen muttered while wiping down another glass. Jimmy shot him a glare.

Nick rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I needed a drink.”

“Pick your poison,” muttered James.

Cynthia poked her head out of the break room along with Libby. Libby raised a brow at her friend and gave her a questionable glance. Cindy paid no attention to Miss Libby— she was staring at the rich man who'd just entered their turf.

“You better put those big eyes of yours back in your head before they fall onto the ground, Cindy,” Libby uttered just loud enough for her to hear.

Cindy gave her the stink eye and rolled her eyes before heading out to greet the strangely familiar looking lad at the bar.

“Oh, and who's this little lady?” Nick said with an overbearingly flirty look on his face. 

James was disgusted. “That's Cynthia Vortex,” the scientist spat.

“Oh, that's a gorgeous name for a gorgeous woman, Cynth—”

“Just Cindy is fine, thank you,” she blurted, batting her long eyelashes at Nick. Few people were allowed to call her Cindy— excluding Jimmy because he did it anyway. She had a smug air around her that was just as toxic as sulfur dioxide. Cindy’s gaze flickered to Jimmy and she gave him a smug micro-expression that said “Read it and weep, buster.” Jimmy scowled back at her. It was just like her to turn on the glitter as soon as a wealthy man walked into the bar.

“That's a beautiful name, Cindy. Tell me, is this town worth exploring?” 

The words looked innocent on paper, but the way Nick was saying them made Jimmy want to go deaf out of pure repugnance. He didn't care much for Cindy, but she didn't need to get involved in a sketchy celebrity trying to get in her drawers or vice versa. Nick didn't need to get involved with a woman who was probably just after his money, either. James was in no hurry to stop her from making that decision; she was her own woman and she could handle things responsibly. Besides, she'd assume he was jealous or something.

Feh!

Jealous?

He scoffed at the word— he wouldn't be in a relationship with Cindy, not even for a million bucks and a collection of hot rods from the last ten years. Why would he be jealous of Nick? Frankly, he wouldn't subject Nick to such torture, but to each their own. Different people were into odd things.

He wasn't about to stand around and be the third wheel, so he went to the kitchen to go clean the dirty dishes— Bolbi was gone for the week on a visit to Backhairistan and Jimmy was fine with filling in where he was needed.

“So, what sort of music does a lovely lady like you listen to, Cindy?” Nick asked the shrew. “You dig jazz? Pop? Heads up, I can sing both~”

“You’re in a jazz bar, Nick. You're so funny,” she laughed, forcing a chuckle out of her throat. Cynthia was trying hard. “Come on, let's go outside to continue this discussion. People seem to be eavesdropping.” She glowered at Sheen. Helping Nick to his feet, she took his arm and practically dragged him outside. 

“I feel sick…” Carl muttered, holding his stomach. 

“Me too, but not for those reasons,” Sheen replied, revolting at what he just endured watching at his bar. 

“I'm gonna go sign out early if that's okay with Sam… Bye, Sheen,” Carl groaned. “I think my allergies are flaring up…”

Sheen was alone at the bar, at least until Miss Libby made her grand entrance from the break room. She was pretty, sassy, and made the young bartender weak in the knees.

Lights. The colors that the Candy Bar stage offered were pink, blue, red, orange, or warm white. No in-betweens. Libby looked radiant in each color, thankfully. Her personal favorite was the orange or warm white tinted lighting. Warmer tones gave a lovely, comfortable, and cozy feel to the bar. It was Miss Libby's turn to sing and dance her heart out that night. 

Ah, they said the neon lights were bright on Broadway… 

The current time was around 5:30, so it would be a while before the bar really started to fill up. Lounge singing started at 6:30 when the bar’s happy hour began.

Miss Libby preferred to sing upbeat, fun, jazzy tunes that could knock your socks off with a single measure— I.E, Mack the Knife, I’ve Got Five Dollars, Call Me, Route 66, etcetera. Each song was definitely worth a jazz square or a little peppy waltz with a handsome alley cat. She always knew how to show the crowd a good time, and it was a shame that she didn't have as much of a career as she deserved. Miss Libby was a natural showgirl in the most glamorous way possible. She didn’t know or care much if she had men on her tail, and that’s what made her such a hit sensation with the men in town— she never gave ‘em the time of day. Lotsa folks always wanted what they could never have. Now, Miss Libby didn't know why everyone called her “Miss”, but it certainly did make her feel pretty important. She wasn't complaining, if that's what you were insinuating. It felt nice to be appreciated for once. Liberty was a sweet young lady with a voice to match her looks and personality. She sat at the bar while nursing a wine glass full of Purple Flurp, a popular wine brand. Sheen was busy wiping down the bar countertop with a wet rag. 

“Miss Libby?” he called, his tone happy and casual. It wasn't unlike Sheen to try to start a conversation with whoever sat at his bar. ‘Twas one of the many perks of working at the Candy Bar— dishing the dirt or having a simple little parley with the brainless twit was bound to be a fun one.

“Mm?” she hummed curiously, taking a swig from her wine glass.

“You're gonna do swell up there,” Sheen encouraged, a gentle smile on his face. He continued to wipe down the bar, but he stopped for a second to add: “You always do.”

“Thank you, kindly, Mr. Estévez,” Libby chuckled, expressing her gratitude for his compliments.

“Now you've got a voice if I've ever heard one. Kind of like a mermaid, maybe,” he offhandedly suggested, looking up from the countertop to lock eyes with the beautiful woman. Sheen wasn't too nervous around women, and he was too much of a dolt to read between the lines. It was an innocent little crush on Libby; nothing more, nothing less. “Or maybe the Martian Mermaid from Ultra Lord and the Escape from Mars…” He tapped a finger on his chin. “You know, you could be on television if you wanted to. I heard they're looking for someone to fill the role of Ultra Lady~”

Sheen was an idiot. 

She let out a huff of laughter. “Thanks again,” she smiled.

Anyone with half an ounce of intelligence knew that Sheen wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came down to anything that didn't involve space thriller movie memorabilia. As sad as it was, he practically knew each line from Ultra Lord and the Escape from Mars by heart— it was a new movie that he digged that he saw at the drive-in more than a few times. Other than that, he was a complete doofus. He wiped his hands off on his striped apron, sloppily tied around his waist, and rested his elbows on the bar, making goo-goo eyes at Libby like a lovesick puppy who’d lost his way because he was too busy gawking at a pretty lady. “That ‘do is the bee’s knees, Miss Libby. How do you do it?”

Very bad pun, but it managed to get Libby to crack a smile at the dim-witted tryhard. She chuckled, and wouldn't you know it, she let out a little bit of a snort. Sheen didn't mind— he was encapsulated by her beauty. He thought it was positively adorable. Her hair was in swirls around her face and she had an intricate updo that must have taken hours. “Oh, my— please excuse me, Sheen. Where are my manners? I didn't mean to—”

“No, no, no, Miss. I don't see anything wrong with it. As a matter of fact, I've heard a lot worse things come out of the mouth of that Cynthia Vortex,” Sheen butted in, brushing off what she'd just said. Thank goodness she wasn't in the room. He wasn't wrong about Cynthia. He held up the bottle of Purple Flurp and jiggled it around for her to see, enticing her to indulge in more of the devil's water. “Fancy another drink?”

“But I already used my employee discount,” Libby protested.

“Don't worry your pretty little head about it,” Sheen smiled. He poured the wine into her glass, cascading like a waterfall of fizzy good stuff. “What Sam doesn't know doesn't hurt him. Think of it like Pinocchio, ya know? No strings attached.”

Miss Libby was starstruck. What did that bartender just say..? Paying? For her drink? Well, she did like to see a man try, but she wouldn't expect Mr. Estévez to be that man… But he sure was a sweet little thing, wasn't he? Duller than a butterknife, yes, but sweet.

“Hey… Hey! I have an idea! Wanna hear it?” Sheen excitedly asked, his eyes sparkling with delight.

“Be my guest,” she shrugged. She leaned forward and adjusted the matching lace gloves that she wore with each outfit. 

“Can I make you a drink?”

“But—”

“A special drink.”

Libby hesitated before caving. “Oh, alright. Don't expect me to pay for it, though. Let's have some fun. Surprise me, Sheen.” 

Libby never really called Sheen by his first name, so it sent him through the roof when she said that.

“You got yourself a deal!” Sheen exclaimed excitedly, his eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree as he whipped out the shiny stainless steel cocktail shaker from underneath the bar counter. Before Sheen started to pour colorful bottles of different fruit-flavored liquors into the shaker, he stopped. “No peeking, got it?” 

Chapter Text

Ah, the smell of a new book, fresh from the printing press. That was all that he needed to start a Saturday morning of studying at home. The pages were crisp and made that wonderful rustle noise he craved when James went to flip the first page of the newest addition to his collection of textbooks. The pages were tan, thick, and felty. His serotonin levels rose by just feeling the book with his fingertips— he hadn't even gotten to reading it just yet. The book itself had a blue cover with big white letters that said “Theory of Solids” on the front. The author of Theory of Solids was J.M Ziman from the Cambridge University Press. Physics was a mandatory course to take if he wanted to get any sort of science degree at Texas State University. Going to college was a major cash burner and it left the poor fool’s finances in shambles, begging for help. Although he wasn't actively participating in the semester (Jimmy didn't have enough dough for the tuition cost), he had made an effort to purchase the required textbooks for his next semester— at least once he got all of his tuition paid… Or found a better school that didn't cost so much…

He might have to start looking for a better, less expensive option… if there was one.

He flipped the page, overlooking the concepts and equation formulas that were in no way foreign to him. While James did buy textbooks, it was more for fun than actual studying. He already knew most of what was in said textbooks, but it wouldn't do any harm to have them memorized right down to the punctuation, would it?

Jimmy's bull terrier, Goddard, was curled up underneath the desk at his feet. Goddard was originally intended to be the family pooch, but the dog ultimately became overly attached to James and vice versa. Go figure.

Beside him at the small oak desk that James was seated at lay his newest invention: the Mindphone. He'd been tinkering on it over the past few weeks to get it just right for use. The Mindphone was composed of a few different things— a gramophone speaker, a tin can, an old hairbrush, a lot of copper wires, a homemade microchip, and, of course, colorful blinky lights stolen from his mother’s stash of Christmas lights. No invention is complete without blinky lights, are you out of your gourd? The Mindphone resembled a toy more than it did anything else, but that was okay with Neutron. How the darn thing worked was that it fed off your brainwaves and all that mumbo-jumbo hocus-pocus sciency stuff. Jimmy could have offered an explanation, but he hadn't even tested it just yet— he needed a guinea pig. 

He reached for the big, thick, heavy Yellow Pages phone book that sat by his rotary phone on his perfectly organized desk. Flipping it open, he began to search for names, and, after a few minutes of searching, found Carl Wheezer and Sheen Estévez’s home phone numbers. Granted, the Retroville Yellow Pages wasn't the thickest phone book he'd ever seen, but it was still pretty hefty. If only those textbooks of his were that thick… Oh, a man can dream. James took a ballpoint pen from his deep navy blue space-themed cup— or rather, mug— of pens and general stationery staples and put a small black ‘X’ by Sheen Estévez and Carl Wheezer’s names, then realized that might be a little too small of a mark, and then circled their names. They were friends, right? At least, Jimmy thought they were friends… 

He dialed Sheen’s house first. Picking up the handset, he heard the dull whirr that came from the dial tone. The phone clicked and felt a little weird as he rolled the number dial, rotating it clockwise. Must have been a bit sticky. It was an old telephone, but he digressed. Should've spent time souping that up instead of making the Mindphone… James waited for the line to connect and then he heard Sheen on the other end. He twirled the curly black wire around his fingers and nearly got them stuck because his phalanges were tangled in said wire that badly. Good job, Jim.

“Hello? Are you calling me back to say I won the Ultra Lord trivia contest?” the numbskull answered. His voice was muffled through the phone. James should have found a way to make their voices louder and clearer rather than creating the Mindphone. Sheen continued. “What am I winning?”

James sucked his teeth with second-hand embarrassment. “No, Sheen… This is Jimmy. From work?”

“Oh,” Sheen murmured, sounding a little disappointed for a fraction of a second. Get the man his prize earnings! “What’d you call for?”

“I have something for you to test out. You can say no if you want to, but… I figured, y’know, since we're friends and all…” the know-it-all divulged. 

“Aww yeah! You know I'm up for anything crazy,” replied the bartender with excitement. “Don't have to ask me twice.”

“Good. Thanks, buddy. Meet me at 1234 Atomic Drive in twenty.”

“Got it!”

 And then Jimmy hung up to call Carl Wheezer. It took longer for Carl to pick up, but that was probably because he was watching reruns of I Love Lucy, llama documentaries, or I Dream of Jeannie and couldn't hear the phone ringing. Or Carl was folding laundry and singing that hideous, immusical excuse of a song that he once described to Jimmy in great detail and “sang” to him, much to the latter's displeasure. After about thirty to forty-five seconds, Carl picked up.

“Ummm, hello? Who’s calling?”

“Hi, Carl,” Jimmy quickly replied. “This is Jimmy. I have an experiment I'd appreciate you participating in.”

“Oh, it's just— experiment?!? That's not gonna hurt, is it?” a worried dimwit yiped into his telephone. 

“No, I just need to make sure it works— and it's a surprise, so you'll get no lip from me. Drop by 1234 Atomic Drive in twenty.”

“O-oh, alright. Bye, Jim.”

Cue the tone that let him know that Carl just hung up. Now that you mention it, how was Carl going to get there? The guy got car sick just thinking about being inside one… Oh well.

Well, that could've gone worse… It certainly could've gone better, too. Jimmy put the handset back into the cradle. It clicked on there and made the wondrous sound that plastic made. He scooted his chair back from the desk to give Goddard a little pat to tell him that he was the best gosh darn boy there ever was. Goddard groaned happily and licked his hand as Jimmy knelt down to give his dog some attention. Jimmy was ultimately tackled with slobbery doggie kisses.

One other thing: James would have to clean up all his clothes from his floor and make the house look… well, presentable. For being a genius with a way-above-average IQ, you'd assume he'd think things through a little better. 

After a speedy cleaning session, Sheen and Carl arrived at the door, rapping their knuckles against the white painted wood instead of using the doorbell that Jimmy had spent far too long programming and setting up to go unnoticed. It was there for a reason, dammit! He opened the door and invited them inside.

“This won't take long. Besides, we have work soon,” Jimmy shrugged, going to his bedroom. The two men followed. “Well, I've been working on a little experiment.”

“What is it?” Carl asked.

“Glad you asked, Carl,” the genius replied. “I like to call it the Mindphone— it can transform your delta waves into spoken word with just the click of a button. Care to see a demonstration?”

“Psst! Do you have any idea what Jimmy just said?” Sheen whispered, cupping a hand to Carl’s ear to conceal Jimmy from reading his lips. Not that he would notice— Jimmy was too busy running his mouth like it was going out of style. Boy, did that fella like to hear his own voice.

Carl’s gaze flickered to Sheen. “No, not really. Almost never do.”

“... And that's how I made the microchip!” Jimmy exclaimed, puffing out his chest a little. Pride was strong with this one. He held out the Mindphone to show it off.

“So how does it work?” Sheen stupidly asked with dim-witted cluelessness.

“Sheen!” 

“My bad.”

“Anyway, who wants to go first?”

Carl raised his hand. “Ooh! Me! I want to go first!” he begged. Carl was childish and that was the one thing that nobody would ever tell him.

“Okay… Just think of something— anything. Then I'll point the brainwave receptors at you, and then it should come out as spoken thought, alright?”

“Um, okay…” said Carl nervously. 

Pointing the ray at Carl, Jimmy smugly waited for the doofus’ thoughts to be translated into pure English. It beeped three times before its lights started to flash rapidly and began to transform his thoughts into spoken form. Carl looked as if he was in a trance. Good gosh dilly dang, what was he thinking about?

“... and then I'll go to Peru and become a llama farmer. Then I'll marry a—” 

Carl looked a little bit sheepish. He held his hands behind his back, looked down at his feet, and dug at the floor with the toe of his shoe to try and draw attention away from himself. “Sorry.”

“It worked,” Jimmy exclaimed under his breath, astonished. A grin started to form in the corners of his lips and then proceeded to stretch across his face. “Amazing.”

“Ooh! Me next!” Sheen excitedly interrupted, raising his hand. “Tell me what I'm thinking!”

“Oh, why not?” Jimmy shrugged, a smug grin on his face. Sheen was buzzing like when you make a mistake playing Operation, smiling eagerly. Jimmy pointed the Mindphone at him and waited for it to catch his brain waves. It beeped. Once, twice, three times. And…

Dial-up tone…?

Jimmy, ever confused, tapped his invention with his free hand. It couldn't just sputter out like that. He'd done all the necessary calculations to make sure something like that wouldn't happen. He pointed it at Sheen again, who was smiling eagerly like he was about to win a contest.

Dial-up tone again.

…

Oh. 

Sheen’s excited gaze never dwindled, unlike his IQ. Jimmy put on a fake smile and turned off the Mindphone as quickly as he could to make it seem like it was malfunctioning. He then gently set the Mindphone on his desk. Looking at the clock, it was clear that they were going to be late to work if they didn't leave soon. The Candy Bar opened at noon. It was 11:45. And what would become of James's perfect attendance record..? He shuddered to think of it.

“Oh, would you look at the time? We gotta get going, fellas,” Jimmy urged, shoving them out of his front door before either of the two had a chance to protest. He slammed the door nearly off its hinges.

Jimmy skittered off to his room to pick out a nice outfit— a white dress shirt, a black bow-tie, and a deep, almost-black burgundy tuxedo jacket with matching slacks. He took out his trusty smooth black shiny plastic comb— may the other one that Vortex snapped in half rest in pieces— and groomed his wavy brown hair into its usual pompadour, leaving a swirl above his forehead. He put his wallet into the pocket of his dress pants and then rushed out the door with his car keys. He didn't bother to lock the door— he was an inventor, for science’s sake! It's not that hard to create a simple lock system.

Speeding off to work, James arrived just a minute after check-in time. He should have been there five minutes ago. There goes his perfect attendance, right down the drain— scratch that, right down the garbage disposal, being grinded into tiny, little, unfixable pieces. Taking a look around the place, it was clear that it was just the same as it was a week ago when Nick Dean dropped by. Now that he thought about it, Nick had been hanging around the Candy Bar more than James had initially thought. How long was this “short” stay supposed to be? And would it be longer than a month? Ugh, gag James with a spoon. Nobody, not even himself, could stomach watching Vortex attempt to be a kiss-up scuzz-bucket excuse of a succubus to gain any and all attention from Nick Dean. Just thinking about it was enough to send Jimmy running for the bathroom.

Upon first glance, Nick was sitting at the bar, right hand clasped on his mahogany cane. Sheen was wiping down the bar, getting it ready for customers. Cindy was still trying to charm the pants off of Nick, which apparently wasn't working out so well, as he gave her no slack besides that one horrid day where Dean first met the crew at the Candy Bar— not that Jimmy would blame the guy. After all, it was Vortex; she was all show and no go. Not exactly his pick of the litter, that much was clear. She was pretty, no doubt about it, but she was meaner than a wolverine infected with rabies. Soon enough, that case of rabies was gonna catch up to her and leave her lying on the side of the road, so to speak. And James was all for it, too. Watching the woman willingly drag herself into rock bottom for the sake of saving her pride was as entertaining as could be. Libby was watching her tryhard best friend make an embarrassment of herself. Carl was taking a breath of his inhaler like it was almost as addicting as smoke from a cigar. He pushed through the door and smelled the familiar scent of the ashtray and the faint haze of cigarette and cigar smoke gathering at the ceiling. It was disgusting, but that was just what you had to get used to when working in a jazz bar. 

Jimmy walked to the back while nodding a greeting towards the fellas. As soon as he was safe behind the curtain, he began to get himself ready for the day’s work— it was the only place where he could get some time to himself without having to deal with grubby bathrooms, undercooked food, and angry cooks. Bolbi was back, thankfully, so James wouldn't be stuck on dish duty— again. Sam would force it either way, so James took over for Bolbi when he was able to step in. Come to think of it, where was that crazy old geezer, anyway? Oh well. He got himself a paper Dixie cup of water from the plastic jug dispenser in the back and took a swig. He felt an aggressive tap on his shoulder. The nails practically dug under his skin through his burgundy wool jacket.

Vortex. What did she want now?

“What?” Neutron asked, crossing his arms. If he had less of a moral compass, he'd have thrown the water in her face. Oh, boy, it would feel good to watch all that makeup melt off her face with one little splash. It would do her good to learn a lesson, wouldn't it? “Is there something I can help you with, Vortex?” he said through gritted teeth. “Besides be your punching bag to throw insults at?”

“Can it, Neutron,” Cynthia replied with an eye roll, mirroring his closed-off body language. 

“Geez, what's got you all huffy today? Last I checked, we were nowhere close to friends. Go talk to Nick if you want a conversation,” Jimmy scoffed. 

What was her deal?

That dumb remark just seemed to make her anger spike. “And miss all the opportunities to prove that I'm better than you? No thanks,” she shrugged. The woman was trying to play nonchalant, but there was obviously something underneath the surface besides her need to prove she was superior in the matters of the heart. She could do that on any given day. Today was different, somehow. “And you're right, we’re far from it.”

It dawned on ol’ Jimbo. Nick hadn't given her the time of day since he blew into town like the world's richest tumbleweed. He wasn't ignoring her, per se, but he certainly wasn't feeding into her obvious fancy towards him. 

James could proceed with caution, but it was Vortex. There was no such thing as caution when it came down to her. Then again, he'd probably get chewed out pretty good. Best to avoid it at all costs. He sighed, giving up. Even snakes had to get treated decent once in a while, even if they were venomous pests.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently, no attempt at a bickering match in his voice. 

“Why do you care?” she replied, narrowing her sparkling emerald green eyes. She angled her body away from him, as if she was about to turn her head and leave. She flipped her hair away from her shoulders. They both knew well enough that she wouldn't. The woman thrived on conflict. 

“Honestly, Vortex, you've been a real pain in the neck recently,” James huffed, rolling his eyes. “Besides, what do you even see in him?”

“What's it to you, Neutron? And who's ‘he’?” she scoffed, playing dumb.

“Oh, like you don't know?” 

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't. It's not your business.”

“That might be true, but if you're going to take it out on people, at least do it properly,” James shrugged. He cared about Cindy, but it was more in the way that the environment needed mosquitoes to pollinate its plants— although mosquitoes were some of the most obnoxious insects that anyone had ever had to deal with, right up with flies. It was hard to find an animal that matched the likeness of Cynthia.

“Excuse me?” Cynthia shot back, offended. “I'm not taking anything out on you. If anything, one of us is just looking for an argument.” She gave a knowing look to him. Cynthia Aurora Vortex could be nasty as a snapping turtle sometimes.

“Then that makes one of us,” Jimmy agreed, “but it’s not me.” He threw back the same look that she tossed him. It was like the world's most sarcastic and demeaning game of catch. “Again, if you want conversation, go talk to Libby. Maybe it's best to give up on Nick.”

Cindy scoffed and cursed under her breath before she stormed out. Why it was almost a daily occurrence of someone making someone upset and then storming out (whether it was Cynthia or James), the world would never know. All they did know was that it was fun to mess with each other to see how angry the other would get.

“Ay! Neutron!” the voice of an older gentleman boomed from the other side of the Candy Bar. “Get ya caboose in here! Yeah!” It was Sam. Why couldn't he have shown up earlier and told Cindy to get out of James’s face? 

James quickly darted out.

Sam was dressed in a nice yet casual outfit— one that you'd go to church in— and he had a woman on his arm. She was a tall, lanky older woman with black cat eye glasses and had her white hair swept up into a French twist at the back of her head. Her nose was a little bigger in proportion to her face, but Sam liked what he liked. Her outfit was a little old-fashioned. ‘30s old fashioned. It was none other than Miss Winifred Fowl, Sam Melvick’s older woman. At his age, it wasn't like he could find a gal any younger… Fowl was only a few years older than Sam. Sam was in his early 60s when he moved to Retroville, so he couldn't have been much younger than Winifred. A chick— quite literally, because she looked like a bird— as ancient as her was probably born around 1891 or 1892, based on Jimmy’s most educated guess. Nobody knew how old Fowl was. James always thought it was ironic that Retroville’s own bird-looking lady’s last name was Fowl— that, and she also tended to squawk a lot. The woman was also as tone deaf as anyone could get and her voice was like that of curdled milk. Another little tidbit that got looked over— she was also the only other local music teacher who worked at the Willoughby Institute of Sound and Theater Arts, with Mr. William S. Willoughby being the primary music teacher and the town’s main music director. They were there on a date, that much was plain to see.

“Winifred, honey, let’s go have a seat,” Sam seductively suggested to the tone deaf geezer. “A beauty like you deserves to be treated right.”

“Oh, Samuel! You're so romantic,” Fowl replied, swooning a little. She was holding in a squawk. She took Sam by the hand and led him to a table. They both sat down and Brittany Tenelli, a waitress, swung by to take her boss and his girl’s orders.

Sheen and Jimmy exchanged a disgusted look. Sheen looked to Libby, who also had the same expression on her face. Nick Dean didn't get what all the fuss was about, but if you knew Sam Melvick, it was downright awful. If anyone needed to get a room, it would be Miss Fowl and Sam. Cindy looked like she wanted to crawl into a hole or gouge her eyes out with a butterknife. Thank goodness Carl was inside the bathroom cleaning up for when his assistance as bathroom attendant was needed, or he would be retching something nasty onto the floor by just witnessing the horridness of their situation. Old folks in love were fine, but not when it was your boss and your old music teacher.

“The lady'll have the special. I'll have the chicken parm, yeah,” Sam told Tenelli. She nodded and skittered off to the kitchen. He turned his gaze to his lovely woman.

“I could've ordered it myself, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I can't help it. They listen to me.”

“Ooo, authority is very attractive in a man,” Fowl growled, waggling her eyebrows.

As soon as that awful line left her beak, anyone within a hearing distance would rather be left dead or pushed off a bridge, wrapped up in a carpet and left to drown than continue being a witness to an embarrassing date between Sam and Miss Fowl.

“Woah, woah, woah, Winni,” Sam interjected in a flirty voice. It was far from a refusal for her to stop, though. “Save that for when the lights are out.”

Everyone was wishing they'd gone deaf. It was painful to watch and even more torturous to hear. 

“Sam?” Jimmy asked.

“Hit me with it, bub,” Sam snapped. 

“Is there something you needed from me?” 

“Oh, no…” he began somewhat passive aggressively. “I just needed someone to get up there and SING, yeah!” Sam yelled, pounding a fist on the table. “Serenade us, or you're getting the boot!”

James clenched his jaw awkwardly, made his way to the tiny wooden stage, and began to sing a tune for Fowl and Melvick as Libby tickled the ivories.

Chapter Text

McSpanky’s House of Steak, despite its hick-sounding name, was a very classy restaurant. See, you never know what you’re getting when you move into a town in the middle of nowhere in upstate Texas; it was nowhere close to a bean wagon, contrary to popular belief (only for those who had never set foot in it, obviously). You could always tell the newcomers by how they were dressed— it was usually those who thought that McSpanky’s was a casual kind of joint coming in like they didn’t know the great name of McSpanky. Boy, they couldn’t be more wrong about what kind of restaurant that McSpanky’s was. It was much like the Candy Bar in terms of its composition and menu, aside from the fact that they didn’t have a big bar selection or any lounge singers— for shame. It was about the same size as the Candy Bar, but its interior was far superior than that.

There were taper candles at each table that smelled like hot wax (they were unscented). Big, billowy red curtains accented the wide windows so that they would let in just the right amount of light from the street at night. The lighting was dim so that the fiery blaze from the candles set at the center of each table would stand out a little more— it also made date night pretty romantic, which was a specialty of McSpanky’s. Each of the round tables were set with lovely white linen tablecloths that were always spick, span, and free from any crumbs or stains. The chairs and booths that were surrounded the tables were cushioned and covered in leather, framed by glazed oak wood. The floor was an interesting geometric tile pattern that was black and brown. The tiles themselves were glossy and made that wonderful plasticky tapping noise that told you everything you needed to know about the amount of money that went into just the flooring. The walls were tiled and had some sculpted wooden furnishing that made the place look even more elegant and sophisticated. 

The one complaint was that McSpanky’s didn’t have live singing— all they had to offer was a jazz channel that only played Sinatra’s biggest hits— I.E, Somethin’ Stupid, That's Life, All the Way, and, of course, most of his latest album, Sinatra ‘65. That was the one area that the Candy Bar excelled in. Live singing was its shtick, and good glory, could their vocalists pull it off. It was one of the many reasons why the Candy Bar was so popular. That, and they were the only bar in town that had a big selection of alcohol. The food was pretty classy, too. It wasn't as fancy as McSpanky's, but it was in second place for best restaurant in Retroville.

It was later in the evening on a Sunday night. The sun had just gone down and left the sky an indigo-tinted painting. The far away oranges and yellows contrasted with the deep blues making their dramatic entrance in the east. Cotton candy clouds streaked the sky like the carnival had blown into the atmosphere and had a rogue sugar spinner on the loose. It was positively gorgeous. The sun’s golden rays emanated from the west and gently faded out through transition shades of pinks, purples, golds, and oranges as if they were made with an airbrush. The lit candle’s reflection bounced off of the glass and projected an ethereal illusion of a teardrop-shaped flame onto the streets. Cynthia and Miss Libby were seated by the window enjoying dinner together like they usually did when they had a day off during the weekend. They were both dressed classy, but not as classy as they were when they were on stage performing for their audiences. 

Cynthia had her honey blonde hair in big, voluminous curls that framed her beautiful face perfectly. Her lipstick was blood red— it complimented her green eyes and her skin’s peachy undertone. Most days, her eyes reflected the fire of the candle in front of her. Today was not one of those days. At least, not yet. Red was kind of phasing out in favor of lighter tinted lipstick, but Cindy’s signature lipstick was always that color. Her mother’s signature color was always a deep crimson when she was growing up and it just stuck with her as Cynthia grew older. Her eyeshadow was a pale blue that matched her dress. Her lashes were curled and inky black. She was wearing a tight-ish periwinkle boatneck cocktail dress with a string of pearls around her neck. Her golden dangle earrings were set with sapphires. She wore a matching ring on the middle finger of her left hand. The dress she was wearing had a brocade bodice with a knee-length taffeta and brocade pencil skirt. The pattern was organic and had gold accents, because what is a woman without gold? Her shoes were strappy gold heels.

Miss Libby, on the other hand, was wearing a mantis green cocktail dress that was similar to the shape and cut of Cynthia’s dress, the only exception being that it was lacy instead of pure taffeta and brocade. What could she say? It was in style. She wore some gold jewelry and her jet black silk-pressed hair was in its famous swirly updo. Some of the curls that stuck out were done with an iron. It made her look absolutely radiant. Her drop earrings were gold and had a giant diamond (or cubic zirconia, nobody would ever know the difference— unless they were a professional jeweler, that is) framed a few millimeters from the earring’s post. Her makeup wasn’t too extensive. A little green eyeshadow for color, blush, and some mascara. She wasn’t wearing any lipstick— if she was going to be drinking from a glass, she might as well avoid the whole hassle of having to re-apply it every other second or try to make sure none of it got on her pearly white teeth. Come on, the woman had a reputation to uphold!

Cindy ordered a medium rare tenderloin; Miss Libby was having a nice salad. Both dishes came with a side of Texas toast. Can't have a restaurant in Texas that doesn't serve it, are you nuts? They were eating, drinking Purple Flurp from the fancy wine glasses, smoking, and having a good dirt-dishing session with each other. The two flies were serial gossipers and couldn’t keep a secret between each other even if it killed them. Cynthia was trash-talking Neutron like usual. Miss Libby was listening and trying to piece together why they hated each other so much. In hindsight, it looked like they weren’t as different as they claimed. 

“And then Neutron was trying to act like he was the smartest person in his college class! I bet that if I had a ton of scholarships to Texas State—”

“Didn’t he say he was paying out of pocket?” Libby interrupted. “He’s said that multiple times.” She dug at her steak with a fork and knife, popping a morsel of croutons and lettuce into her mouth. 

“Oh… Right,” Cindy agreed. “I forgot about that.” She took a puff of her cigarette and blew it out of the side of her mouth. “Still, I don’t know why he doesn’t just work somewhere else,” she scoffed. “He’s just dragging everyone else down with him. Just because he uses all of his money to build stupid inventions doesn’t mean we have to throw him a pity party every time he gets a check for the rent.”

“Can't argue with that one,” Libby agreed. “He would have a lot more cash if he wasn't blowing all of it trying to make inventions.”

“And they're not even good ones, either,” Cindy complained, poking at her food with a fork. “Who needs a hypercube with infinite space?”

“Are you sure you aren’t just jealous?” Libby asked, raising a brow at her best friend. When Cindy was jealous, everyone could tell. “I mean, his singing could use a little work, but he’s not bad. He’s also a real smart cookie when it comes down to it. You gotta admit that.”

She nearly spat out her wine. “What?” she coughed. “No! Why would I be jealous of Neutron of all people? He’s a major pain in my ass, that’s what.”

Libby knew it was pointless to argue about it, so she dropped the subject. She shrugged and then took another bite of her food, washing it down with more Purple Flurp. “So, you see any men lately?”

Cindy shrugged. “Interested or seeing someone?”

“Interested, obviously. You haven’t been going out with anyone for as long as I can remember. What about Nick Dean?”

Cindy took a sharp inhale through her teeth. “I think he’s just having a hard time warming up to the place, that's all. Besides, he’s famous and looking to write a song about Retroville. You’re a dunce for thinking I’m not about to take advantage of the situation. He’s handsome, loaded, and knows his way into a woman’s heart.”

“You’re not wrong there, Cyn,” Libby shrugged. “But isn’t that just a little shallow? Come on, don’t tell me it’s not.”

“So? He could be a good provider,” Cindy excused. “I don't think I could find a better man out there, honestly.”

Miss Libby was quiet for a second. There was a far better suggestion for her dearest friend. Well, if they could put aside their so-called “differences” for a change. “Wouldn’t you rather have someone like James? Granted, he can be arrogant, but you two seem like you have a lot in common—”

“Liberty Danielle Folfax,” Cindy gagged, looking like she was about to retch half-digested steak into her napkin. She took a breath of her cigarette to make sure she wasn’t just a little buzzed. Maybe she heard Libby wrong. “You have lost your mind. Are you being serious? I would never go for a guy like him. Do you need to go to the psych ward?”

Libby shook her head no. “All I’m saying, is that it’s a compelling argument. You’re both—”

“Absolutely not. Libs, I don’t want to hear another word about that. You know how much I loathe Neutron, don’t you?” 

Libby nodded. 

“I could never go out with a jerk like that. Do we know the same guy here? Seriously, Libby, I can’t even believe those words were even capable of coming out of your mouth. We ought to take a trip to the nearest asylum and drop you off there! The guy targets me at work, always wanting to pick a fight. There’s no way. And even by some disgusting, low chance of that even happening, I don’t see it ending well.”

“Sheesh,” she mumbled under her breath as she took a bite of her food. 

“Oh, speaking of that. You know that Sheen has a thing for you, right?” Cindy took a bite of her steak and waited for Libby to answer. She swallowed and continued after seeing her reaction. She couldn't tell if it was a good or bad thing to point it out. “I mean, it's pretty clear to see. Free booze on his employee discount, encouraging you before you go up to sing, complimenting you? Come on, Libs. You've got that guy weak in the knees. You oughta exploit that.”

Libby’s face scrunched up and she reluctantly nodded. “I'd have to be an idiot not to notice the way he's acting,” she replied. “Why? Did he say anything to you about that?”

“No, but it's incredibly obvious. And does it look like I talk to that ditz?”

Libby smirked. “Just like you and—” 

“Libs!” Cindy pounded a fist against the table. She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “So, do you fancy him?” Cynthia waggled her eyebrows at her best friend. 

Libby’s eyes went wide and she chuckled to try and brush it off. Not that Libby didn't like him, but she would be embarrassed to be seen with him if they went out on the town. Sheen wasn't the most handsome, that was true, but he was sweet and he could make her laugh over the dumbest thing. Then again, he was childish. She stayed quiet for a moment. Denying it would be lying, but confirming it would be her worst nightmare. All the hesitation to answer just gave Cindy more of the latter answer. It wasn't her proudest moment, but at least she didn't flip her wig and pound on the table like someone *cough* *cough* Cindy *cough*. She sucked her teeth before changing the subject. “This salad is really good.”

“Yeah, I'm sure it is,” Cynthia commented, knowing exactly why she changed the subject. She wasn't an idiot, unlike Sheen. Maybe it was best not to talk about men from work.

A few hours later, Sheen, James, and Carl were seated at the barstools after the Candy Bar had called it a night. Sam had closed up the Candy Bar about fifteen minutes earlier to go to the drive-in with Winifred. It was about 9:30 at night and the drive-in was playing Gone With The Wind, Fowl’s favorite motion picture. In her words, it reminded her of when she was a rodeo gal in her earlier years— A.K.A, the 1920s. 

Back in the day, Sam was with a red-headed woman named Tessie, and Winifred was with her supposed “werewolf husband” (the woman was all about supernatural stuff and her ex-husband was a little on the hairy side). During her music class, she would go on and on about little tidbits of her life than actually teaching music. For one, the woman didn't have children to share those stories to; for two, her voice was horrendously off-key. She could teach music theory, but her vocals… Well, they needed some serious work to make her singing even sound somewhat tolerable. While she thought she was the next modern-day Patsy Cline, she just sounded like a chicken with its head cut off, running rampant through the yard and spurting chicken blood all over the place. 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Carl, Jimmy, and Sheen were left to clean up the place and completely close it up. Bolbi had gone home to make some sort of kabob with his fraternal twin sister, Ignishska. Britney was also at the drive-in. Nick was smoking outside to not set Carl off on a coughing spree. He’d be inside once he’d put the butt out. Besides, cleaning up didn't take too long. Jimmy had mopped up the tiles, Sheen picked up the trash and cleaned the bar, and Carl had cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom. The gang didn’t have anything better to do than sit around the bar for the remainder of the night anyway. 

Sheen was looking around for a half-empty bottle of Purple Flurp that was in his personal stash of booze— the stuff he’d found that Sam either didn’t want or alcohol he’d bought out of pocket to expand the “spicy water” collection, as he called it. He set out three wine glasses— Nick didn’t really appreciate Sheen all that much and he knew to not even try. Nick had been around for about three weeks and he was starting to feel pretty cozy around the Candy Bar. Carl was droning on about llamas and how, when he gets enough money, he was going to become a llama farmer. Carl also had a personal stash of plain, non-alcoholic grape juice so he could still feel included and not be a ginormous drunk. Jimmy was spacing out and drawing blueprints of a new invention on a damp napkin and a ballpoint pen he’d found in the break room.

“So, I know we swore never to talk about the ladies of the evening,” Sheen started, pouring himself a glass of wine. “But—”

“That’s not what that term means, Sheen,” Jimmy exasperatedly corrected, taking the wine and pouring it out for himself. The glass was about halfway full when he stopped pouring. While Jimmy only drank alcohol on special occasions, tonight could be an exception— it was going to be a long night. The Purple Flurp fizzed and tasted fruity and tangy on his tongue; the aftertaste of alcohol felt like someone made him guzzle liquid fiberglass. One other reason why Jimmy didn’t drink all that often that failed to be mentioned: James couldn’t stand the taste of hard alcohol. Just because he worked at a bar didn’t mean he had to be a drunk. 

And how did Sheen even hear that term, anyway? Dammit, he must have been overhearing Butch Pakovski— a local J.D alleycat that was too grubby and mangy to leave said alley— speak about the skanks he had a “night on the town” and danced the devil’s tango with. Just thinking about it made James want to spew chunks all over the floor that he’d just mopped moments prior. 

Sheen ignored that. “How much would you bet that Miss Libby’s keen on me?” he asked. He sounded reminiscent of a womanizer (à la Butch Pakovski). For the past week or so, he had an extra pep in his step and was a little happier than usual. It wasn't unlike him, but Sheen was sometimes disgustingly positive— it sickened Jimmy to his very last neutron, pun intended. Maybe when you’re lacking in braincells, it makes you not be able to see all the negativity around you. Sheen, Jimmy, and Carl were all different from each other in that aspect. Carl was just negative because he was a Debbie Downer. Sheen was off in another realm, mentally. Jimmy was... Well, Jimmy.

Carl’s beady eyes widened and he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, a smug grin forming on his face. “Ooo! Sheen has a girlfriend!” he childishly teased, as if that was going to make Sheen feel any sort of shame. The man didn’t have shame. Geez, Carl, go back to grade school, why don’cha?

Sheen rolled his eyes and shrugged with a smirk on his face. “Can’t help it— I’m irresistible.”

Jimmy sucked his teeth. What was he going to tell him? “I mean, I don’t mean to crush your dreams, Sheen, but I don’t know if Libby likes you that way or not. Don’t take that the wrong way.”

“Nah,” Sheen denied. “Why else would she milk my wallet dry for free drinks?”

“You’re the one giving them to her?” Jimmy replied to the dunce. “You do it all the time!” he reasoned.

“Your point?” Sheen remarked, getting all up in Jimmy’s mug. He grabbed him by the collar and looked that square squarely in the eyes. Sheen wasn’t very intimidating, but it got the point across. Sure, he was a looney ding-bat, but that was just the way that Mr. Estévez was. Letting go of Jimmy’s shirt collar, he brushed off his practically non-existent doubts that were whispering to him when he was zoning out. He waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, she’ll come crawling back on her knees sooner or later.”

The door swung open and the bell at the top of the doorframe (that Jimmy had gone through the trouble to rig, by the way) rang a pitchy chime throughout the building. James could practically smell the tobacco on his breath as Nick walked in from his smoke break. It didn’t help that the wind was howling like a wolf out there, either. His hair was styled perfectly and Dean’s clothing was just as stylish as the day he popped up like Texas's most famous weed. Damn them rich folks. He limped slightly and his mahogany cane clicked against the freshly-mopped tiles as he hobbled inside to join the conversation.

“You talkin about that Libby?”

“It’s Miss Libby to you, Nick,” Sheen corrected, crossing his arms defensively. He stared daggers at Nick.

Nick sighed and chuckled, amused at that dip-stick. Dean wasn't a big fan of him, but he could tolerate Sheen in small doses. He sat down at a barstool next to Carl. “Easy, tiger, I'm not after her. Don't get your panties in a twist.”

“You know smoking isn't all that great for you, right?” James stated as if it were common sense. He raised a brow and took a sip of his wine. Nick shrugged. Jimmy continued. “It causes tar to build up in your lungs and reduces your air capacity while the risk of cancer skyrockets through the roof. It'll probably cut your life pretty short if you're doing a pack a day, Nick. Don't wanna be the next Nat King Cole, now, do you?”

“Ah, I'll deal with that problem when I get to it,” Nick brushed off, waving a dismissive hand at Jimmy. “Right now, I want to know more about the ladies in this town,” he added, wagging his brows.

“So, what about Vortex?” inquired James, hoping that he would say anything about his obvious disinterest in the shrew. He emphasized her name in pure disgust. James needed to dig up more dirt against Cynthia just in case she took her remarks a teensy weensy bit too far. This could certainly be a start if Nick’s answer was satisfactory. Last he noticed, Nick didn't give her the time of day. Crushing her dreams would no doubt get her off his back, right? He would give anything to see that blonde shrew get a taste of her own medicine after about two months’ worth of torture.

Nick shook his head and rolled his eyes with annoyance. He poured himself a glass of wine. “Not keen on her. She's a bombshell, don't get me wrong, but the woman is a real ball and chain. Honestly, Jamesy, I don't think that would ever work out.”

“Good on ya, Nick,” Jimmy agreed, taking a sip of his Flurp. “Don't mingle with Vortex— she's not the kind of woman that she appears. She's a complete snake.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like you have a bit of a history with that Cynthia,” Nick replied, raising his glass and pointing at him with a ring-adorned finger. He raised his eyebrows and gave him a knowing glance while he took a sip to make sure his point really got across.

Jimmy almost choked on his wine and resisted the urge to spit it out all over the dark gray marble bar countertop. Mr. Genius McGee shook his head and looked like he was about to toss his cookies. “Ugh, no. Nick, I know you haven't been here all that long, but absolutely not,” he scoffed.

Carl and Sheen exchanged a look of agreement. Cindy and Jimmy would never— repeat, never work. She was the lemon juice to his paper-cut; he was the hot sauce to her eyes. It was a working system that only served to stir up spite in the lovely boiling pot that was the Candy Bar. Their rivalry was built up on the foundation of insults and pure rage, with maybe just a hint of jealousy— not to mention the fact that they were even more competitive than most Olympic contestants. They got under each other's skin just like botfly larvae. It was nasty, parasitic, and each insult was like another egg implanted under the dermis by the enormously grotesque botfly that was known as the Neutron-Vortex Rivalry.

“Jim hates Cindy,” Carl added with a laugh. “That could never happen in a million years.”

Nick dropped the subject. He took a sip of his wine. “So, what's the deal with Libby and Chuckles over here?” he asked, pointing a thumb at Sheen, whose brows were knotted together more than a cable-knit sweater. 

“There's no deal,” Sheen denied, crossing his arms. 

“Ah-huh, keep telling yourself that, bub,” Nick chuckled dryly. “Someone's got the bug, and I think it could be you,” he teased.

“Ooo, he's good,” Carl murmured to Sheen with a giant grin on his face, nudging him slightly. Sheen shoved Carl back a little harder to the point where Carl almost lost his balance and nearly fell off the barstool.

“Nevermind that, I think I have the perfect solution to the chick problem,” Jimmy replied, showing off his crude napkin blueprint. It showed off a ray that looked like it had a hamster wheel attached to the outside. “I call it the Hypno-Ray. It's designed to hypnotize and/or brainwash someone into doing your bidding. It'll get Sheen’s head out of the gutter and it'll get Cindy off of our backs when it comes down to her hissy fits.”

Carl spoke up. “Will it work by mail?”

Jimmy blinked at Carl. “What do you mean, ‘by mail’?”

“No reason,” he bashfully replied, taking a sip of his grape juice in a wine glass. Carl wasn't a person who could handle his alcohol very well. The guy got drunk off of cough syrup, and not just because of his plethora of health issues. He had no tolerance when it came to drinking, but that didn't mean he was exempt from drinking together. In fact, he was probably the most safe when it came down to driving home after a long night of booze. Most people (besides Jimmy, obviously) didn't bat an eye at driving a little tipsy.

It was just like Carl to drop some sort of off-handed suggestion without any follow-up answer. Jimmy rolled his eyes and took another sip of his Purple Flurp. “Anyway, if I build this thing, it'll get Vortex off my case for good. Solid plan, am I right?”

The guys shrugged. None of them exactly knew what Jimmy was talking about, so it was always best to smile and wave and figure it out later.

Chapter Text

Later that week, James had a plan: get Cynthia Aurora Vortex off his case for good. After all, she was the one who started all of their arguments. She was, of course, going to push and shove as much as she could; when Cynthia saw an opportunity to push boundaries, good golly, would she push them to the brink of the limit. Not that she’d gone over the line, per se, but Jimmy was backed up with ammo for when the inevitable yet bittersweetly glorious moment came.

On one hand, his pride would be a little bruised, but on the other, it would extremely satisfying watching Vortex finally get the insult boomerang to come back to her. Not to mention, it would probably cause such a violent rift between them that it would drive them so far apart that neither could stand even being in the same room as the other... Or it could go horribly wrong, but not many of Jimmy’s hunches proved incorrect. He was a man of science, after all. This was going to be like a game of chicken, and hopefully Vortex would opt out first and show her true colors. Perhaps she would bug out of there like a bat out of hell.

The day James would waltz into work with a smile would be the day Cynthia resigns her position at the Candy Bar; if all went the way Neutron oh-so desperately wanted, that would hopefully be sooner than expected.

The Hypno-Ray still needed some testing— it had a few bugs and it wouldn’t be ready for use if Jimmy’s sense of impending doom and embarrassment had proven itself correct. Cynthia was always out to get him and he really needed a quicker alternative— a Plan B, if you will. He’d spent the latter days of the week constructing and finding parts and modules (I.E, more of his momma’s Christmas lights, more homemade microchips, a pistol that nobody could find bullets for nowadays, etc…) to create the hypnotizing gadget, but Jimmy hadn’t even experimented with it on a willing participant; he wasn’t about to use it on Goddard— the fella had a heart, dammit! Carl and Sheen were the only people that were dumb enough to agree. Not that he thought they were dumb, but… well, they kind of were. It wasn’t a bad thing… For James, at least. In fact, it worked out rather well for the guy.

Willing participants that laughed when the disguised face of danger reared its ugly head?

Perfect!

The gold lighting was dim and romantic, just like always— most bars usually had low lights so that you could never tell just how dirty the joint really was. Gotta get customers somehow, right? And seriously, if you’ve seen a fully lit bar… However, the Candy Bar was far cleaner than most bars. Mainly because Sam was a neat freak, but still. Who goes to a bar to enjoy sunlight? The black and white checkered porcelain tiles were always freshly mopped and free of any chalky stains of unknown origin (thanks, Bolbi!). How they got there remained an enigma. The aged crimson leather barstools were aligned with precision; it looked classy. The bar’s few tinted windows showed through very little natural light, which was a good thing— like stated before, nobody wants to be the person in a fully lit bar. 

James, Cynthia, and Miss Libby were all seated in the break room. Cynthia and Miss Libby were talking all about the best quality lipsticks to look for in the beauty aisle— a favorite shade of Libby’s was Revlon’s Hot Coral because it complimented the wonderful warmer undertones of her deep-toned skin. It made the already radiant Libby a little more of a bombshell. Not to mention, it wasn’t a weight on her wallet. They were also reading the days’ newspaper. It was October 8th, and there was a ton of military news— the Vietnam War, specifically.

 James was getting a drink of water from the plastic jug dispenser and eavesdropping on their conversation. Not that he cared much about lipstick, but he was waiting for Cynthia to insult him. If she went over the line today, it would be a glorious defeat on her part. He was buzzing like a cicada on a warm summer day. 

The radio in the break room was playing some hits from the year— mainly the Beatles, the Four Seasons, Elvis Presley, Beach Boys, Dusty Springfield, that kind of thing. It was currently blaring “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do” from Neil Sedaka. Hearing it play over and over again from the last three years made James want to rip his hair out— he was more of a Beatles, Sam Cooke, Elvis, and the Four Seasons kind of guy. Thank the Lord it was almost over. While Jim didn’t really mind Sedaka’s music, enough was enough when it came to the amount of times that it played on the radio. 

The next song that came onto the radio was “Do You Want To Know A Secret” from the Beatles. That was one of his favorite songs, along with “Sherry,” “Girl Come Running,” “Dream Lover,” “Bring It On Home To Me,” “Sincerely,” “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” “Till There Was You,” “Venus,” and “Twist and Shout.” James didn’t like to admit it, but he did have a softer side when it came down to his listening habits. Sheen would probably make fun of him for it; Carl, not so much— Carl liked to listen to Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, Sarah Vaughan, and the Chiffons. He had no room to talk.

Cynthia was ignoring Neutron; she had far better things to do with her time than devote all of her attention to trying to deflate James’s fragile ego. “Libs, did you read that part of the paper this morning?”

Miss Libby nodded. How could she not? It was crazy. “Yeah, I did. Goodness, I hope that our men are alright. We've already lost enough with this war going on.”

“You'd think they'd use something other than a little tear gas to bypass them. It just needs to be done and over with,” Cindy sighed, picking at her nails. She changed the subject so she wouldn't have to think about Vietnam. “So, how do you think I could make Nick get the hots for me?”

James bit his tongue. Now wasn't the moment to crush her dreams. Revenge against that egotistical little termite was going to be sweeter than caramel.

Miss Libby shrugged. “Eh, I'm sure he'll figure it out sooner or later. Besides, there's other fish in the sea,” Libby suggested, her eyes flickering to Neutron. James didn't notice, thankfully. 

“And what if I don't want a different fish?” Cindy scoffed. “He's rich and famous.”

James could feel his irritation bubble up inside his esophagus and he splurted out a quick remark that he should have kept quiet. “There's more to marriage than just how fat your husband's wallet is, Cindy,” he scoffed, taking a sip of his ice-cold water.

“And since when does that matter? Last I checked, you can't even afford your own education. What would you know about money? You squander each cent you earn to make stupid inventions that will get you nowhere,” she spat, rolling her eyes. Cindy knew her words stung— the woman could shoot some lethal venom sometimes. That, and her claims were also sort of true. Ouch. “On top of that, you can't even get yourself a woman because you can't afford to even buy her dinner. You're probably not good-looking enough to get a date with low standards, either.”

James narrowed his eyes and his brows were pressed together so hard that he had a little knot between them. “Alright, you listen here, Vortex,” he snarled. “You're one to talk. You're extremely shallow and selfish, you know that?”

Cynthia wasn't about to let James know that what he said bugged her a little bit. She crossed her arms and rolled her green eyes at him. “So?”

“So? You don't care about anyone other than yourself,” James grumbled.

Cindy didn't really care. She gave him a nasty smirk that had no flavor besides passive aggressive behind it. “Your point, Neutron? And I do care about other people, just not you. Got that, honey?”

Jimmy’s rage boiled over. “I doubt that.”

“And I doubt you'll ever be able to finish college. You'll probably end up in the gutter like ol’ Butch Pakovski— begging for food, mangy, and homeless in an alley. That's really the only place you belong. I might be arrogant and a complete pain in the neck, but at least I admit that one. You try and act like you're the victim in all of this, but you start it half the time. You're just as nasty as I am.”

Oh, Mama, she'd just hit a nerve. He continued, spitting out his words like he'd just eaten something nasty. “All you care about is looks and money. And just because I might not be so careful when it comes down to my finances doesn't mean I can't get myself a woman. Are you trying to deflect on me to distract yourself from the fact that Nick doesn't want you? Because he doesn't. He never did and probably never will. In fact, Nick thinks you're a complete snake. What would he see in you? Some selfish brat who's only after his money? Sorry it's a bit blunt here, Vortex, but that's not a very desirable trait in a girl. I'm not in a relationship because I choose to be; you're not in a relationship because no one wants you. You act just like Sasha.” 

Cynthia stared at him for a second, blinking back tears. She'd never heard such truth from him before, but it stung worse than poison ivy rashes. Nick didn't want her..? Although she hated the guy, Neutron didn't lie about anything… Mostly because he was horrible at it. She'd think it wasn't true if it came from anyone else. She felt her heart squeeze like when she was a little girl and her mother would revile her over nearly everything. It made her burn with anger, but it also made her heart feel heavy and fragile, as if it could break to pieces any second like glass. Her stomach dropped to the floor and her jaw buzzed because she was clenching it so hard as she was back in her childhood home again. Cindy took a deep breath and composed herself– she didn't need to let Neutron know that he was picking her apart like a vulture to a fresh carcass. She didn't exactly know what to say— her insults couldn't top what Neutron had said to her. It was true, she wasn't exactly the nicest person… If anything, it just made her angrier. She swallowed the frog in her throat. “I don't care. You're a dog. Love isn't a real thing, you know that? And just because I'm looking for an easy life doesn't mean you get to talk to me like that. That was low, even for you.”

And she walked out, dragging a slack-jawed Libby out with her. They bickered like children on a playground.

“Only because you started it. Don't get your damaged pride caught in the door on the way out, Vortex,” he called. 

Vortex didn't look back. The door slammed shut, echoing its hammer noise throughout the break room. It rumbled and vibrated. James was left alone to think about what he'd just done. At first, he was satisfied. Cindy wouldn't bother him anymore. He'd stood up for himself and given her a somewhat harsher taste of her own medicine. He sat down in Cindy’s vacant chair as the reality of his words just sank in like a giant sinkhole. He'd just insulted her entire personality, called out nearly all of her flaws and insecurities, and told her that her chances with Nick were as high as the meaning of the word “sober.” 

He heard the girls’ bathroom door slam shut a few moments later and some muffled conversations commenced between Libby, Britney, and Cindy. Cindy sounded angry— he could hardly imagine why— and she also sounded… remarkably hurt. Did his words really have that big of an impact..?

Muffled noises from Cindy sounded like she was choking.

A deep pit started to form in his stomach. As much as he loathed her, he didn't mean to make her that upset. Scratch that. He did, but he didn't think it would really work. Going that personal in the argument department was bound to hurt anyone, not just Vortex.

Did he just make Cindy cry? He'd gone way too far. He was in a mess that he didn't exactly know how to fix.

Wait a minute— Vortex was incapable of shedding tears. She was probably just coughing up smoke from the pack of cigs that was in her hand as she left.

James clenched his jaw as he sat in silence. He couldn't work at the Candy Bar anymore. Number one, his workplace relationship with Cynthia had just gone up in flames (lighter fluid provided by yours truly); number two, he didn't even realize how awful the things that just came out of his mouth were. At least, not in the heat of the moment. He mulled over what to do. He could apologize and admit he was wrong, but he was too prideful for that one. Jimmy could resign from the Candy Bar and not have to face the consequences of his actions. He could find another job that made twice the money and go back to college. Or he could use the Hypno-Ray and hypnotize her into thinking that their argument never happened…

His conscience whispered the word, “apologize,” to him. It rang in his ears like when you shoot a gun and hear the sound barrier break because the bullet is travelling so fast. He shook the thought away. After all, Vortex did start their argument by going extremely personal. Why should he have to feel bad because she got what was coming to her? A big part of him wanted to be as petty and stubborn as she was. Another part of him was telling him to be the bigger person and admit he was wrong. He was the one who caused the most damage. Cindy was right— it was pretty low.

James sighed sharply and got up from the chair. He brushed off his crimson tuxedo and hesitantly reached for the door handle. James skittered out like a mouse and sat down at the bar.

Sheen was wiping down the bar— because of course he was— and trying to act as if he hadn't heard a single thing. 

“Sheen..?” Jimmy asked, pursing his lips. 

Sheen perked up and nodded. “Jimmy! What's going on?”

“You didn't happen to hear any of what I said in the break room, did you..?” he wondered, rocking on his heels.

Everyone knew the walls were a little thin…

Sheen took a little longer to answer— he was trying to think up a lie. “No, nothing… Nothing whatsoever.”

Sheen was a horrible liar.

Long pause.

“Where’s Carl?” asked Jimmy, sheepishly picking at the dents, notches, and scratches embellished into the bar countertop.

“Oh, he's in the girls’ bathroom with Cynthia, Miss Libby, and Britney.”

Dear Lord… 

“Oh, that's a bit strange.”

“Ain't that the truth! He's probably trying out beauty products or something in there,” Sheen chuckled. 

“So, did you hear what I said in there…? Be honest.”

“No—”

Jimmy elbowed him.

“Ow!” Sheen exclaimed. “Fine! I heard everything, I admit it!” 

James clenched his teeth. “Was I too harsh..?”

“Harsher than the Arctic tundra.”

“Not helping,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What am I here for? At least it'll get Cynthia to stop messing with you,” Sheen smiled. Even in the dumbest situations, he could find something positive about it. “And I'm sure she's going to talk to Sam and resign.”

“Oh…” Jimmy didn't want to make her quit her job… He wasn't sure that was a positive thing. She was good at what she did and he was just angry. Jeez, James, aren't you a wonderful person? Cindy was right. He was just as awful as she was.

“Mhm,” Sheen hummed, going back to wiping down the bar. How could he be so carefree? Maybe if Jimmy had an IQ of 32, he'd be in the same boat as Sheen. “If I got verbally assaulted by my worst enemy, I'd be pretty upset and quit my job, too.”

“Sheen,” Jimmy groaned.

“What? I'm just making conversation!”

And Carl came out.

“Carl!” Jimmy called.

“Oh, heya Jim,” he replied with a smile, pushing up his glasses.

“... Is she alright?” Jimmy asked, feeling worse and worse by the minute.

“Aw, don't worry, she'll be fine… Who's 'she'?” the dunce reassured. 

“Vortex?”

“Oh, not by a long shot,” Carl chuckled as if it were no big deal. “I think you really messed her up.”

Great… Jimmy was seriously in the dog house this time. Might as well send in his resignation. “Thanks, Carl.”

“You're welcome,” he replied cheerfully.

Jimmy stood and walked over to the girls’ bathroom. Nobody was in there besides Britney, Vortex, and Miss Libby. He rapped a knuckle on the door. “Vortex..?”

Libby opened the door. “Haven't you said enough?” And then she slammed it shut.

Welp, that was entirely deserved on his part. “Come on, I just—”

“Go,” Libby’s muffled voice commanded.

He messed up big time. Jimmy did the walk of shame over to Sam’s office to rat himself out. He tapped on the chestnut door.

“Come in, yeah,” Sam's gruff voice replied. 

James pushed through the door and prepared to out himself. “Sam?”

“What?” he asked, clearly exasperated. 

“I'd like to resign my position,” Jimmy quietly stated. 

Sam's eyes went wide. He took off his spectacles and wiped them down with his shirt before putting them back on. “‘S’cuse me?”

“I'd like to resign my position,” he repeated.

“No, I heard that, Jimmy-boy. Why on Earth would you want to resign, yeah?” Sam asked, blow away from what Jimmy said.

“I, uh, got into an argument with Cynthia,” James admitted with a low, sheepish voice.

“And? You do that every day,” Sam shrugged. 

He was really gonna make him say it? James sighed. “It was a little worse than usual.”

Sam raised a skeptical brow.

“Okay, a lot worse than usual,” he divulged.

“So you're just trying to avoid the problem rather than deal with it head-on, yeah?” Sam smirked.

“Yeah, kind of,” he shrugged.

“How bad, scale of one to ten?”

“Eleven.”

“Yeesh, what did you to do her, yeah?”

“I, uh… I insulted her… Pretty badly. She doesn't want to talk to me,” James said with a guilty expression on his face.

“Well, gee, James, I wouldn't want to talk to you, either,” Sam shrugged. 

“Thanks,” he replied sarcastically.

“Yeah,” Sam responded. “A’right, but are you sure you want to call it quits?”

Jimmy shrugged. 

“I think you's just feeling a little guilty,” Sam shrugged. “Give it time. Then come to me to ask to quit, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now get outta here, I got papers to go through,” Sam sternly suggested.

Jimmy walked out of his office and sat back down at the bar. What was he going to do..? He figured he should be responsible for once in his life and apologize. He knew that Cindy wasn't about to admit she was wrong unless he was the one to do it first—

Oh no.

Jimmy had a heart attack realization… He was feeling guilty. For Vortex of all people. Was he really able to think of such a feeling? After all, everything Vortex did was absolutely horrible, at least to him. But he didn't want to make her cry. Not that he knew if she was, but she did seem pretty upset. Especially because Libby answered the door instead of herself. Since when was he capable of feeling remorse for that woman, if ever? James sighed.

“Sheen, get me a shot of whiskey.”

“Woah, taking a little argument that badly, are we?” Sheen gasped, pouring him a shot. 

Jimmy downed it. He hated the taste, but it was all he could stomach at the moment. He shrugged. “Hit me again.”

“Since when do you drink, Jim?” Carl asked.

“Since now,” Jimmy grumbled, popping another shot down the hatch.

“Okay… Just don't get sick,” Carl insisted.

“So, Carl, who do you think is gonna resign first?”

“Didn't Jimmy just—”

“Right—”

“Guys!” Jimmy snarled. “Can we not talk about this..?”

“Alright, fine.”

“Okay, Jim.”

The rest of the night droned on as if nothing had happened. Well, at least for everyone else. Jimmy felt horrible. It was his night to sing for the crowd of bar-goers and people on dates, but he gave it to Libby and Cindy. Cindy gave him the stink eye, but didn't speak to him. Jimmy didn't speak to her, either, but he gave her looks that she should've noticed. 

After moments more of torture, he sighed and walked over to Cindy. “Cindy, please. Can we talk for a hot second?”

“What, are you going to call me out for everything tonight? Well, you won't have to deal with me much longer. I'll be out the door— And don't call me that. I thought I told you that multiple times.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “And please, don't quit.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have a good voice and you do great under the spotlight. Please, can we talk?” No way was he going to say that the Candy Bar wasn't really the Candy Bar without her.

He really thought that about her? Cynthia rolled her eyes. Neutron was probably just trying to get in her good graces. “What is there to talk about?”

“Earlier,” he mumbled.

“What about earlier?”

“Oh, come on, Cindy, don't be like that,” James pleaded.

“Why not? I'm selfish and a complete snake, aren't I?”

“No. Look, I'm sorry, okay?”

“You can do better than that,” she huffed. Cindy’s pride was still a little bruised… Okay, a lot bruised, but watching Neutron apologize and possibly embarrass himself might have been the only remedy.

“Cind— Cynthia, I'm sorry for the way I acted. I shouldn't have been that awful to you and it's been bugging me—”

Cindy held up a hand to make him go quiet and she cut him off. “I'm gonna stop you right there. It's been bugging you, huh?”

James nodded. He noticed that all of his plastic combs were broken in half… Not that he blamed her.

“Good. I'm glad it makes you feel bad. You were extremely out of line. There's some things you should keep inside, you know. You can't talk to people that way, Neutron. Not only does it make other people feel awful, but it makes you look like more of a snake than I supposedly am. And if you really feel awful about it, I have a way that you might earn some forgiveness from me.”

“What's that?”

“Admit you were wrong, tell every reason, and do it on stage,” she smirked.

“I'm not doing that.”

“Then I'm quitting.”

They both knew she wasn't. Not when she could torment Neutron because he felt bad.

“... Fine.”

Cindy smirked at him. “Oh, and put on some lipstick, too.”

“No—”

“I'll go to Sam’s office right now and tell him I'm putting in my two weeks’.”

“Cindy,” he begged. “That's embarrassing.”

“You know what else is embarrassing? Getting reviled in front of your best friend and then getting compared to your mother.” She gave him a knowing look.

Damn. That was one hell of a gut punch. He knew it'd come back to bite him, but not that quickly. He sighed. “Cindy, I'm sorry.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“You don't feel bad?”

“We'll talk as soon as you get up on stage, Neutron,” she spat. “Get up there as soon as Libby’s done.” She handed him her beloved tube of red lipstick and smirked. “Hop to it!”

Jimmy grumbled and went over to Libby’s vanity. The dim lighting made it hard to see where he should be applying said lipstick. Why was he doing that anyway? This was the worst of their arguments and he felt horrible. On the other hand, she seemed to be feeling better. “Vortex?”

She gave him an irritated face. “What now?”

“How do I turn this thing on?”

“You don't know how to turn on a vanity mirror?” she snickered. 

“No,” Jimmy sighed. “All I have is a regular mirror. No fancy lights. Besides, I don't need to use makeup.”

“Sure ya don't,” Cindy chuckled. She walked over and turned on the lighting system on Libby's vanity for him.

“Thanks,” Jimmy mumbled. Cindy just called him ugly, but it wasn't as nasty as earlier. In fact, it was kind of funny, regardless of who said it. He looked at the executioner of his pride and shatterer of his dignity that lay in his hand. A tube of red lipstick. And not just any tube of red lipstick. Cindy’s tube of red lipstick. He hesitantly opened the tube and twisted up the bullet. It was a crimson red that was going to be obvious to anyone. The bullet was very well-loved. It had a groove in it from Cindy's obsessive use of the damn thing. He groaned, smearing red all over his lips. “There. Ya happy?”

“A little more than I was five minutes ago,” Cindy smirked.

Libby came in through the curtain. She pointed a thumb at Neutron. “Cyn, what's he doing by my mirror?”

“Making a fool of himself.”

“Is that… Is that your lipstick?” Libby asked, suppressing laughter.

James shot her a nasty face, but it made both Cindy and Libby burst out laughing because he looked so silly.

“Go on, get out there,” Cindy commanded with a dirty grin on her face. “And don't start until I get out by the bar.” She turned to Libby and kept her voice low, assuming that Jimmy couldn't hear. “This is gonna be great, Libs. He's gonna look like a fool.

“Well, he deserves it!”

Jimmy could, in fact, hear. Maybe this apology thing wasn't worth it. He was throwing his dignity in the trash— no, straight in the garbage disposal. He felt like trash, too… Curse his moral code! Maybe he could find a way to get rid of it with an invention or something… No. Jimmy had to make it up. Besides, he could probably force Vortex to publicly humiliate herself when she screwed up next time. If Neutron was going to be honest, he didn't know why he was doing it. Any normal person would have just quit by now. Maybe this was just because he couldn't handle anyone being upset with him… Especially when he was the one who caused the problem… Yeesh. He walked by Cindy and gave her back the lipstick tube before he showed his face to the public. He took a deep breath and stuck his head through the curtain and stepped through to the other side of the stage.

Libby turned to Cindy. “You ought to trash that tube of lipstick.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause Neutron touched it?”

“True. But I just bought this one…”

“Trash it anyway.”

Cindy put it in her purse that was seated on her vanity. She didn't know what to do with it. Besides, it was just lipstick, how bad could it be? She pushed Miss Libby aside and went through the other exit, grabbing her wrist. “Come on, Libs, we have a show to watch.”

In the blink of an eye, they were both standing with Sheen at the bar. Jimmy was standing in front of the crowd— all of them looked like they were holding in a snicker. He didn't look nervous, he just looked like he was done with life. Not to mention that ol’ Jimbo looked like he'd run away from the circus. He gave Cynthia the stink eye. She winked back. He scowled back.

Tapping the microphone, he groaned and cleared his throat. “Alright, folks, I'm here to draw attention to a woman who works here and give her a public apology. As you can tell, I'm in the doghouse pretty bad,” Jimmy started, giving the crowd a knowing look. They all laughed— at least it got the crowd amused. He saw Cindy smirking evilly. Good Lord, did he hate that smirk. Oh well… he needed to apologize. “Cindy, I'm sorry for insulting you—” The crowd was slack-jawed, others were amused— “comparing you to your mother—” The crowd gasped— “and being pretty harsh when it comes down to the truth. I'm sorry. Thank you, people.”

The only person clapping was Sheen. Libby put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a stern look. Jimmy’s actions deserved no applause.

Cindy rushed backstage with a giant smirk.

Jimmy was wiping off the lipstick with a tissue. Unfortunately for him, it stained his lips a little pinker than what he thought was masculine. “What?” 

“Didn't think you had it in you to apologize and humiliate yourself like that,” Cindy replied. She was as smug as a child who got away with being rude to their parents. 

“Yeah, I didn't either… Look, Cindy, I'm sorry. I was way outta line.”

Cindy sighed. She should try and be a better person— even to people she didn't particularly enjoy. People like Neutron. “I'll be honest, I was too. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things to you.”

James blinked at her. She… apologized? Crazy. “It’s alright, I guess. But really, you had the worse end of the stick.”

“Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. Neutron, you can't talk to girls that way. Don't think you're out of the doghouse on this one,” she scolded him. “You're gonna make your next girlfriend have a complex if that's the way you talk to people.”

“I suppose that's fair. I was a little brutal,” he sighed. 

“A little?” Cindy repeated with a raised brow.

“Fine, a lot brutal.”

“Yeah. I'm sorry about earlier.” Cindy grabbed her coat. “I'm going home. Goodnight, Neutron.”

“Night, Vortex,” Jimmy replied, watching her go. He'd apologized. Things were a lot better than before. Not entirely fixed, but he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. He still felt awful, but that's what happens when your moral compass is still intact with reality.

Hopefully tomorrow went better.

Chapter Text

Admitting he was wrong never really came all that easy to James. Or Cynthia, for that matter. Confessing his faults was about as easy as trying to bathe a cat— it only ended up a huge mess. And that was exactly what Jimmy Neutron had done: created a huge mess. For one, he made Cynthia loathe him more than she already did; for two, he still felt awful, even after he’d let it stew for the last seven days. Their argument was on Friday. It was the next Friday after their initial argument. It should have resolved by now, right? At least, it should have... 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t, and it was eating him up inside like how a moth chews clothes, leaving tiny holes that grow with each round in the washing machine of existentialism.

Cindy didn’t speak to him. Not a single snarky remark; in fact, she hardly acknowledged his presence. Just when Jimmy thought things had settled a little when Cindy went home last Friday, it turned out that Cindy didn’t even care enough to insult him. It was unlike her. 

Jimmy wasn’t a fan of her. Well, he thought he wasn’t. He thought getting Cindy off his back would be a good thing. Jimmy’s judgement was proven to be severely mistaken. His hypothesis had been tested and proven wrong. Now his day was drastically boring with no one to bicker with. No one to give him a second opinion. Nobody to fact check him. Cindy avoided him, as did Miss Libby. It made the pit in his stomach grow infinitely deeper each time. Each glare from her felt like a right hook to his gut. His relationship with Sheen and Carl hadn't changed a bit, but they were still making fun of that red lipstick he foolishly put on. It was all a wreck. 

Sometimes, he felt like the only person to talk to at work was Bolbi. And if you met the guy, it was a wonder how anyone understood ol’ Stroganofvsky. He spoke broken English and always talked about kabobs or Backhairistan. Or he would try and talk you into dancing a traditional yet embarrassing dance from Backhairistan with him…

Or try and hook you up with his sister, Ignishska— in his words, “Ignishska need provider.”

It made Jimmy uncomfortable just speaking to the guy, but what other option did the poor fella have? 

Laying low was the only way to survive the next few days. He was waiting out the storm, but it seemed like he was just in the eye of the hurricane that was his known as managing workplace relationships.

Maybe he could catch Cindy alone and try to apologize again. They'd avoided each other on Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. That was an entire five days of no petty squabbles. No quarrels. Nothing but complete silence on both ends. James felt horrible. He'd glance into her eyes from across their small, dimly-lit space behind the stage. She'd gaze back. The look in her once-sparkling green eyes was like something broke inside with nothing to fix it. Not even one of his inventions could fix the amount of damage he’d caused her. Some things you just can’t fix. Wounds take time to heal— Cindy got sucker-punched pretty badly by Jimmy. Not to mention, Nick had been hanging around more often than not, which probably wasn't helping much, either.

Her words reverberated in his head. 

“I might be arrogant and a complete pain in the neck, but at least I admit that one. You try and act like you're the victim in all of this, but you start it half the time. You're just as nasty as I am.”

She was right.

Guilt wasn’t something that Neutron was accustomed to feeling, but it was there regardless if he was used to it or not. Jimmy had avoided her long enough. He’d forget it for a while, but each time he saw her face was a constant reminder that he’d probably screwed her up more than Sasha and Lex had. 

It was about six o’clock when James decided to try and apologize again. He hadn’t said a word to her since when he came to apologize the first time. What did he have to do to fix things? This should have been his lesson not to tamper with sensitive information. 

Duly noted. 

“Vortex?” James asked in a quiet, meek voice. He was trying to appear small; he felt small— he felt very, very, small.

“Mm?” she hummed. She crossed her arms. Cindy’s body language was reserved and closed-off. Not that Jimmy blamed her. She was drinking a glass of wine, sipping it casually. 

Jimmy gently stepped closer to her. This was entirely unlike him. He was usually a lot more vocal; usually a lot less… well, guilty. He couldn’t handle seeing Vortex move about like a newly widowed wife trying to be strong for her children after the news of her husband’s death in the war. Why couldn't this just be done and over with? “About the other night—”

“How many times are you going to apologize, Neutron? It’s getting annoying. I know you feel bad. You messed up big time, buddy— deal with it. Guess who's knocking at the door?” 

“Who..?”

“The consequences to your actions,” she snapped. Cindy turned her head away from him. “We don’t need to talk about it anymore. Just leave me alone.”

“Cindy,” Jimmy groaned. “Come on, I apologized.” He held out a hand as if to signal the end of a business agreement. “Truce?”

She whipped her head around to face Neutron, her eyes wide as saucers. What did he just say? She batted his hand away. “What?" She nearly spat out her wine. Are you sleep-deprived?”

“Can’t we try to be friends?” suggested the not-so-socially-smart genius. “It’s a logical solution,” he added.

“Neutron, that's a terrible idea. How can you ask that? You've had a problem with me since the day you got here and now you're acting like I don't even exist,” Cindy argued. "Doesn't sound very friendly if you ask me."

James couldn’t deny that; it was a solid argument, after all. “Vortex…”

“Why?” she asked, suspicious. “Just so you can feel better about yourself? Because you can’t handle when people aren’t happy with you? Yeah, I don’t think so. Look, Neutron, I’m sorry things exploded the other day, but it still happened. You can’t ignore—”

“What I’m trying to do is move past it. I know it happened; I’m a genius, remember? 210 IQ ring a bell? I was just trying to get you off my back and—”

Of course James had to bring up his intelligence quotient. He always did. News flash, Jamesy— people knew you were smart. Don’t need to rub it in. The newspaper had already done that more times than Cindy could count on her fingers, which said it was at least more than ten.

“Wow,” she scoffed. “And you wonder why I don’t want much to do with you?”

Ouch. Jimmy deserved that one. “I suppose that’s true. Just… think it over, alright?”

Cindy nodded. “No offense, Jimmy, but complete offense. How am I supposed to try and be friends with you when we both know we can hardly tolerate each other?”

“Since when am I Jimmy to you?” Jimmy replied, somewhat surprised and disgusted. Her tone was angry and stern. It sounded almost like when his mother, Judy, would scold him when he was a child. It didn’t help with his guilt problem.  

She shook her head. “Figured if you get away with calling me Cindy, I can get away with that one.” 

James couldn’t argue with that one. “You don’t think it would be beneficial?”

Cindy sighed. “No, I don’t think so. That’s like trying to free a fish from water. It won’t end well. In fact, that's impossible.” 

“Noted.” He sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. James opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of anything that could help their situation.

James and Cynthia stood in silence for a long pause. They were likely thinking the same thing: what do we do now? 

Jimmy didn’t know what to do to fix things. He was good at fixing things, figuring things out. Problem-solving was like a sixth sense to him. Why couldn’t he solve this one? James didn’t have a problem with mysteries… usually.

It was just like Mr. Tee always said— women were the biggest mysteries of all. Mr. Tee, Zix, and Travoltron (those were their nicknames. Their real names were boxed up somewhere so that the cops couldn’t find them) were each members of the Dallas crime family. They had a cover house just down the street that the Willoughby Institute of Sound and Theater Arts was located on. It was always best to be in their good graces— James shuddered to think about what would happen if he reported them. Zix, Travoltron, and Mr. Tee also ran McSpanky's House of Steak alongside Hank McSpanky (another gang affiliate).

Jimmy had done what was needed to get Cindy to forgive him and then some. Public embarrassment was no easy feat. Things should have been better, shouldn’t they? Obviously, wounds took time to heal, but it had to be discussed. Seeing Vortex walk around like something snapped inside was even more unbearable than getting made fun of left and right over the most stupid things. Why wouldn’t it work out? Granted, he had denounced her in the most extreme way possible. And told her that the guy she was into was not into her… Good glory— another gut punch. It wasn’t pity, but he hoped that they could start over. Jim saw a potential partnership. An agreement of some sort. After all, it wasn’t a bad idea. He surprisingly had things in common with Vortex: they were both impeccably smart, decent at singing, liked a challenge, thought Ultra Lord and the Escape from Mars was complete brain rot, and they were extremely competitive. They were also very different in a lot of key aspects, but it was more complementary than anything. She was more creative than he was. He was better with math and science. Cindy was feisty; Jimmy was a little more laid-back. They were dynamic. A working partnership between them could be beneficial for both parties. Jimmy could get some singing lessons and learn more about his occupation for the time being, plus he could also make it up to her for being such a skeez-ball. She could learn a little bit from him. Well, if she wasn't so stubborn.

They’d been competing with each other for as long as they’d both worked at the Candy Bar, which was just shy of four months now. Everything was a contest. Jimmy was the winner most of the time. It really got under Cindy’s skin— she could never be as smart, as witty, or as successful as Neutron. Neutron had success handed to him on a silver platter, and she resented him for that— majorly resented him. Call her jealous, but months of trying to one-up the guy had never really worked out. Cindy had tried to see what he excelled in (math and science), but most subjects just placed her at second best. All the artsy stuff (like English, painting, and singing) suited her better. She was certainly talented in that aspect, she wasn’t denying that. 

Cindy wanted to be seen as smart, not creative. 

Creative got you nowhere. Smart got you everywhere. Smart was all that and a bag of chips. Cindy felt like those chips were stale— each bag of chips she opened was staler than four week old bread. James got all the fresh, crispy ones, so to speak. It wasn’t fair, but that was the way the world went. There wasn’t much she could do about it, and she’d stopped trying at this point. She never got a chance to prove that she could be just as intelligent as James— it was even in the newspapers. After a lifetime of being compared to other people by her parents, it was a wonder why she compared herself to the likeness of Neutron. She could be better if she just had the time to do so, or at least she thought she could. 

Cynthia was a smart cookie, but not as much as Neutron. 

It made her feel inferior, in a way. It made her feel like she was just another bozo in the crowd. On top of that, things would always come out perfect for him. Everything seemed to go his way without any trial or error.

Well, except for the times he had to pay for property damage when most of his inventions ended in tragic demise. No wonder the fella was broke.

The only sob story that the guy had was that Jimmy had supportive parents that didn’t exactly have enough money to fund his education, so he had to earn it himself. Scholarships were hard to obtain at Texas State.

Cindy’s parents, on the other hand, were more than well off, but since she wasn’t perfect to their standards, they didn’t bother paying for her education. Sasha was neglectful and narcissistic. Lex was always off on business trips as a successful and highly sought after attorney.

Both of her parents were absent in one way or another, whether it be physically or emotionally.

She was always at the top of her classes, but then again, she never went to the same school as Neutron. The only way that Cynthia knew about him was because when she was a little girl, Sasha would read the morning newspaper, point him out, and ask her daughter why she couldn’t be like the boy who could solve complex math equations faster and more efficiently than most of the computers that worked at the big corporations.

He was perfect, almost to a disgusting amount. She hated him for it. She truly did. 

And now that Jimmy was trying to be her friend? 

Feh! 

Cindy didn’t need his sympathy nor his pity. He didn’t want to start over because he liked her— in fact, he said it himself. He thought she was selfish, shallow, and needed a serious clean up on Aisle III when it came down to the mess that was her attitude. James wanted to start over because it left him feeling like a sack of wet socks. 

She didn’t need to deal with a friendship based on pity. She’d had enough fake relationships to know that one. His words cut like a knife and it wasn’t up to him to stitch those stab wounds up; he’d already caused enough damage. Cynthia was perfectly fine trying to nurse her self-esteem back to health in her lonesome or with the help of her best friend, Libby. If Neutron was guilt-ridden, so be it. She wasn’t going to humor him just because boo-boo had a bruised ego and something to feel sorry about. 

Good on him, she thought. The man needed something to plague his mind for a while. 

The woman relished in the idea that he was beating himself up inside over something so trivial. As if she hadn’t heard the same words come out of the words of the one woman who was supposed to love her unconditionally. Sure, it still stung, but she was used to it by now. Cindy had the mental callouses to prove it. It was like re-spraining an ankle after it had mostly healed over. It was obnoxious and a complete nuisance, but it would heal. Sure, there would be some lasting damage, but not much if you took care of it properly.

She got up to leave, pushing off from the wall to the oak door with a shiny bronze doorknob.

“Come on,” Neutron insisted. He wasn’t used to having to beg anyone for anything. Not unless it counted way back when he was pestering his parents for a dog or a new chemistry set for his birthday. But that didn’t exactly count, did it?

“I’ll think about it,” she murmured. 

“Cindy…”

“I said I’ll think about it. And call me Cindy one more time and I'll throw this in your face,” Cindy grumbled. She held up the wine glass she was drinking out of and wiggled it around for him to see. 

James smirked. Well, it wasn’t a flat-out no, and Jimmy was going to take what he could get. “Don’t have a cow— I get it, Cindy,” he emphasized, daring her to do something about it. His tone was a little malicious. It was part of the game. 

Cynthia whipped her head around. “Alright, you asked for it,” she shrugged, walking over. 

“What—” 

Poor old James was met with a splash of Purple Flurp to his face. 

Cindy started laughing at his misery. In about 0.02 seconds, Jim's face went from surprised to looking like he was the Wicked Witch of the West when she got water sprayed on her. It was hilarious. His face scrunched up like when someone tries the taste of a lemon for the first time. Or they have their first cup of black coffee. Granted, you could get used to it, but it was still sour and bitter as hell. But then again, not many people get alcohol splashed in their face because they like it. 

Eh. He deserved it.

“Touché,” he groaned, his hands flying to his eyes. Well, she wasn’t bluffing. Jimmy could respect that. Wiping off sticky, half-dried Flurp from his face, he rushed off to the bathroom to wash his eyes out from the fermented irritant that was bugging them. He blindly pushed open the door and rushed to what felt like a sink. He turned on the water and started to flush his eyes out.

“Jim? What's wrong?” Carl asked, walking over. “Were you crying?”

“Vortex threw wine in my face and it got in my eyes,” Jimmy huffed, splashing water into his eyes. “Why would I be crying?”

“I don't know,” the dimwit mumbled, toeing the ground. “I cry all the time.”

Of course he did.

“That's great, Carl,” Jimmy sarcastically replied.

“Oh, really? Sheen always tells me that it's not very manly,” Wheezer confessed. 

Speak of the devil, a knock came at the door. It was Sheen, as expected. Old man Sam was out, watching the local rodeo with Miss Fowl. Bolbi wasn’t allowed inside the restrooms after he tried to wash his hands in the toilet because he thought it was a fancy sink. If Bolbi needed a potty break, he would just have to hold it or get permission from Sam. Nobody wants contaminated food in a kitchen… Sheen looked pretty confused. Nick was outside smoking and trying to get recognized by people on the street.

“Jimmy, are you crying?” Sheen blurted. “Your face looks puffy and sticky.”

“No!” Jimmy groaned. “I just got wine in my eyes.”

“Ah,” Sheen answered. “Were your eyes thirsty? Can eyes drink?!” he asked, getting excited at the possibility of having… thirsty eyes of all things. There were definitely worse conversations that Jimmy had within his life, but this was by far one of the stupidest ones.

The clueless bathroom attendant turned to the dim-witted bartender. “Yeah, why do you think Jim is putting water on them?” Carl said in reply to Sheen. 

“Gee, Jimmy, I didn’t know eyes could get thirsty. Although that does explain the itching and burning sensation whenever I get pink eye…” Sheen trailed off. “Drink up, little eyeballs!” 

“Aww,” Carl cooed, caressing the bony arch of Jimmy’s left eyebrow like he would an injured pigeon. “You know, if they weren’t inside your massive skull, they’d be kinda cute.”

Jimmy shooed Carl away with a shiny, wet hand. “Guys, my eyes are not thirsty. Vortex threw wine in my face,” an already agitated Neutron answered, flushing his eyes out a little more. They still burned intensely. Well, he would say that was pretty even. He and Vortex were even now. Both had lost a couple pawns, sure, but their chess game was still going. Nobody had won, nobody had lost. It wasn't a draw. Chess was slow and calculated, and now he had to think of his next move. If there was one.

“Oh,” the dolts mouthed in unison. Jimmy loved them like brothers, but even brothers had their moments. 

“You’re telling me that eyes can’t get thirsty?” Sheen gasped in a disappointed manner. He sat down on the floor and crossed his arms. “What’s next, the Tooth Fairy isn’t real?”

“Or Santa?” Carl chimed in. “Or genies?”

Jimmy mentally asked himself how his friends still believed in such childish fantasies when they were all at least nineteen years old. At least his eyes weren’t feeling like they were subjected to a fiery inferno now. He could deal with dull stinging, but alcohol to the eyes was unbearable. He didn’t answer. 

“You watch too many girly shows,” Sheen commented. 

“Nuh-uh! I Dream Of Jeannie is a family show!” Carl argued. 

Sheen facepalmed, as did Jimmy, who was wiping off his face with a scratchy brown paper towel that he’d gotten from the shiny black plastic dispenser that was screwed into the brick wall of the boys’ bathroom. Carl stood nervously and whistled, rocking on his heels. He nervously adjusted his dark green vest and his burnt orange hair in the mirror. 

“What’s got you all worked up?” Sheen asked Carl. 

“Nothing,” Carl lied. He was also a terrible liar. And if anyone knew the Wheeze and Squeeze, you would know that the guy was just dying to tell any and all of his secrets. “Well, nothing except the fact that I’m courting someone.”

Sheen and Jimmy exchanged a look that said everything that needed to be heard. 

“No offense, Carl, but you’re not exactly the type to be dating someone,” Jimmy divulged. 

Carl didn't deny that one. “She should be here today,” Carl revealed. “I told her I was a lounge singer. I don’t want Elke to know that I’m a bathroom attendant.” 

That was a reasonable explanation. If Jimmy were a restroom attendant, he wouldn’t want a potential romantic interest to know about his occupation, either. He couldn’t blame the guy. 

Nick barged in, hobbling on his expensive mahogany cane. “Hey, Carl,” he started. 

Carl was shaking worse than a bunny caught in a trap. “Hey, Nick,” Carl tried nonchalantly. “Did you need a moist towelette?”

“There’s some Swedish chick asking for you,” Nick stated, pointing a gold-adorned thumb at the door. He leaned on his cane. “She says her name is Elke Elkberg. Thick accent.” He raised a raven-colored eyebrow. “You know her?”

Carl, shaking like a neurotic Italian greyhound, quietly nodded. He nervously shuffled out of the bathroom, waving a hand for the guys to follow him and act as if they were his wingmen. The look on his face was as clear as day. That was the face of a fella who needed a teensy bit of help in the dating pool. Like the good pals they were, Nick, Sheen, and Jimmy followed. 

On the checkered black and white porcelain tiles stood Elke, waiting patiently to meet her beloved Wheezer face-to-face. She was a radiant young woman with tawny blonde hair, gorgeous green eyes, a heart-shaped face, and pearly white teeth. She was wearing a cotton or polyester dress that was stylish and complimented her figure rather nicely. The woman had her hair in a gorgeous French twist at the back of her head with face-framing pieces around her forehead and temples. 

Nick, Sheen, and Jimmy’s jaws fell clean off their hinges and onto the floor. Since when could Carl land a woman, for starters; for seconds, when could he land a fly like that? It was unheard of. What had Sweden done to her to make the poor woman have such low standards? She could have any— repeat, any— man she wanted within the snap of a finger. 

“Carl Wheezer?” Elke asked, taking a careful step towards the chubby dip-stick. 

Carl went redder than a ripe tomato and his grin was wider than how US-20 stretched across the country. “That’s me,” he bashfully replied. 

To say that the guys were thoroughly disgusted and mortified would be a little bit of an understatement.

Chapter Text

Radio stations always played Frank Sinatra. What could you say? The man was an icon. Whether it be I've Got You Under My Skin, All The Way, I Only Have Eyes For You, or his most recent popular song, Luck Be A Lady, you'd hear him daily, regardless of what song Ol’ Blue Eyes was serenading. Especially in restaurants or jazz lounges like the Candy Bar. Nick had grown up in Chicago listening to the voices of some of his favorites— Fred Astaire, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, etcetera. Jazz lit a bright spark in Nicholas Dean’s soul— the wick was one of those trick ones, so it didn't have a chance of going out anytime soon. What could be mistaken for magnesium was actually a burning passion for music. Again, easy miscalculation. 

When Nicholas Dean first learned to play the piano, he knew that it was his destiny to be like the greats— like his idols. From when he was six years old to twenty-two, that passion had never changed, not one bit. He begged his mother for music lessons, and at the ripe age of eight, he knew where middle C was and how to play Mary Had A Little Lamb and Hot Cross Buns. Of course, he'd grown a lot since then, but Nick’s passion for music hadn't budged— not even an inch. He trained his voice for vocal jazz as well, hoping to be like the King or the Chairman of the Board. 

Nick used to be embarrassed, but he wasn't when he got encouraged by his family to go record a song. He knew three languages— English, Portuguese, and German.

The man was proud of his family’s culture. He dabbled in bossa nova; boy, it sure could get your hips swaying. Nick’s grandmother had mailed him a record of Antônio Carlos Jobim five years ago, and he hadn't stopped listening since. Nick hadn't taken a holiday to Brazil in a hot second— not since the military dictatorship that was going on. It was hard, but he managed. He had his mama safe in Chicago. His papa had passed away a few years ago from a heart attack, but it was alright. They'd all be together soon enough. He could wait another forty years if it meant they would see each other in the kingdom of heaven. Nick had a big career ahead of him— he'd gotten a few hits on the stereo and a lot of women were after him each time he would go outside.

It felt nice. 

Growing up was a little difficult— his parents were Brazilian immigrants that had moved to the big city in 1941, just two years before he was born. Dirt poor was an understatement. Call it a trope, but Dean really did have a rags-to-riches story going for him— and he sure as hell exploited it when he needed to. How else are you gonna get famous if people don't relate to you— if they don't long to be you?

When he blew into Retroville, he wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do there. Nick was going to write a song, that much was true, but about what? He'd never really been in a small-ish town for an extended period of time before. It was all so new to him. Different could be a good thing. Wide, open spaces were foreign to the guy, but they were gorgeous.

Have you ever watched the sunset in a quiet place?

Nick now had that one checked off his bucket list. Life had so many things that he'd taken for granted. He'd met a few people that he'd consider his friends. James, Carl… Maybe not Sheen, but the guy had people to hang out with and show him the ropes of suburbia; skyscrapers and urban jungle was all the guy ever knew for a good twenty-two years of life. It was time for a change. Nick had a few flings with some women, but those were just one-night stands, nothing more. Ladies of the evening. Night prowlers in need of the same thing he wanted. 

Waltzing into the Candy Bar might have sealed his success airtight. McSpanky's House of Steak was classy, but the guy was sick and tired of classy. He wanted raw civilization and undercooked meet-cutes with random people who recognized him from the local newspapers. It was a surreal experience for him, and it was definitely one to remember. 

The sheet music and basic melody was jazzy and sounded like a bright summer day. Warm wind, golden sunlight, colorful sunsets— the whole shebang. Those kinds of summer evenings where the sky is clear and cotton candy colored; the kind of evenings where each blade of grass was illuminated by the rays of the golden setting sun as it made its way to meet the horizon, almost blinding you; the kind of evenings that you could just sit outside, letting your mind frolic in the gorgeously crisp weather; the kind of evenings that felt almost like it was something you'd never think of but always dream of having, especially if you live in the big city; the kind of evenings where the moon came out in the afternoon and you could see both the sun and the moon on opposite ends of the sky if you looked east and west.

Come to think of it, Nick had never experienced an evening like that until he met Retroville.

It was safe to say that his song was about true happiness. It sounded sappy, but it was true. His ditty was a love song about his love for life, characterized as the woman of his dreams. Reasoning: women went gaga for love songs and nobody wants to hear a song about how good life is. People want things to relate to; things to imagine themselves experiencing. Escapism wasn’t that hard of a concept to get when you were the one providing material for others to use in their late-night fantasies to help them get to sleep.

Maybe Nick hadn’t met the love of his life yet, but this was the next best thing. Coming to Retroville was one of the best things of his twenty-two years of living experience that he didn’t have on his resume. You can't get hired over vacation time.

Working on the lyrics was a little harder than Nick Dean had expected. First off, what was Retroville if she was a woman? What would her character be like? Would her hair be gold, red, or brunette? Nah, scratch that one. Better make it second person. What would be Lady Retroville’s best qualities? Her heavenly atmosphere? The way it made nearly all of his pain feel more insignificant than an ant on Mercury? How carefree she was? Her beauty? The smile that made him beam as well? Good ideas, good ideas. Better write those down. 

Now, what would the title be? Well, Nick would think of that later— it was about time to hang around the Candy Bar; it was opening up for business soon and he wasn’t about to lose his seat at the bar that he’d had for the past month and a half. He turned the ignition to his brand new electric-blue AC Cobra sports car and listened to the purr of the engine before he pulled out of the hotel driveway and took a cruise down the street with the windows down and the top off. While he could style his hair without using his hands, he liked the feel of the wind in his hair— life was short and he was going to live it in style. He had his cane in the trunk of his car. No way he was going to risk losing that thing.

After a few moments, he was opening said trunk in the parking lot to get his cane out. He'd be a limping mess without it. He hadn't been there in a few days, not since Carl introduced Elke to the Candy Bar. He was sure nothing had changed. Pushing through the doors, he heard the bell system that Jimmy had told him about. Didn't sound bad; in fact, it was one of the most comfortable, atmospheric things about the Candy Bar. It wasn't too loud, but it was a musical welcome. He sat down at the bar, leaning his mahogany and gold cane against the bar’s foundation.

“Usual?” Sheen asked, getting out his shiny stainless steel cocktail shaker. Nick usually ordered a Manhattan.

Nick nodded. “Yeah, sure, why not?” said the composer.

Sheen got started making his drink. Nick didn't pay much attention. There was someone he didn't recognize cleaning off a table. A new hire? Since when? Did Britney quit? 

The new employee looked up, sensing she was being stared at. She was even prettier than Nick thought when she locked eyes with him. The woman was of Asian descent. Her hair was a dark, almost-black brown, as were her perfect eyebrows. The woman’s eyes were even darker than her hair— almost an obsidian color. Her skin was pale and she had a beauty mark on her right cheek. She had full lips that looked very kissable if Nick said so himself. She was tall and thin— just what Nick liked. Her hair wasn’t too long, but it was beautiful. It had no curl to it and she must have spent a while styling it. It had a lot of volume to it, at least. Not that Nick minded. She wore the usual pink uniform that the waitresses at the Candy Bar wore, but it seemed a little more her than the others. 

The waitress stared back at Nick. It was as if they were magnets, the way they were drawn to each other. Sheen slid over his Manhattan and Nick took a sip of it, getting up off his feet. The waitress eyed his cane and walked over.

“Hey, I haven't seen you around here,” Nick started, sipping his drink. “You new?”

The waitress nodded, brushing aside some hair from her face. “Yeah, I started here a few days ago. You look familiar… Have we met?”

“No, but you've probably seen me in the paper.” He offered her a hand. She draped her hand on his and he kissed it for a hot second. The guy was good with women, could he really resist? The woman had a skeptical look on her face. He let go of her hand and her arms hung at her sides like al dente pasta. “I’m Nick Dean, pleased to meet your acquaintance. Who might you be?”

“The Nick Dean?” she gasped, her eyes going wide. 

“Yeah, that's me,” the Brazilian chuckled. “And you are..?”

“Betty,” the woman answered. “Betty Quinlan.”

“Nice to meet you, Betty,” Nick smiled.

Looks like he'd found the title of his song.

It had been a few weeks since she got hired, and Betty had made quite an imprint on the men— excluding Sheen and Carl— who worked at the Candy Bar. Bolbi’s version of flirting was so blunt that it could hit you on the head and give you a nasty concussion. She shuddered when she heard the words, “Bolbi need wife. Are Betty interested?” 

Bolbi couldn’t marry her, even if he wanted. It was Texas, not the Midwest. Marriage wasn't that simple, even for a small town in the middle of nowhere. Well, at least for southern states.

Betty would always excuse herself from the kitchen. When on their break, James always paid attention to her. He was certainly desperate and it was obvious what he was thinking around her— James would be sweaty, nervous, he would stutter, etc. The man was a wreck. It was… well, sad, to say the least. 

She was in the break room when Jimmy approached her. 

“Oh, hey, Betty,” James greeted, a big smile gracing his face. It was brighter than a lightbulb. His heart was pounding out of his chest and it was a wonder how Betty couldn’t hear its drumming. Cursed adrenaline, at it again! He ran a hand through his hair and had to think through what to say to impress such a wonderful woman. She was a little out of his league, but he didn’t care. That was what Vortex had told him when Betty first got hired. Probably because she was jealous, but then again, why would she be jealous? The termagant hated Jimmy. Things had been a little more tense since their big fight a few weeks back— three and a half, to be exact. They were still at each other’s throats, but what else was new? James finally had a woman to show off some of those charisma tips he found in a book about mating in the animal kingdom. If bright colors worked for birds, they could work for humans, right? He started wearing cologne, styling his hair a little cleaner and with less product, showering more often, keeping his house tidy for when he finally worked up the courage to invite Betty over for a date (or to show off the lab he had in his basement), and making sure his breath smelled good. He went out of his way to wear nicer, brighter tuxedos and suits at work so that Betty would take a gander at him. Gold, purple, red, etc.— anything but black or maroon, like what he usually wore. James would also occasionally scold Nick about the use of his cigarettes, pulling out his travel-sized scientific notebook that he always had in the inner breast pocket of his jacket— the guy never left his house without it. It had too much important stuff in it for him not to take it anywhere. Such a small world, so much science to teach people. 

Betty said hello back. “Hey, James,” she smiled. 

“Jimmy,” he corrected. Although the use of his real first name made him weak in the knees, he wanted to show her that she meant more to him. Again, his friends called him Jimmy, so that was a big honor coming from Neutron. That was surely going to get Betty to notice him. She was bound to get the hots for him, right…? Although Texas prohibited interracial marriage, if he just moved somewhere else, like, say, Michigan, to get married— should he succeed in wooing the fair lady, of course. Miscegenation was a tough thing to live with, especially in Texas. Texas was taking the 1964 acts pretty rough and there was a lot of backlash on that. James thought that it was pretty nasty from a social standpoint. It was disgusting and sad. Others in Retroville thought the same thing. Then again, Retroville was a small town in the middle of nowhere. A lot of people didn’t care much. It was a refuge town that had a ton of people from different backgrounds living together. Other states had repealed their laws, so maybe. Just maybe… Oh, if he were a politician. “So, how are you doing today?” he politely asked, internally begging his heart to cease its infernal ruckus behind his ribcage. 

“I’m doing alright,” Betty answered. 

“Hey, that's good,” Jimmy smiled, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “So… how's the kitchen? Any, uh, fun orders..?”

Betty shrugged. “Define fun.” Jimmy took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but Betty, realizing she'd made a mistake, held up a hand to shut him up. “Not actually,” she chuckled awkwardly. “The orders are… orders, I guess. Nothing special.”

“Oh,” James mouthed. “Well, uh… That's nice, I guess.”

“I can't imagine being out on stage. I'd probably die up there,” Betty sighed, staring at the framed photo of Miss Libby’s newspaper image of her singing her heart out on stage a few months ago. She ran her fingers across the intricate carving of the glazed wooden picture frame, careful not to get fingerprints on the shiny glass.

“Hey, it's not so bad,” Jimmy chuckled. “You get used to it for a while. I'm sure you could be a leading lady.”

“Aww, thank you,” Betty smiled. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Jimmy replied.

Their conversation garbled on for a few terrorizingly awkward moments before Cynthia walked into possibly one of the most second-hand embarrassing scenes she’d ever laid her emerald green eyes upon. James was making the usual fool of himself, but not just for the sake of knowledge. Oh-ho-ho, it was clearer than a window pane what ol’ Jamesy was trying to do— impress Betty, that's what. She frowned upon Neutron and Betty. Betty could do a lot better than Neutron. Cindy was pretty over Nick; it was a silly infatuation that probably wouldn't go anywhere anyway. Besides, Neutron could settle for someone who was probably taking pity on him. And really, Betty would look a lot better with Nick or Bolbi than with Neutron. Not that she was jealous or anything, but it was just sad watching the court jester try. Cynthia didn't care one bit about what Neutron did with his life, but she figured it would save the poor guy some heartache. Then again, why would she be concerned? That was a question that Vortex couldn't quite answer, but she didn't want the fool to get himself into some relationship trouble. She may not have liked him much, but you were supposed to care about your enemies, right? Just a little bit?

She loudly cleared her throat. 

James shot her a nasty glance that told her “Get out, I'm busy here.”

Cindy smirked back, mouthing, “No chance.”

Betty glanced behind her at Cindy, who shot her daggers. Sensing she wasn't needed, Betty rolled her eyes back and sighed, walking away from Neutron and out of the break room.

“Bye, Jimmy,” Betty added as she pushed off the doorway to the kitchen. 

“Catch you later, Betty,” Jimmy replied with a lovesick smile plastered on his face. As soon as she was out of sight and out of earshot, James glared at Vortex, his smile turning into a scowl within a millisecond. Could've won a world record for fastest expression change.

Cindy smirked like a malicious child kicking someone in the family jewels.

“Alright, Vortex, what the hell was that for?” Neutron grumbled, throwing his hands up angrily.

“What are you talking about?” Vortex replied, playing dumb. She crossed her arms.

“‘What are you talking about?’” he mocked in a high voice that was nasally and girly. The tone was rough and irritated like a scabbed over wound. “You know what I'm talking about.”

“Care to spell it out, big brain?” Cynthia scoffed. “I doubt you have a mind-reading gadget on you.”

“First off, Vortex, thank you for the compliment. I'm touched,” James replied in a softer tone, his hand over his heart. He scowled and then exploded. “And I do have a mind-reading gadget!”

“On you?”

“... No,” he grumbled, crossing his arms as well. James’s face scrunched up like a crumpled paper ball. He leaned in towards Vortex and sneered at her.

“So, you gonna tell me what's going on between you and Betty or not?” Vortex interrogated. She should've been a detective rather than a lounge singer. She mirrored his stance and stepped a little closer.

“Thilng..? Going on? Between me and Betty? Hah, you're out of your mind,” Jimmy nervously laughed, adjusting the neckline of his dress shirt. 

Her eyes narrowed. “You're full of it.”

Jimmy’s brows were knit together more than a cable-knit sweater. He took a defensive step closer. “Am not!”

“Are too!” she sneered.

“Why do you care so much?” asked an exasperated and annoyed Jimmy. He scoffed at her.

“I don't, Neutron. You're just giving everyone within a ten mile radius second-hand embarrassment,” the blonde excused. “Pretty clear someone caught the bug.” She gave a knowing look.

James rolled his eyes. “Please, you have no idea what's going on.”

“Oh, so you admit something's going on?” Cynthia shot.

“No!” James denied, his voice raising a few decibels.

“You wouldn't know romance if it bit you on the nose,” Cynthia mumbled, shaking her head in disapproval. “Whatever you say, Neutron. I don't need this.” She walked off to go find Libby, who was talking with Sheen at the bar like usual.

Snippets of their conversation got into her head. She was seething with something that she couldn't quite point out. If it were an optometry test, it would be blurrier than trying to look at a picture when your nose was touching the paper. Vortex plopped down on the red leather barstool next to Miss Libby.

“... And that's why there was no Martian Mermaid in the second Ultra Lord and the Escape from Mars,” Sheen finished up. “Have you seen the first two, Miss Libby?”

“No, I haven't. I should, though. It would help me make sense of what you're always rambling on about.”

“Your wish is my command,” Sheen vowed, bowing like a gentleman. He just looked stupid, but it was cute to Libby. Sheen winked at Libs.

Cynthia grumbled something under her breath. 

“What's got ya worked up, Cyn?” Libby asked her best friend. “Still wallowing in the mud over Nick?”

Nick was outside smoking like usual, so it wasn't like he was going to overhear their conversation anytime soon.

Cindy shook her head. “That ship has sailed and sunk, Libs. Neutron made that perfectly clear,” she grumbled. “Besides, who said I needed a relationship?”

Miss Libby shrugged. “Nobody’s saying that, Cyn. So, if it's not Nick, what’s got ya all ruffled?” As if she really needed to ask that one. It was usually Jimmy causing her to get all upset and huffy.

“Neutron,” she spat. 

“Ah,” Miss Libby replied.

Sheen eyed Cindy, desperately wanting to get in on the conversation. He couldn't really keep a secret, either, but he was better at it than Carl. 

“Sheen, could you excuse us?” Libby pardoned, smiling at the bumbling idiot. She knew that her best friend wouldn't want word to get out about anything, especially not Neutron’s friends. Cindy eyed the door and Libby took that as a signal to go outside to the back of the building.

“Oh, sure thing, Miss Libby,” Sheen happily replied. Libby was starting to call him by his first name more often— each time it made his heart soar higher than a commercial airline’s jets. 

She gave him a gracious smile. “Thank you,” Libby nodded. 

“Continue our conversation later? I didn't even go into detail on the third Ultra Lord movie.”

“You know it,” Libby grinned, on her way to the back door. “It won't take long, promise.”

Cindy followed, her kitten heels tapping on the tiles of the Candy Bar. Once she pushed open the door and it clicked shut, she groaned. “So, what's with you and Chuckles all of a sudden?”

“Ah, I don't know,” Libby shrugged. “He's a real sweetheart, though.”

“Figure it out.”

“So, what’s the skinny on Neutron?” Libs asked.

Cynthia let out a deep, guttural sigh and rolled her eyes. “Haven't you noticed that he's been making goo-goo eyes at Betty since she got here?”

Libby nodded, laughing. “Yeah. He's so preoccupied that he can't focus on anything else. It's kinda funny.”

“Infatuation, much?” Cindy grumbled.

“You’re not wrong there. What does that have to do with you, though?” Libby asked, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. “I thought you hated him.”

“I do hate him.”

“So why do you care so much?” 

“I don't,” Cindy denied. She was lying through her teeth and Libby could spot it from a mile away.

“Mmm, I believe I've heard that one before,” Libby stated, hands on her hips. 

“But Betty? She just got here. She'd look a lot better with Nick, anyway,” Cindy grumbled.

“What? So you can have Neutron all to yourself?” Libby smirked.

“No,” Cindy spat.

 “Don't like it that he's paying attention to another girl, do ya?” Libby asked, raising a brow. She was serious.

“Why would I be upset about that?”

“Because you and Neutron would be a good couple and you know it.”

“Libs, you're out of your mind! Do you even hear yourself?” Cindy gasped, offended at her mere accusation that she could have feelings towards that dork. How dare she. Cindy wouldn't date him in a million years. It had been three and a half weeks since their big blow-up and things had hardly gotten better.

“I have ears, Cyn. You just don't want to hear the truth,” Libby argued.

“Libs, I told you I don't like Neutron,” Cynthia growled. “Betty just gets on my nerves.”

“How?”

“She thinks she's all that and a bag of chips,” Cindy stated. “Acts like she's a goody-two-shoes but probably has had her fair share of mischief, if you know what I mean.”

“All because she's after Neutron?”

She shot Libby a glare and then she avoided the question that was obviously directed at her. “I doubt it. I don't know what Neutron sees in her, anyway. There's plenty of other women around here,” Cindy grumbled.

“Like you?” Libby smirked. Cindy had just blindly turned the tables on herself.

“No,” Cindy snarled. “I'm just saying that he and Quinlan wouldn't work. He's a huge doofus and he's trying way too hard.”

“Can't argue with that one,” Libs shrugged. 

She sighed. “What does he see in her?”

“Couldn't tell ya.”

Chapter Text

An aggressive knock came at Sam’s door. It sounded familiar. Too familiar. They weren't going to let up if who was behind that knock was who he thought it was— or were. Knowing snippets of his past, it was probably the three men in Retroville that Sam was all too familiar with. Sam liked to keep quiet about his past, so it was likely only those three men that knew of his awful deeds from the ‘40s. He shuddered to think what they wanted now. More money? Asking for a “job well done?” Hell no. Those days were behind him. The man had deliberately made sure that he couldn’t and wouldn’t make the same mistakes now than when he was in his prime. He’d made a lot of mistakes and was trying to move past them, albeit how old he was. Old people can change, too— just look at Ebeneezer Scrooge. Sam groaned and got up from his desk to answer the door. The hardwood flooring creaked as he stepped towards the oak door of his office. He gripped the bronze doorknob and slowly turned it before opening the door. Outside the door stood three men that Sam wished he never saw again. Or, at least, under different circumstances. Three men stood menacingly at his door: Zix, Travoltron, and Tee…

The biggest one of the bunch was Mr. Tee. Tee had dark skin and a build that could shoot to kill— he could take you out in one swing of his huge fists. It was rumored that he wrestled in his youth and, judging by how beefed up the guy was, he probably still did. Nobody knew for sure. His knuckles were hairy and he had a knot between his brows. He had a prominent brow bone with big, bushy eyebrows. He wore a beard. His tightly coiled black hair was thinning in two spots on his temples and he wore it cropped short. He wasn't that smart, but he could rough you up in the worst way imaginable. A gold chain adorned his neck. He was five foot ten. He always wore brass knuckles and had a switchblade in his pocket if he needed it. Tee usually sported stained wife-beaters and worn work boots that probably needed to be replaced. 

The brains of the group was Zix. He was also five foot ten, a little rounder than the others, and he was a little thin up top. Not to a horrendous extreme, but you could definitely tell why he wore his dark, greasy hair in a side part. His eyes were dark as well. Zix was the leader of his comrades, telling each person what to do in any given situation. He was also the oldest. He had a five o'clock shadow and wore a nice suit that was literally killer— Zix had made a little more than a few kick the bucket when instructed to. The man was lethal, so it was best not to be on his bad side— especially for Sam. Being Mr. Brainy, Zix could usually come up with a solid alibi should he or the boys ever get into some legal trouble. He could also crack a joke or two, which really made being threatened sound a lot less menacing on the surface than what lied beneath. 

The ditz of the trio was Travoltron, but he could talk a big game and was pretty good at smuggling things in for the Dallas crime family— money, weapons, etcetera. He could sweet-talk himself out of any situation, especially when there were ladies around to swoon over him. He was by far the best looking, but it didn't take away from the fact that he was a complete airhead. He had a strong jawline and a dimple in his chin. His eyes were a bright baby blue that were colder than ice. Travoltron’s hair was also slicked back in a pompadour. He was the youngest and stood at six foot two. Another thing about Travoltron is that he was the only Italian one of the group— the others were African-American and Russian-Jewish-American. He was the type for women to notice immediately, which made him an easier target to be found out about. He had to blend in somehow, but he wasn’t about to obstruct his beautifully sculpted face. He had a cigarette in his mouth, but since when didn’t the guy puff a couple tobacco sticks? Travoltron could probably have been a lounge singer for Sam, but he thought the life of crime would pay better. His brows were by far the cleanest. The same thing couldn’t exactly be said for his choice in outfits. He wore a black leather jacket, a tattered pair of jeans, and an old, stained white wifebeater like Tee. 

Zix, Travoltron, and Tee all worked for the Dallas organized crime family. Their boss at the moment was Finbarr Calamitous, a notorious gangster that... well, couldn't finish anything. He was an evil mastermind that could track you down like a bloodhound sniffing out reefer and cocaine. Vito Genovese had called in a personal favor that Finbarr “take care of” Sam. That was not the way things went. Like said before, Finbarr couldn't finish anything.

They each stood there, menacingly. Someone was going to get a one-way ticket to pain if they didn’t comply, and it certainly wasn’t going to be either of the three standing outside of Sam’s office. They came to the Candy Bar at random, but it was usually once a month. 

Sam exhaled sharply and balled a fist. “What do you want, yeah?”

“You don't look so happy to see old friends, Sam,” Zix started, raising a brow. Tee and Travoltron nodded to each other. “We just want a little compensation for what we've done for you.”

Sam shook his head. “You'se no-good varmints, that's that you are, yeah! And you aren't gonna get a dime from me,” Sam replied, crossing his arms.

Welp, the jig was up. He’d probably have to tell his employees— particularly the ever observant James Isaac Neutron— why the not-so-underground mobsters kept visiting him during work hours. Geez, and read out his will while you’re at it. The fella would rather die, but he might have to fess up why he moved to Retroville in the first place. Winni already knew, but that was because they had no secrets from one another— not even Fowl’s affair with Thomas Edison way back in 1924. 

Naughty woman. 

You see, what Sam failed to mention to most people in Retroville was that he moved from the Bronx to Retroville to escape his mafia ties. He tried to flee with Tessie, but she ended up ratting him out. Reaching out to their affiliates, the Genovese family got in touch with their good pal— the Civello family. The Civello family wouldn't be stopped. One man against thousands? Ha! That’s just begging for a death sentence. 

Zix, Travoltron, and Tee, being part of the Civello family, knew all about Sam Melvick, but as long as Sam paid them some cold, hard cash, they would keep his presence in Retroville a dirty little secret. They were bad guys, yes, but they weren't necessarily evil. They were more anti-villains, if anything. They weren’t exactly going out of their way to make it easy for Sam to escape his life as a caporegime, but they did have a little sympathy. Storm clouds always had their silver lining, even if it was very, very transparent. Sam had a life with Tessie and a successful life— Tessie was infertile and Sam was content not to have children, especially in his line of work. A rather large epiphany came to Sam one day, and he couldn’t see the Genovese family the same way ever again, so he begged Tessie to come with him and flee the Bronx. He and Tessie were never married, but they were pretty damn close to it. Sam thought it would be a good idea to get married, but Tessie claimed that she was a wild spirit that couldn’t— wouldn’t— have her wings clipped. The floozy didn’t want to be tied down. Needless to say, marriage was certainly out of the question. Hank McSpanky was essentially the underboss of the Retroville syndicate with Zix being the consigliere, Tee being the caporegime, and Travoltron in the soldier position. While they were all soldiers, they had a little system going on for themselves. It gave everyone something to do and a role to fulfill around their area of expertise— making good food. 

All they were after was a little money to keep McSpanky's House of Steak going. McSpanky's wouldn't interfere with the Candy Bar, and the Candy Bar wouldn't interfere with McSpanky's. It was a good deal that Sam could live with. What other choice did the guy have? It was either that or somebody call the priest because there was a dead man walking. 

“Zix, I think he wants a little trouble,” Tee mumbled in a sinister tone, slipping on his brass knuckles. The guy was itching for a new punching bag to break in. 

“Can it, Tee,” Zix hushed, holding up a hand to signal to the big lug that he should shut his big yapper before he said something that could get them into some issues. 

“What is it ya want, Zix?” Sam grunted, waiting to hear the inevitable “Pay up or we rat you out like we should’ve years ago.” He sighed and braced himself to hear the worst. What would it be next? His bank account? His friends? His loyal employees? They wouldn’t dare, but it was always a possibility. 

“Well, Sam, ol’ pal, it seems we’re running down on our cash, and we figured you could help a fella out,” Zix shrugged, giving a suggestive nod towards the oldster. “It’d be a shame if something were to happen to your bar, your employees, or Winifred,” the round man threatened with a malicious smile on his mouth.

Sam couldn’t let any of those happen. “How much?”

It was bound to be a big number. 

“$4500 by next Friday,” Zix dictated, glaring a cold icy stare into Sam’s blue eyes. “If you’re a day late, consider that Fowl a poached egg, got it?”

Same clutched the aged bronze door handle to resist the rage that boiled deep in his veins. He forced a smile to his face and nodded. “Consider it done.”

Zix smirked an evil one and held out a hand for Sam to begrudgingly shake. “Pleasure doing business.”

“You’re gonna run my business into the ground with these little ‘monthly stipends’, yeah,” Sam grumbled, scoffing at the three men before him. He knew getting into the mafia would end badly, but he could live with being mercilessly threatened— well, maybe not mercilessly threatened— once a month. Sam knew that without the so-called help of those three awful, morally-grey men, he’d probably be getting pretty comfortable in a coffin— six feet underground. 

While they weren’t the best company around the Candy Bar, it was better than being dead. It would take more than a few threats to put Sam’s flame out. He couldn’t ever retire, but that was what happened when you had to lose out on a couple grand every month. That was more than some people made in a year. Thankfully, Sam was pretty well off when it came to his finances(Mafia money was pretty good), but $4500 was still a lot of dough.  

“Ay, Zix, I think he’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” Travoltron uttered, patting Tee on the back. “His chills are most definitely multiplying.”

Tee ran a hand over his shiny brass knuckles and gave a knowing look to Sam that said, “You’re going down.”

Zix glared at the two of them. “Wait on that one, Tee. Sam needs a little time to cough up four and a half grand he owes us before you get the go-ahead.”

“How kind,” Sam murmured sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest.  

“You’re damn right, it’s kind,” Zix snarled, taking a step closer to Sam. He pointed an angry thumb at himself and then an accusatory index finger at the old man, tapping Sam’s sternum in an aggressive manner. His tone was colder than a winter in Siberia. “We’ve been covering for your ass for over ten years now. We didn’t have to, but we did. You could be dead by now; you should be thanking us for our patronage. Would you like us to inform ol’ Vito Genovese about your whereabouts and that you’ve been right under our noses the entire time? Is that really what you want, huh, Sam?”

Sam shook his head.

Zix continued. “That could get us killed, too— this has been going on for too long to back out,” the man explained, narrowing his frozen eyes and leaning on the doorway. “And by the way, losing you means losing money for all of us. We’d be out by thousands and our restaurant would be in shambles. We’d probably get put in the slammer and you’d be dead. Doesn’t sound very profitable to me, now, does it? Makin’ sure you don’t get lynched ain’t cheap.”

“No, yeah,” answered the old man quietly. 

“Glad we’re in agreement. Now, are you gonna quit complaining and get the money or are you gonna be a dead man?” Zix asked, balling a fist. 

“I can get you the money by next Friday,” Sam quietly answered. That was the only safe option the cat had. 

“I’ll hold you to it,” Zix responded. He pushed off the doorway, but stopped after a split second to add another quip for Sam to know. “And don’t think you can get away with it being late this time. Come along, boys,” he scoffed, waving Travoltron and Tee to follow him. 

Sam watched Zix, Travoltron, and Tee leave and he sighed to himself before flipping the “Do Not Disturb” sign that he had on the front of his door, closing the door to his office, and sinking down in his seat. Well, he had temporarily put off his inevitable death, but for how much longer could he keep up the money before he ran out? The gang must have been getting desperate for money— the price of their “protection” had gone up by $500 each month for four months now. They’d started upping it in late August— it was early December now. He wasn’t sure what to do, but it was clear that a working business relationship with Zix, Tee, and Travoltron was set in stone.

Ah, romance. Such a wonderful thing to experience, right? Well, James was pretty damn close to that. Or so he thought. As it turns out, Betty wasn't very sweet on him. Pity the poor, blind fool. Hell, she seemed more interested in Bolbi than in himself. But still, like the ever persistent boy he was, Jimmy was trying to lie to himself that Betty was just having a little trouble warming up to him. Every interaction, at least on her side, made it seem that James was more of a brother figure to her than anything else.

Jimmy wasn't taking it so well. It felt like another one of his inventions had failed, but this time, it wasn't an invention. It was human interaction. The very thing his body was built to do, and the fool couldn't do it. Betty had been there for about a month and a half by now, and she didn't exactly ignore him, but she didn't feed into his obvious affection for her. James tried to keep it a secret, but much like his experiments, that turned out to be a total failure. 

Still, he was determined to try and win her over, even if it meant sacrificing his dignity. Using the newly-developed Hypno Ray wouldn’t be a very good idea. It could break, malfunction, and, in James’s opinion, it was just downright inhumane to use experiments to get what he wanted. Jamesy wanted to do it the old-fashioned way— woo the woman himself, without the need of whatchamacallits, kajiggers, inators, doo-dads, knick-knacks, fingle-fangles, etcetera. 

Jim was making the usual fool of himself around Betty, who had hit the red leather barstools to use her employee discount on wine. James, ever the alcoholic, also ordered a glass of Purple Flurp.

Carl wasn't there. He was out at a petting zoo with Elke. Nobody understood what made Elke have such horrid taste in men, nor how Carl could pull such a wonderful looking lady. Life certainly had its mysteries, didn't it?

Sheen nodded and poured them all a glass of wine, humming an idiotic tune to himself as he did so. The dunce didn't have a care in the world. Jimmy envied him.

Nick was also at the bar, jotting down some more lyrics to his song. Jimmy eyed the title and shot him a glare that Nick didn't catch. What did that fat cat have that Jim didn't? Fame? Fortune? Better looks? Blackened lungs from smoking a pack every day? A limp? Who wants Ol' Charcoal Lungs as a husband?

As one could probably tell, James’s giant ego was deflating like a bouncy house with a small hole in it. Soon enough, there would be a shell of the man he once was.

Betty took a sip of her Flurp.

James also took a sip and decided to start a rather awkward conversation. “Nice weather today, huh?”

Wonderful line there, Jimbo.

“If you call fifty degrees good weather,” she dryly answered, nursing her wine like it was going out of style. So much for savoring your food, eh?

“Well, it's not so bad, Betty,” Jimmy started. 

“How so?”

“Well, we could be like the Midwest states and have three feet of snow. Those small-minded people don't know that they could have some good weather if they just moved a little more to the south.”

“I'm from Illinois,” Betty grumbled, giving him a sideways glance.

Jimmy's face dropped and he adjusted his neckline, gulping down his true feelings. Apparently, that didn't get a laugh out of her. “Oh... Sorry, Betty. I didn't know—”

“Did you say Illinois?” Nick chimed in, throwing a dirty smirk at Neutron.

“Yeah. Born and raised,” she nodded, turning to face Nick Dean.

“Chicago area?” Nick asked.

“No, I'm from Springfield.”

“Springfield’s a nice area. Your parents from there?” Nick inquired, cocking his head slightly. Damn body language.

“Oh, my dad is. My mama’s from China,” Betty nodded, straightening out the wrinkles in her pink uniform.

“Awh, that's real sweet, Betty,” Nick smiled, snaking an arm across the table over to her hand. No contact had been made yet, but it was clear what its intentions were: holding hers. “And how long have they been together?”

“Thirty years,” Betty replied with a grin. She brushed some of her almost-black brown hair away from her face and inched her hand closer until hers was on top of one of his filthy woman-stealing mitts.

Prolonged eye contact.

Sappy smiles.

Something had clicked behind Jim’s back.

Jimmy clenched his teeth. Jealousy burned deep within him like gasoline to an engine. He wanted to berate him, but it would do no good— it wasn't a very smart thing to get after someone for trying to get something that wasn't even yours in the first place. Or someone that wasn't yours in the first place, either. Nick smirked back and shrugged. It was a game of catch and Jimmy had just been thrown a curveball. The ball was out of his reach now. He was doomed to be a third wheel on the wonderful bicycle of romance.

Seeing what was to come next, Jimmy got out of there before he made everything worse for himself. He couldn't bear his competition; it seemed he had lost the game even before it started. Such a pity. He stormed to the break room and slammed the door. Cindy was in there reading a book— Little Women, to be precise. Her blonde hair was done up in pin curls. They were phasing out, but why not go out with a bang? Old Hollywood gals always wore big, fluffy curls. That same bullet of red lipstick from their big blow-up last month sat by a nail file. Her lids sported a dark wine color that made her green irises stick out like a sore thumb. That in combination with the crimson of her lipstick made her look beautiful. She was wearing an olive green frock that accentuated her build in a lovely way that even James had to give her the benefit of the doubt for it. She did, indeed, look radiant. 

A stack of what looked like a long contract was pinned down by her elbow. The manilla folder that obviously held them was tossed aside by an empty bottle of Purple Flurp.

“Someone’s got their panties in a twist today,” she commented, not looking up from her book. Cynthia turned a page. She tore her eyes away from the book, dog-eared the page, closed it, and turned to face Neutron.

James winced as she folded the page. Such a disgrace to printed word and literature itself. That soured his mood just a hair more. He crossed his arms. “What's it to you?”

“You look upset.”

“And what if I am?” the man grumbled, taking a seat across from the woman that tormented his very existence.

“Then I get to say I told you so,” Cindy boldly proclaimed.

“You don't know what this is about.”

“I'll bet I do,” Vortex trilled.

“How much?”

“Is all your life savings a good enough bid to start at?” Vortex laughed, batting an eyelash as if she were innocent. Neutron glared at her. “I told you it wasn't a good idea to go for her, Neutron,” she sighed, re-applying her lipstick.

“Whatever,” Neutron scoffed, rolling his eyes around in his skull.

“There’s better women out there,” Vortex shrugged. “What do you see in her, anyway? There's other fish in the sea, you know.”

“Why do you care?”

“Who says I do?” Cindy snapped back. “You're just asking for some heartache, so you might as well listen up. Go for someone in your league. You'll find someone eventually— and it sure as hell won't be Quinlan. Just be yourself and a nice girl will come along.”

 “Piss off. And what are those for?” Neutron gestured to the papers that her elbow was practically smothering.

Vortex's demeanor did a one-eighty degree turn. A dirty grin replaced the sarcastic look on her face. She swept up the legal documents in her polished hands and straightened them out, clacking them on the top of the wooden table. “Our truce, remember?”

“Please say you're kidding,” Jimmy grumbled, standing up from his seat. He facepalmed and swore under his breath.

“Easy, tiger. If you can withstand watching Mr. Singy-song and Betty be disgusting with each other, you can handle a silly little contract,” Vortex stated with a raised brow. “Sit down.”

Neutron rolled his eyes and settled back down in his creaky chair. It squeaked as he shifted into it. He facepalmed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He drew in a quick breath and let out a sigh sharp enough to draw blood. “This isn't what I meant by suggesting we start over, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Cindy replied with a smirk. She waved his half of the contact in front of his face and then threw them down with a slam in front of the poor dork. “And what better idea to make sure we don't cross a line,” she gave him a glare, “than signing a contract with each other? You know, to really tie things together?”

“I'm not signing it, Cindy,” Jimmy blurted.

“Sure you aren't,” Vortex smiled. “And then when I put in my two weeks’ notice, you'll be to blame!” She gave him a seemingly innocent smile and nodded as if she wasn't trying to blackmail him into signing a contract that would no doubt serve his dignity up on a silver platter— and there'd be evidence, too. Horrible, horrible, demeaning evidence.

Jimmy shuddered to think what would happen if those papers got into the wrong hands, Cindy excluded from that bunch. Her hands were already the wrong grubby mitts to be holding onto the damn contract. It was humiliation on paper; a public declaration of his weakness to blackmail. That was the worst sin of all.

“You wouldn't be so petty to quit your job over a contract,” Jimmy excused.

“Wanna bet?” she threatened with a naughty look on her mug, standing up from her seat.

The man groaned. “Fine. You got a pen?”

“Of course, Mr. Neutron. Glad we're in business, Neutron,” Cindy grinned. She held out a hand to shake.

He refused it. Instead of a formal agreement, all that escaped the guy was, “I can't believe I'm doing this.” Jimmy shook his head and sighed with the sassiness of a thousand Miss Libbies. “And what exactly are the terms to this agreement?”

“Oh, nothing much, Neutron; just a few things that could improve our professional relationship, that's all,” Cindy innocently responded.

He snatched his papers and skimmed through the first page.

It read:

The Vortex-Neutron Pact

December 7th, 1965

I, James Isaac Neutron, solemnly swear not to violate the following:

• Insult Cynthia Aurora Vortex 
• Tell her off about her family
• Be a doofus
• Insult Liberty Danielle Folfax
• Brag about my inventions— humble bragging is also off the table
• Destroy public property 
• Flirt with Betty Quinlan
• Speak of subjects I know nothing about
• Pretend I'm snazzy
• Spend time gabbing on about things nobody understands, nor would they give a flying [redacted] to try to

Signature:

X________________________________

I, James Isaac Neutron, hereby admit to the following:

I am (a/an)...

• Dork
• Snake
• Self-absorbed suburban kid
• College dropout
• Broke
• Extreme moron
• Left-brained know-it-all

Signature:

X_______________________________

By signing my signature, I, James Isaac Neutron, shall be permitted by law to follow rules, such as:

• Giving most, if not all, of my on-stage time at the Candy Bar to my peer or colleague, Cynthia Aurora Vortex.
• Calling Cynthia Aurora Vortex the preferred name of “Miss Majesty Herself, the Beautiful Gorgeous Cynthia Aurora Vortex”
• Admitting that I, James Isaac Neutron, am only skilled at left-brain activities, such as math, science, and engineering, and that Cynthia Aurora Vortex is skilled in the arts, including, but not limited to: t'ai chi, painting, vocal music, music in general, and English lessons.
• Taking Cynthia Aurora Vortex out to dinner when she pleases

I, Jamea Isaac Neutron, am officially the colleague/peer of Cynthia Aurora Vortex.

Signature:

X_____________________________

Jimmy slammed the papers down. “Uh-uh. No way, no how, missy. I'm not calling you ‘Miss Majesty Herself, the Beautiful Gorgeous Cynthia Aurora Vortex.’”

“Oh, but it has such a good ring to it,” she sarcastically complained. “Couldn't hurt you to say it again now that you've already said it once.”

He scoffed at her. Neutron held up the contract as if he was about to tear the poor thing in half. They both knew he was too much of a wingnut to actually go through with it. Doofus. “No.” 

“Ah, come on. It really rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?”

“No.”

“Libs got away with it,” Cindy excused, shrugging her shoulders.

“One key difference there, Cindy,” Jimmy retorted.

“And what's that?”

“People actually respect her,” Jimbo smirked.

She shot him an offended face, but they both knew that one was true. “That was uncalled for.”

“Your face is uncalled for.”

“Not as bad as your hairdo,” the woman snickered. “Pompadours are phasing out, Elvis. Now can we sign the contract?”

“Oh, says Miss Pin Curls?” he shot back, arms crossed.

Cindy rolled her eyes. “Mmm, real mature, Neutron. I can be Miss Pin Curls, but not Miss Majesty Herself, The Beautiful Gorgeous Cindy Aurora Vortex?” 

“Right on,” he replied with a dirty grin.

“Sign the damn contract,” she growled.

“I'd need a pen first, dearest Cynthia,” the genius inquired, innocently batting his eyelashes at her. 

“Say that again and I'll shove a pen down your throat,” the snake hissed.

“Deal.”

Cindy reached into her purse and got him a standard ballpoint pen to write with.

He took it and their hands accidently brushed together. The two locked eyes and immediately aborted their mission when it came down to that. Yuck. Awkward much?

They were silent for a moment. Awkwardness was a new thing for him and Vortex, and it was rearing its ugly head and bucking, trying desperately to get them off the saddle. Life wasn't always a rodeo, not even in Texas.

“How long did it take for you to get all of this written down?” Jimmy asked. “Who helped you with it?”

“My dad’s an attorney, so not too long. It's all perfectly legal,” Cindy snickered.

“Besides the blackmail,” he grumbled.

“Besides the blackmail,” Cindy happily repeated, a satisfied grin on her gorgeous face.

After reading through the terms and conditions, Jimmy begrudgingly signed the contract with his loopy, loopy, loopy signature. His dignity was already down the gutter anyway.

Chapter Text

Cold nights at the library were magical. The fresh smell of a new book. Thick, felty pages that were almond colored. Newly printed letters on said pages. Glossy hardback covers with gold letters on it. The way the indentations felt under your fingertips. Dim light at a desk that you’d been reading at so much that the chair had a groove in it that only you could fit in comfortably. Gentle, quiet ticking of the overhead clock telling you that it's almost seven o’clock.

Outside, the night sky was an inky black with bright stars that twinkled like someone threw a bag of glitter into the sky with a rocket— like the aftermath of one of the glittering fireworks at New Year’s and the Fourth of July. Fluffy whitish-gray clouds covered the bright moon, shining like a spotlight on a stage at nearly all times. Black silhouettes of forgotten tree branches surrounded the town, casting dreary shadows onto the dimly lit pavement. Warm yellow street lights illuminated the scratchy gray concrete sidewalk and the dark gray asphalt road that had potholes and a plethora of cracks in it.

The night was cold in late December— about thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, at least according to the thermometer gun that James invented purely to spite the weatherman because he was always inaccurate. And Jimmy’s intellect was far superior to that damn weatherman anyway.

James usually went to the library on his nights off when he wasn't having dinner with his parents or going to McSpanky’s for a juicy ribeye.

Frequent visits turned into long nights in a small corner in the science and engineering section of the Retroville Library.

The local librarian, Amber, knew Jimmy’s schedule to a T. In fact, there were a few occasions where the woman had to wake up the fool because it was time to close up the shop and James had fallen asleep reading about quantum theory and chemical compositions. Being shaken awake wasn't his proudest moment, but it let the knowledge from the latest Theory of Solids-esque books that the library had to keep stocking up because some of those books would miraculously “go missing”. Jimmy was the prime suspect for their disappearance, seeing as the guy was the only dork who read anything belonging in the science section; however, the library didn't exactly care… 

… Much. 

At this point, they were practically giving them away to him. He was the only reason why that part of the library was as extensive as it was in the first place! His library card was worth the small fee ten times over.

On this particular night, dear ol’ Jamesy had a genius plan— and it was not to read through Redox titration or the makeup of piranha solution, no sir! It was a simple thing; a trivial matter, really. He moved to a section so foreign to him that he probably needed a map to navigate it. The twenty year old slowly tiptoed towards the self-help section. 

Hey! Give the doofus a break; Jimmy had to figure out how to win over Betty in some way, and this was a desperate last option. A very desperate last option— emphasis on the ‘very’. Time and Nick Dean were outrunning him in the marathon race for Betty’s hand. Nick was dangerously close to the finish line— there was no way Jimmy was going to win the woman over with his wit and knowledge. There was something that Nick had that he didn't; Jimmy didn't know what, exactly.

Money? The man had a gaping hole in his wallet, so that was a start. Nick was loaded. Charisma— wait a second, Jimmy had a ton of that… Well, at least he thought so. Others, like Betty? Or even worse, Cindy, probably didn’t. How could such a goddess and such a mangy rat with makeup on even coexist in the same working environment? But then again, that Cynthia wasn’t exactly bad looking… 

... James couldn’t exactly deny that she was one of the hottest bombshells in town… 

But that’s beside the point! If there was anything that could help him succeed in wooing the fair lady Elizabeth Victoria Quinlan, it was going to be something that Nick didn't have. If he was to win her over and gain her as a wife or lover, life would be just perfect. After all, wives should always be lovers, too. Day after day, there were girls at the office, and men would always be men. Maybe they would move to a place in the Midwest and start a family. Or they could run off to—

Cool it, Jim! She’s not your woman.

He skimmed through the foreign faction of the library until he found a suitable booklet to check out, lovingly named True Love Guide by Lane Shearer. James flipped over the cover and looked at the first page. It said:

True Love Guide

the story of love

by

Lane Shearer

How To Woo, Win, and Hold 

Marriage Problems

Solved

Jimmy’s face contorted into a disgusted and embarrassed expression as he read through the title page. He flipped through it and there were only a mere 64 pages in the book. To make any sense of romance and charisma, he’d probably need a whole encyclopedia.

As James read through the first few pages, he saw a familiar figure walking outside through the glossy plexiglass window. That luscious dark, silky hair, her stature, hell, even the confident way she carried herself lured him to be a complete fool around anyone and everyone when she was present. The woman practically emitted nitrous oxide that Jimmy was addicted to. Whippet was a serious drug, as was his feelings for such a woman. Her presence was addictive and intoxicating and Jimmy was head over heels for Betty. Had Quinlan only worked there for two months? Sure— but you can surely find true love when you’ve known someone for two months. Don’t look at him like he’s crazy. The only crazy that James was, was crazy for Betty Quinlan. That or he was a mad scientist just waiting to happen.

He skimmed through the book, scouting for any and all tips on the art of seduction that he could get his grubby little paws on before he slammed it shut, put it back on the shelf, grabbed for his coat, and dashed out the door to greet the beauty that was Miss Betty V. Quinlan. She was the one girl that he loved just a hair more than science. It may sound shallow, but the guy loved science, don't get your brain twisted up, alright? James scampered to get out of the library that he nearly forgot everything he left on his usual chair in the science corner.

Pushing through the shiny black-framed glass door with little white letters that said “Retroville Library,” James was shaky and trying to act as nonchalant as possible so as to not cause any alarm to his dearest— Oh, shut up!

He speed-walked as casually as his legs could handle without cramping up and giving him a charley horse. Glancing up ahead, Betty had clearly not noticed him. It was ‘go’ time.

“Funny seeing you here, Betty,” Jimmy called from a few yards behind, running a hand through his brunet hair. It was a smooth line on paper, but it was just embarrassing if you were the one being called out at a quarter past seven when you were on your way home from a walk. Places like Retroville were safe enough, but you could never be too careful.

Recognizing that overly egotistical voice of his, Betty turned around with a smile. She held up a dainty hand and waved hello. “Oh, hey, Jimmy. I was out on a walk— had to get a few things from the post office.”

“Oh, what kind of things?” inquired the fool.

“Stamps,” dryly replied the woman. “So, uh, what are you doing out here?”

“I was at the library looking for a book,” he quickly answered, not wanting to give any details about which book, exactly. “And then again, I could ask you the same question, Betty.” Jimmy smiled like a lovesick idiot.

Betty raised a brow and folded her arms across her deep mauve peacoat. “You just did?” 

“I'm just kidding,” he excused, waving a dismissive hand. Real nice save there, Jim. “Ready for work tomorrow?”

“Not particularly, but it gets the bills paid,” she shrugged. 

“Mmm,” James acknowledged, digging at the fine Swiss-Miss-hot-cocoa-mix-colored dirt from the barren, destroyed anthills between the wide cracks in the sidewalk with the toe of his shoes. “I get that.”

“Yep,” she replied. “You?”

“I guess. 

 “So…” Jimmy trailed off, unsure of what to say to fill the silence. He fiddled with his hands. “Seeing anyone?”

Betty took a second for a long sigh that Jimmy didn't notice because he was too nervous to see that she clearly wasn't interested in him in the slightest. She sucked her teeth and put on a happy face. If she could just put him down nicely, a catastrophe would surely be avoided. “Oh, yeah… It's Nick.”

“Mmm. I'm happy for you,” he replied weakly. He was lying through his teeth and they both knew it, but it was better to keep appearances than speak your mind sometimes. He'd already lost the marathon, claiming Nick Dean as the sole winner of the gold medal that was Betty’s hand in marriage. Or anything else, for that matter. There was no silver or bronze medal waiting for him. This was the kind of situation where there was only one winner and a plethora of losers. Jimmy started to feel the dull pressure of onset heartbreak start to grow little by little like an inchworm inches his way across a branch to eat a leaf. James felt like that leaf, and heartbreak had come to nibble away at him until he eventually wilted, becoming a husk of the man he once was. Neutron had seen this coming from a mile away, but now that he’d heard what he'd been dreading for weeks? A wave— or rather, a tsunami— had crashed into him that would take weeks, if not longer, to repair.

She, sensing how bone-crushing that must've been for him to hear, patted his shoulder sympathetically. “I'm sorry, Jimmy.”

Jimmy shook his head. He felt like a fool for saying this, but he couldn't let Betty see that his soul had been shattered into tiny, unfixable pieces. If he were made of clay, he'd have crumbled into dust like greenware. “Hey, no! I did not mean that connotation,” he nervously laughed, “I was just looking for a conversation starter, you know? Sorry ‘bout that.”

She sucked her teeth. “Jimmy, it was nice to see you, but I have to go— it's getting late,” Betty excused, growing uncomfortable in such an awkward situation. “Goodnight.” She turned and walked a little faster paced than earlier. 

“‘Night,” he called. 

James was left feeling the very essence of the experience of being a jester in a jail cell after the king had thrown him in the slammer. The achy-breaky, fragile feeling that filled his chest throbbed painfully as the slow realization that Betty never wanted him like that in the first place came into the light. He turned the other way and started to trudge home. Nick. What did she see in him, anyway? Was he cool, musically gifted, witty, good-looking, and well-groomed? Come to think of it… yes— but Jimmy was all that, too! Not to mention was he smart, clever, and…

Well...

... not that great at romance… 

All that reading up on natural selection and Jimmy had unexpectedly turned out to be a prime example. It was a shame, really. The giant steamroller of disappointment had just nabbed him on the heel and he was getting crushed under the weight of such despair, and it surely wasn't going to stop until it had paved the road for a new beginning. Yuck.

He'd never have the chance to tell her how he feels. Never the chance to hold her; kiss her. Weeks upon weeks of yearning for no discernible reason only to have his love spurned, leaving him to feel like the nastiest and saltiest of slugs, shrivelling up on the pavement as he waited for the cold, icy embrace of death to force his last breath. Maybe James should've given up a while ago, but determination was his middle name. Hold on, no, it was Isaac, but the guy laughed in the face of impossibility, so maybe it was a synonym or something. Go figure.

Then again, there were always other women in the sea. But if those women were anything like Betty, they'd always find someone better to settle for.

He sadly trudged to his car across the street, not bothering to check for any incoming traffic. James saw the ancient dried-up worm carcasses and felt like he should join them. After all, it would solve his problem with loneliness. Not that he would actually think of going through with such things, but it was certainly better than—

Hold on just a second there, fella. He subtly hit on her, she caught onto it, and to top it off, they had to work tomorrow night. You know what? Maybe being dead was a better alternative than dealing with the awkwardness.

James turned the ignition to his car and felt the rumble of the engine as he thought through his one-sided options. He obviously wasn't going to end it all over a gentle rejection, but it still a complete and total bummer. Gripping the steering wheel as hard as he could, Jimmy slowly drove home and tried not to let his feelings resurface. If he knew what was good for himself, he'd let those feelings drown along with his hope of finding another woman like Betty. Had his pain been a real, physical object, it would probably be a second-degree sunburn. It stung, and it stung bad.

Passing by warm yet dim yellow street lamps and frosted-over phthalo green lawns, he pulled into his dark concrete driveway, parked his car, turned the key, and stepped out. Jimmy's keys jangled as he unlocked the first security system of his front door. Plucking a shiny, smooth brown filament from his perfectly groomed swirly pompadour, he held it up to the peephole and a laser scanned it. He heard the series of automatic clicks from the other side of his glazed oak door and after about fourteen and a half seconds, he heard the ding! sound giving him the go-ahead to finally open his door. Although Jamesy didn't own things of all that much value besides his genius inventions, he still couldn't risk anyone robbing him, even if they could bypass all of his tedious and somewhat obnoxious security procedures. 

Goddard yipped and greeted him at the door. A boost of serotonin from seeing his favorite little guy barking and being so happy to see him.

“Aww, hi, boy! I missed you too,” as he knelt down and let Goddard slobber him in doggy kisses. “Were you being a good boy while I was gone?”

“Arf!” the dog barked, rolling on his back, his beady blue eyes sparkling with happiness. He pawed at Jimmy as he got lots of kisses and belly rubs from his owner.

Jimmy had a grin that he couldn't wipe off even with the help of turpentine. It was a good distraction from the mallet pounding on his heart, trying to squash the thing like it was a dirty centipede. 

Goddard yipped at him again and licked his pants before strutting to his bed, circling around for a while, and settling down like the best gosh darn boy there ever was. 

A small while later, he stood up straight, pulled out a chair to his small dining room table, and plopped down like a sack of rocks. A long, heavy sigh escaped him and he held his abnormally large cranium in his hands, wondering how he could have been such a fool to think that Betty would ever want to be associated with the likes of a candyass like him. Jimmy hated to admit it, but he might as well have. “Cindy was right,” he muttered to himself. 

That small admission really made his thoughts tick.

Also, why was he having the sudden craving for anything jasmine flavored or scented?

Back on topic, Jimmy had the most peculiar thought flash through his mind. Why should he care what Cindy said? Was it that she was right this time, or the fact that she was usually right? Was it something of a different breed entirely? Why would he care?

How could he?

And, most importantly:

Why did he?

The next day, the bar was mostly empty. That and it was almost closing time. Jimmy had called off sick for reasons unknown (although Cindy could make a pretty good educated guess) and Carl was off on a date with Elke to somewhere extremely romantic— the local pharmacist’s and then a trip to the new petting zoo in downtown Retroville.

Sheen had his D.A hairstyle perfectly groomed because this day was a very special day. Well, it was normal for him, but if he was going to have any New Year’s kiss in a few days, it was a must for the guy to have to lay it all down on the line sooner rather than later. It wasn’t much of a problem for Sheen, as he was a bit of a dunce and he saw the glass half full instead of half empty like a certain someone (*cough cough* the one and only Carl Wheezer *cough*). This wasn’t a night of getting blitzed when Sam wasn’t looking. It was going to be a night of progress. 

All of the lights were dim and the checkered floor was mopped as quickly as Bolbi could say, “Slap, slap, slap! Clap, clap, clap!” It was a romantic setting. Soft pinks and subtle oranges filled the room from the stage, courtesy of the help of Jimmy a few days ago. Pink was a favorite color of Miss Libby’s, and good glory, could she pull off bubblegum like a pro. The way she did her makeup accentuated her facial features to the point where she looked more like an angel rather than just a pretty woman. To Sheen, she was a godsend. If his incessant pestering hadn't worn her down just yet, he was always up for another round of compliments, free drinks, and more talk of UltraLord and the Escape from Mars.

Cindy had checked off from work early that night. She had that foreboding feeling that something was going to happen that could be potentially alarming and she wasn't going to stick around for when that came. That, and she needed to call Neutron and ask why he wasn't at work— she needed to rub his rejection in his face. Betty talked, even if it wasn't directly with Cindy. Either way, she was still loud enough to be heard, and by golly, Cynthia needed to rub some salt in that wound.

Sam was out back doing… something..?

Anyway, the bar was pretty empty; Carl and Elke were out on a date, and Nick and Betty had mysteriously disappeared with no warning. If Sheen was a complete idiot and had no concept of social cues, the guy would have surmised that they, too, were out on a date as well— but that was crazy talk.

The only man in the kitchen was Bolbi, but nobody talked to him. All he wanted to talk about was one of five things: finding a husband for Ignishska, Shakespeare, the Slap-Clap dance, kabobs, and Backhairistan.

Bolbi was so indescribably bland that even gnats flew somewhere else. Maggots could find better solace than in an open lesion of his (if he had them, of course). Bolbi smelled like rotting eggs and stew on a daily basis. What was more concerning, was that this wasn’t because he had lack of hygiene— no, no, it was something different; the stench was his cologne.

In his words, “Backhairistan cologne make Bolbi attract the womens.”

Its name was Eau de Kaboby, whatever that meant. The presence of ol’ Stroganofski was the equivalent of toilet water splashing up in your unmentionables after dropping a deuce into the porcelain throne.

Sheen didn’t mind it, though. It gave the Candy Bar some character. He liked Bolbi well enough, but they weren’t exactly on the same frequency of dim-wittedness. Bolbi was washing dishes like usual— besides, he was banned from showing his face in the main parlor because he tried to make Mayor Quadar’s wife do the Slap-Clap dance with him when Miss Libby was singing The Continental a few months back. As if that was what that song was about. Ick. 

Sheen was, once again, wiping down the bar. It was becoming a pretty bad habit while he was at work. The Candy Bar’s bar top always felt dirty— grimy— even with all of the cleaning that went on behind the scenes. At least with his help, he would eradicate those naughty germs. It was more of a game than an incessant nuisance.

After a short while, Miss Libby decided to show her face and make her grand entrance. His gaze followed her like a hitman hot on the trail of his victim. A keen eye never hurt anything, right? Libby’s hips swayed as she sauntered over and sat down. Her lovely smooth dark skin was radiant, glowing. With what, Sheen couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe she was drinking radium? Although that had been out of fashion since 1932… Either way, who cared? 

“Oh, hey, Libby!” greeted the Chicano. “How’s life treating ya?” 

That managed to get a little chuckle out of her. Success. “Not too bad, Sheen. What’s got you so chipper?”

An excited chill tickled its way up his spine in a giddy fashion. Sheen shrugged and wrung out with wet rag in the sink under the bar. He hummed a dumb off-key tune to himself as he poured her a glass of Purple Flurp. Libby found herself smiling a little more. Was it stupid? Obviously. Endearing? Absolutely. Sheen cleared his throat and answered her question… with another question. “You know how you said you’d have to watch the UltraLord movies?”

“I can recall that, yes,” she replied, raising a perfect brow. She brushed a bit of her voluminous silk pressed hair aside. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sheen shrugged again and handed over the wine glass. She took it, their fingers brushing together slightly. His pulse spiked. Sheen was street-smart, though— he was more than capable of handling something like that. He just smiled like a goofball at her until she raised her brow higher. 

“What?”

“You wanna go to the drive-in together? They’re playing the first one again next Tuesday,” Sheen suggested, leaning his elbows on the counter, looking deep into her tapioca pearl-esque irises. 

“Sheen-”

“Un momento,” he interrupted, holding a finger up as he dug for something underneath a space behind the counter. 

“Sheen, what are you talking about? Like… like a date?” Libby asked, looking very, very confused. She crossed her gloved arms and shook her head. “You’re serious?”

Sheen looked up from his mindless— well, maybe not mindless— digging and nodded with a giant grin on his face. He cleared his throat again. “I have something to show you.”

Libby internally groaned. “What is it?”

He held up something covered up by a cloth napkin. Making swoosh noises with his mouth, Sheen unsheathed what looked to be a small porcelain figure that looked like it had got caught in a fire and melted a little. The figure itself was a small man in a purple suit. There were no other distinguishable traits to the small figurine besides its obvious trauma. “This is Meltyface— he got caught in the middle of a... uh, tragic incident... but I love him just the same…” He swallowed hard. “I want you to have him.”

A defected miniature? Miss Libby hesitantly took it, but didn’t exactly know what to do with the distressed mound of porcelain. What was this supposed to mean? “Can I ask why?”

“Because I love you more,” he shrugged, a peppy grin on his face. Sheen didn't ask for much in return. 

She didn’t doubt that. “What's the meaning behind Meltyface?” Libby asked, gazing into his big brown eyes. 

Sheen’s grin faltered. 

“Sheen..?”

He stared off into space for a few seconds as he regained composure and he took an involuntary breath in. Libby noticed that it was a little shaky— she was internally kicking herself. Curse her curious nature! Sheen pursed his lips, and he kept the grin on his face. There was no point in being upset, what happened was done and over with a long time ago. And that was okay. 

“Sheen..? You okay?”

He nodded and grunted, signalling 'yes'. Sheen swallowed again and began to explain. “Well, Meltyface used to be my mother’s. She used to love miniatures and everything,” Sheen answered, looking over the figure. His eyes had a far away, distant look to them. Poor guy was trying to be positive, but he couldn't exactly be positive about something so life-altering. 

Libby took his hand as he looked over his trinket to distract himself. She traced small circles onto his knuckles. “Is it okay if I ask what happened to her?”

“Of course,” Sheen nodded with a sigh. He swallowed again, looking her in the eyes. “It happened a while ago, back in 1953. I was ten years old and my dad wanted to go on a fishing trip. My mother had left a candle burning by the curtains while she cleaned around the house… It caught on fire…” He paused. Libby gave his hand a gentle squeeze and he gave her a sullen smile. Sheen set the miniature on the counter, right next to her wine glass. He cleared his throat and continued. “By the time anyone called the fire department, it was too late… This was one of the only salvageable things they found.”

Libby looked shocked. She had no idea of his family history— it was a horrible feeling that this was how she found out. “Oh… my goodness, Sheen… I… I'm so sorry— really. I have no idea how hard that must have been… Are you alright?”

Sheen shrugged it off and nodded, putting on his usual smile. How could he switch his demeanor so quickly? “‘Course I'm alright. Life goes on. I'll always miss her, but as long as I got this,” he reached into the neckline of his shirt and waggled a rosary, “I know I'll see her again.”

Libby gave him a gentle, encouraging smile and softly tightened her grip on his hand. “I know you will.” Sheen said nothing, but he smiled back. He squeezed her hand in return. She continued. “And I'd love to go to the drive-in with you.” Miss Libby leaned in and kissed his cheek before she stood from her stool, dusted off her gorgeous bubblegum pink frock, grabbed her purse. and left for the night.

Had Sheen's grin gotten any bigger, he probably would have needed stitches to fix it. “I'll call you when it comes around!” he called from behind the bar.

She stuck her head in the doorway again. “You better!”

That same night, Sam stood behind the back exit of the Candy Bar. The inky pitch darkness of night was so cold, so freezing, that one could see their breath as a small, wispy, transparent cloud of vapor in the light of the night sky’s natural spotlight. 

The stars weren't visible because of the eerie and murky dark gray clouds. It surrounded Sam like guilt— or rather, a dirty secret. After all, the guy did have some pretty filthy ones to keep confidential. Hidden inside his long, heavy black leather trench coat was a stained, beat-up white envelope with the amount of money that Zix, Travoltron, and Tee had requested: forty-five Benjamin Franklins. 

He felt as if he was going to get robbed, but what good is getting mugged when that was essentially what Zix & Co. were doing in the first place? Their protection wasn't free, yeah. Thankfully, he had a plan if things went sour. A man like Sam wasn't so foolish to be unequipped in such a dire situation. Feathers could easily get ruffled.

For what felt like hours, Sam Melvick waited for them to show up. It was nearing ten o’clock, or at least, that was what his fancy wristwatch had told him. In the dim light from the warm streetlamp’s distant glow from around the corner, Sam saw the glint off of the gold ring that he knew all too well. The gold ring belonged to Tee— he wore a plethora of gold; i.e, rings, watches, chains, teeth… You get it. He turned around and backed himself into the brick foundation of his humble establishment. 

One by one, all three of the big scary men revealed their positions from the shadows of the alley behind the Candy Bar— they were darker than a black hole. With the help of Neutron, they probably could have been turned into one if need be. First was Zix in a dark and murderous suit, second was Travoltron, and third and lastly was Tee. All three of the men had a cold, sinister, suspicious glint in their eyes. 

Zix’s eyes were the color of frozen mud and harsh shadows contoured the lines on his face. He cleared his throat and spoke in a hoarse, hushed voice. “You got the cash, Sam?”

“Yeah,” he answered, barely audible. Sam dug into his trench coat and found the envelope that contained the 4500 big boys. 

“You better fork it over if you don't want any trouble, Sammy boy,” Zix growled, narrowing his eyes. The shadows casted on the man’s face from the low, barely-there light made him look as threatening and scary as an angry German shepherd bearing its teeth. Not exactly the kind of thing you'd love to deal with on a Saturday night. 

“This is the last time, get off my back, will ya? Yeah!” grumbled Sam. 

Travoltron butted in. “Baby, get movin’. Why keep ya feeble hopes alive?”

Zix laughed sarcastically and shoved Travoltron to the ground, glaring at him. After dusting off his suit, he spoke, folding his arms across his chest. “Y’know, Sam, Travoltron makes a pretty compelling point. What have you got to lose besides your life at this point?”

“My reputation, my bar, Winni. That could be a start, yeah,” sarcastically answered the crotchety bastard. He crossed his arms.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Zix clicked, shaking his head with faux sympathy. “You threw all hopes of that away when we struck our deal, remember?” He jolted closer and snapped a finger. “You never shoulda came here, Sam.”

Tee grabbed hold of Sam's collar, almost choking the poor guy. “You’d better give us that money or you're going down, old man,” the tank uttered into Sam’s ear.

“Let me go,” Sam strained. 

From the stygian shadows, Travoltron came from behind and snatched the envelope, returning it to Zix. Zix patted Travoltron on the back. “Nice work, Travoltron.”

Travoltron nodded as a thank-you and turned to Sam, getting all up close and personal with his mug. “You better shape up, bucky. You're practically asking for a death sentence with how hopelessly devoted you are to your restaurant. There ain't nowhere you can hide.”

Tee’s death grip miraculously tightened. Sam could feel his blood start to pool in his arms, feeling the pressure rise and his arms swelling up. 

Zix narrowed his eyes. “Tee.”

“Finish him off?”

“No,” Zix facepalmed. “Let him go. He paid up. We’ll see you next month, eh?”

“Never,” Sam spat, checking his neck over with a hand. “I'm done. You guys are runnin’ me into the ground, yeah.”

One glance from Zix and Tee was about to go ballistic on the guy. Luckily for Sam, there was someone he'd called to supervise their so-called get-together from a distance. He just had to say the safe word (or phrase, for that matter): “crunch time...”

...Which is exactly what he did.

“Ooh, is it crunch time already?” Sam asked a little louder than what seemed natural. Zix, Travoltron, and Tee didn't catch it. Perfect— they weren't supposed to. “Fine, fine. By all means, go ahead.”

From around the corner, a figure in a trench coat, a heavy bowler hat, and military boots snuck behind with a baseball bat and beat Tee over the head with it, knocking him out cold. Travoltron helped and Zix threw a punch before getting knocked to his knees by said baseball bat. Sam gazed lovingly at the fiery spirit freeing him from such a burden. 

Slowly, the figure stopped and helped Sam to his feet, taking off the bowler hat. The man behind the mask… was no man at all.

“Winifred,” he whispered, a gracious grin on his face. Sam gave Fowl a quick peck on the lips before taking her hand.

“Long time, no see, honey,” she squawked. There was a long moment of silence before she quietly muttered, “We shoulda thought of this years ago.”

“That'll teach them for milking my wallet dry all these years,” Sam spat.

“Thank goodness I used to be a rodeo girl. This is about as easy as dealing with an angry bull,” Fowl laughed. “Are you alright..?”

“Yes, thanks to you,” Sam grinned. “Come on, let's go home and watch The Tonight Show.”

“I'd love that,” Winifred smiled, taking his hand. “What do you say about leaving these fellas here?”

“Eh,” he muttered. “Maybe you talked some sense into 'em.”

Winifred laughed and they were on their way.

Chapter Text

The Candy Bar was packed. The rumbling vibrations of overlapping conversations buzzed throughout the vicinity of the backstage area, even if they were shielded from such a crowd. After taking three sick days, Cindy was fed up with the excuses. Neutron was full of excuses, almost to the point of spilling over and leaving some spare excuses for the rest of his coworkers. Go figure. Neutron had said over the phone that he had caught the flu or some B.S. that Cynthia didn’t exactly care much to remember. Flu? In his dreams. He’d be lucky to actually be sick after that embarrassing stunt that he pulled with Betty the other night. She didn’t exactly have a reason— well, at least not a good one— for why she wanted to know the inside scoop on Neutron.

Could it be that she wasn’t as cynical and presumably heartless as she made it look..? 

Nah. 

Betty talked, even if it wasn’t directly to Miss Pin Curls. By that point, everyone (excluding Carl and Sheen because they were dimmer than a broken lightbulb left in a dark basement for twenty-three years) knew about what had happened between the two of them last week. Well, now that you mention it, she might have been eavesdropping on a private conversation between Betty and Nick over by the back alley when she was on a smoke break…

"Everyone" was a bit of an exaggeration…

And she may or may not have told Miss Libby, but she knew that Libs wouldn’t tell a soul. Rejection was a mouth-puckeringly sour flavor— dearest darlingest James Neutron would just have to get used to the taste of it for a while. Sucks to suck, doesn’t it?

Sitting at her vanity and basking in the warm yellow light that came from the bulbs around her mirror that was lovingly adorned with polaroids and notes from Libby, Cindy stared at her tube of red lipstick that lay in her hand. Her manicure was a polished frosty pink that looked like a sheer yet sparkly eyeshadow on her nails. She rotated the smooth, cold, bright, shiny gold lipstick tube around in her hand, studying the reflection of light off of the metal.

She was wondering what was up with Neutron. Not that she exactly cared, but three days of going AWOL with no reason other than someone got a little puncture in their overly inflated ego? Poor baby! Whatever is the rest of the Candy Bar to do when their leader is gone? Cindy smirked at the thought. He was probably overthinking everything and freaking himself out or making some sort of invention to give himself more charisma or something. Did she pity him? Clearly. Was she jealous? Well, that was for her to know and for no one else to find out— well, besides Miss Libby… 

But she’d never tell. 

Neutron was an idiot, if anything. Cindy had better things to do than waste her time with that. She sighed to herself and smeared on another perfect layer of crimson red lipstick. Stopping dead in her tracks, a peculiar thought flashed through her head like lightning. That was the same bullet of lipstick that Neutron had used just two and a half months ago after their big argument. Why she hadn’t realized the significance of such a thing before, Cynthia couldn’t put her finger on it. Surely she must have missed it by pure mistake, right? Libs was right— she should’ve thrown out that tube of lipstick. She set it down and made sure it was out of her sight so she didn’t have to think about it. Vortex made eye contact with her reflection and she just stared at it until another horrid thought weaseled its way into her conscious mind: what if you like Neutron?

Cindy shoved the thought out as quickly as it popped up. Her? With him? Yeah, didn’t think so. Reminder, this was the same guy that compared the good Cynthia Vortex to her shrew of a mother— not exactly the best look on your report card, right? She had called him on the phone more than a few times this week, yes, but that was to try and get him to admit that the only “sick to his stomach” he was feeling was having a little spurned feelings. If he was working himself up that much, it was no wonder why he had been perpetually single for his entire life. But then again— no! How could she think of something so…? 

So…? 

Well, Cindy couldn’t think of the word to describe what she was feeling, but it was a mix of repulse and embarrassment with a pinch of anxiety. Even if she did, just as a non-suggestive example, have a fancy towards Neutron, that would be the type of hypothetical crush that was more over “how did this happen?” than anything else. Not that James was— dare she say it— ugly, but he challenged her and it wasn’t a big secret that she couldn’t stand it when the fool thought he was right. That, and his hairstyle was like whippy-dip. Pomade was fine, but Neutron obviously didn’t undertand the phrase, “less is more.”

Back onto the phone topic, Neutron had actually called her. Twice— not that Cindy was counting. He had only phoned her to engage in petty squabbles over valence electrons and the use of overspecific terms for ordinary things— i.e, dihydrogen monoxide, H²O, and water all being the same thing. Or how he called table salt by its scientific name of sodium chloride. Their phone calls were arguments only; nothing more, nothing less. However, as Miss Libby would probably say, “Denial is a river and you’re swimmin’ in it, Cyn.” She scoffed at that. Whether or not Vortex was— and gag her with a spoon— interested in Neutron, it would take a gun to the head for her to admit such a preposterous thing. 

Somebody call Zix, because there was about to be a murder scheduled to take care of for her to even suggest to somewhat enjoying the fool’s presence. While their totally valid (not!) contract had stated that they were friends (although do not use that piece of paper in a court of law), it was more of a truce than anything else. Their terms were far from equal and it was lacking an expiration date, but Cindy would be quiet about that. He already wasn’t feeling like the hottest thing since sliced bread and she wasn’t about to make him feel worse. Although she loathed the guy, she didn’t like seeing him upset. Cynthia Aurora Vortex had layers, can you blame her? 

Their non-legal terms were listed as such: Neutron would keep his insults at a minimum; Vortex would control her tongue a little more than she was used to doing. It was a good system to go by. Neutron should have caught the mistakes in her faux contract, but it was more likely than not that he was doing one of two things: playing dumb to give her a smug taste of her own medicine later on down the road, or he genuinely didn’t read the fine print and was desperately trying to get into her good graces. Knowing James, the latter option was extremely out of character for him. 

Cindy guessed that he was playing dumb. He had to be. 

As she thought to herself, she felt an all too familiar tap on her shoulder. Cindy turned to face the swirly-haired genius that stood awkwardly behind her. “Well, look who finally showed up? Finally done wallowing in your misery or did Sam threaten to fire ya?”

Neutron sighed and rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that, Vortex.”

“Oh, so it’s just a coincidence that when you hit on Betty that you get sick for days?” Cindy sarcastically grumbled, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. “Or did you invent some sort of sickness patch that you can take on and off to get you off scot-free without the guilt of being accused of lying?”

Jimmy went quiet. How did she know? Was he that predictable? He crossed his arms and scoffed. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Cindy shrugged. He’d let it slip over the phone that he’d been working on a new invention, but Cindy just used her inferring skills to figure out what the mysterious new invention was. “Why would you even make such a stupid thing?”

“It was a prototype and that was the best time to test it out. It had nothing to do with Betty,” James denied. He huffed and adjusted his pompadour in her mirror. “And I did not hit on her!”

“You’re lying through your teeth,” Cindy smirked sarcastically and went back to her familiar scowl. Eyes flickered to the tube of lipstick she’d put on her vanity that was seemingly obstructed. She could see the glint of the light reflecting the gold’s warm color. Her voice was cold, quiet, and accusatory; almost jealous. “What do you see in her?”

He shot her a glare. “Why are you asking?”

“It’s a valid question, Neutron,” Cindy argued. 

“Why do you care?” he questioned, a bushy eyebrow raised. 

Cindy gave him a look and rolled her eyes again. “Who’s to say I do?”

“Any sort of context clues. You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t,” Neutron stated. “Admit it.”

Cindy gave him a look of horror. She’d rather die than admit that one. “For your information, Neutron, I do not care; I’m just saying that when you’re gone for three days, people get suspicious. And Betty talks, you know.”

It was Neutron’s turn to give an alarmed face, but he kept composed. If it weren’t for how wide his big, deep blue eyes went, Cindy would have guessed that he’d already accepted his fate and had grown used to it by now. “What does she talk about?” he squeaked. 

This was her chance for payback. Was it right to rub it in his face? Probably not. Would it feel better than getting a million bucks? Yes. Cindy smirked. “Oh, so you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what, exactly..?” Jimmy nervously asked, adjusting the collar of his dress shirt. 

Vortex stood and got all up in his face. “That she and Nick have been together for weeks?” she replied in a hushed voice.  

“Oh… Yeah, I know about that,” Jimmy shrugged, brushing it off. 

“When’d you find that out, when you hit on her?” Cindy snickered. Her smirk softened to a sympathetic smile. Her voice was surprisingly... comforting? “If you knew what was good for you, you would let it go. No use crying over spilled milk, Neutron.” She patted him on the shoulder.

“How long have they been together?” Jimmy asked, cocking his head at her. 

Cindy shrugged. “I dunno. I only heard about it a few days ago because I was eavesdropping on Nick and Betty’s conversation out by the dumpsters.”

Neutron clapped his hands sarcastically. “That’s an admission that’ll do wonders for your already less-than-satisfactory reputation, Vortex.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “My reputation is as pristine and untouched as a nun, excuse you. Anyway, I’m willing to bet that we’re the only ones who know about it.” Cindy scoffed and muttered something unintelligible under her breath. “Alright, I gotta get out on stage.”

“Break a femur,” he whispered indifferently, giving her a dirty look. 

“I’m sure you’d like it if I bled out and died onstage,” Cindy jabbed, stopping right in front of the closed curtain. 

“It’d make for an interesting sight, yes. Be a tough job to clean up, though,” Jimmy muttered as he examined his extremely nubby bitten nails. “One clean break and you’re done for. Perks of being the largest bone in your body—”

Cindy rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Spare me the biology lesson, will ya? I’ve got better things to do than watch you ramble on about topics that nobody cares about. Makes you look like a doofus.”

“Excuse me, but ‘genius’ is the preferred term, Vortex.” He smirked at her before she stuck her tongue out and went out to the stage. He mouthed, “210 IQ,” to her before she glared daggers at him. 

As Jimmy sat alone backstage, he couldn’t help but think of what Vortex’s words meant. Betty talked? And how did Vortex know about his sickness patches? Was it by a wild guess or did he let it slip during one of their spiteful phone calls from the past few days? Even then, why did he care? Why was he so worked up about Betty? Betty never gave him the time of day whatsoever, so why did it sting? It was starting to become a dull ache, but it used to sting. He could deal with it… for now— and more importantly: why in Pluto’s name was he thinking of Vortex?! The past three days had been tough enough to get through by himself, and with the help of Vortex’s over-the-phone bickering, it had given him more than a plateful to think about. 

As it turns out, inventing willy-nilly and sleeping all day wasn’t exactly the best coping mechanism for getting let down ever-so gently. Vortex’s frequent calls weren’t the best help, either. There was a puzzle waiting to be solved— Jimmy just couldn’t find the right pieces to make the picture just yet. Why did he care about what she said, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be heartbroken? Yearning for a love that would never come to him? Unless there was some sort of ulterior motive caused by his fertility hormones. 

Unless…

Unless James somehow had an interest in— no! Absolutely not. 

As soon as the very thought even hinted at something so unmentionable, it was kicked to the curb without a place to live like a squatter living in a rich man’s summer home over the course of the other three seasons of the year. Even then, no matter how much he loathed to admit it, it was the only reasonable explanation. 

A few hours after Jimmy’s anticipated entrance, the crowd started to dwindle— and by dwindle, we mean it dissolved like sugar in water. The once bubbling crowd could have been compared to magnesium in hydrochloric acid. Then again, when magnesium reacts with hydrochloric acid, it eventually dissolves. Go figure. Everyone was gone within a thirty minute timespan. The clock was nearing 10 o’clock. It was no doubt that people would want to miss the NBC movie night. It was a smash hit for several reasons: new movies to watch, the occasional screening of Gone With the Wind and My Fair Lady, and perfect to watch with your TV dinner.

As people were piling out, Nick Dean walked inside from the back door, the intoxicatingly awful stench of tobacco emanating from said back door. His mahogany cane clicked against the smooth black and white checkered tiles as he hobbled his way over to the bar to sit down on one of the chairs. Sheen, remaining at his post like a soldier, already had a Manhattan ready for him, but Nick pushed it away. 

“No thanks, pal, I’m staying sober tonight. Is Betty back from her break?” asked the singer-songwriter. 

Sheen raised a skeptical brow and shrugged. He took a swig of the Manhattan that he’d wasted time making. Might as well make some use of it if nobody else was gonna drink it. “Not my job to keep track of her.”

Nick rolled his eyes and sat back, resting his back against the countertop. He didn’t say anything more. When the resident doofus starts speaking sense, you know to hold your tongue. 

Jimmy came out from the direction of the restrooms. Carl could be heard squealing about something— perhaps his scapula?— from inside the men’s restrooms. Jimmy felt the sickening weight of guilt make his stomach drop as soon as he saw Nick. He swallowed the feeling like a giant pill and decided to sit right next to the man who would upstage him in nearly every field besides the nerdy aspects. 

Wooing women? Talking smooth? Being handsome? 

Those were three things that the glory of chemistry and science couldn’t exactly help with. There wasn’t a solution short of creating some sort of love potion pheromone that would force you to fall in love with the first woman you lay your eyes upon, but that was preposterous. It would take eons of experimentation to even make such a thing possible, and even then, things could always be one-sided. The female, in said situation, would have a 62.486% chance of falling, but there was always 37.514% chance that you forced yourself into a situation that was inescapable, even if you tried to forget about it. On another note, if Neutron decided to create such a thing, maybe he could find a vaccine for it so that he wouldn’t take the risk of heartbreak ever again. 

Nick greeted Jimmy with a warm smile. He was obviously unaware of the incident from three days ago. At least Betty let him down gently, right? “What’s cookin’, Jamesy?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Not much.”

“Just don’t toss your cookies on me, Neutron— these are new threads,” Nick said as he tugged the lapels of his very expensive-looking three-piece suit. It was dark gray and had small stripes that were a slightly lighter shade of gray than the base color. It had gold accents and black buttons. “Betty said you were sick and dry-cleaning doesn’t exactly work on barf, y’know.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” Jimmy murmured, adjusting his neckline. “Where’d she hear that from?”

“Cindy or something, I’m not sure,” Nick guessed, waving a dismissive hand as if he didn’t know that he had said possibly the most detrimental thing that Jimmy had ever heard. 

Jimmy short-circuited. Cindy was talking about him at work? “Was she worried or something?” Jimmy asked, trying to get an answer. “Are you absolutely, 100% sure it was Cindy?”

Nick nodded. “Betty said that Cindy was talking about how you were sick or something to Libby.”

“That’s Miss Libby to you,” Sheen interrupted, grumbling curse words in Spanish under his breath. 

Nick turned to face the dimwit. “Eat your heart out, Sheen.” He turned back to face Jimmy. “Anyways, if you want answers, you’d have to ask her. Either that or be a man and ask the shrew herself. Your call,” Nick chuckled. 

Jimmy was mentally kicking himself. Now Nick thought that he was interested in Cindy. Nick had poked the bear— or rather, he had hit the target right in the bullseye. “I’m not gonna do that. I have better ways to spend my time.”

“Then you’re S-O-L, pal,” Nick ribbed, elbowing his arm. “Anyway, I’m waitin’ until Sam calls everyone over here so I can make a special announcement.”

The thought of Nick finally leaving would be a blessing. It only made sense for him to leave. He had his song recorded. Retroville would be put on the map. You wouldn’t have to listen to the rags-to-riches story for the eighty-seventh time in a row. Jimmy smirked to himself. Good riddance. “Oh?”

“I’m not gonna tell you, Jamesy— you’ll find out like the rest of ‘em. Hold your horses,” Nick shushed. 

“It was worth a shot,” Neutron huffed, crossing his arms and leaning over, elbows resting on the bar’s countertop. 

“Any minute now,” Dean muttered to himself, checking his wristwatch. 

Elke wandered in through the entrance and made a beeline for the bathroom. Wonder what she was up to. 

Without a minute’s hesitation, old man Sam came stomping out of his office. That walking pattern couldn’t be any more recognizable, even if it was filed in the FBI archives. He stood out in front of the stage with a look on his tired, grizzled face.

“Nick, say what ya wants ta say, yeah,” Sam grumbled. “This better be good— Rome Adventure’s playing on NBC. Winnie and I don’t wanna miss the ending.”

Cindy, Libby, and Brittany emerged from the break room at the booming sound of Sam’s voice. Betty came out from the kitchen, as did Bolbi, Skeet (the man in charge of the kitchen), and a few other employees. A very flustered Carl stumbled out of the bathroom, bright pink kissy marks all over his face. He wiped them as much as he could with a moist towelette. Elke followed soon after, looking equal parts smug and flustered. 

Nick stood and walked towards Betty. Betty me him halfway and they both looked happier than a cat with a ball of yarn. There was a gaudy diamond ring on her left hand that made clear what this announcement was about. Jimmy felt the weight of a hydraulic press shatter his heart into tiny little unsalvageable pieces. 

Cindy wandered her way around the parlor of the restaurant until she reached the destination of the one empty seat next to Neutron. He looked like he was about to throw up, and not because he was sick. Cindy locked eyes with him. Jimmy could have sworn he saw a concerned look on her face, but that was crazy talk. She draped a hand on the shoulder of Jimmy’s burgundy colored tuxedo jacket and whispered into his ear, “You see that giant diamond on Quinlan’s hand?”

Jimmy somberly nodded. “Mmm. Kinda hard to miss it.”

Cindy glanced back at him, eyes glued to Betty’s giant ring. “That thing is huge. Must’ve cost a fortune.”

“Yes, I get it, Cindy. Don’t have to tell me ‘I told you so’,” he muttered, irritated. 

“Please, it’s an obligation. I said that it was a bad idea from the start, and lookie what we got here.” She gestured to a very down-in-the-dumps James Isaac Neutron. “Look, I’m sorry, but that was doomed by the narrative.”

“I see that now, no thanks to you, Vortex,” James grumbled, huffing at the stupidity and unfairness of such a situation. 

Nick and Betty were still waiting patiently for the chatter to settle down. Sam cleared his throat before shouting, “Shut ya mouths, yeah!”

Everyone was quiet and alert after that one. 

Nobody likes an angry Sam. 

Nick cleared his throat and took a breath. “Betty and I are engaged, and we would like to formally invite all of you to our wedding. It’s on January 9th in Hobbes, New Mexico. It’s just past the border. Bring gifts and RSVP by next week.”

The room erupted in cheers and applause. Jimmy clapped, but it was more for appearances than anything else. Cindy clapped as well, but it was in the same manner as Neutron’s. 

Nick signaled a hand to quiet everyone down. “Thank you, thank you, we really appreciate it. Free round of drinks on me!”

The small crowd of employees erupted in yet another explosion of congratulations. Jimmy sat up and exited out of the back door, snatching a cigarette out of Nick’s abandoned pack of tobacco sticks and a lighter as he did so. Sheen and Carl were too busy cheering to notice. Cindy wasn’t having it. She followed Neutron out the back door. It was freezing outside in the back alley. Butch was probably lurking nearby, she could smell the stench of red onions coming from around the corner. A streetlight from the sidewalk around the corner that Butch was probably at dimly lit the alleyway, as did Jimmy’s failing lighter. 

Just as he lit the cigarette, took a breath, and coughed, she decided to pipe up. “What do you think you’re doing, Neutron?”

He jumped as he heard her shrill voice call him out on his B.S. “What’s it look like? I’m smoking,” Neutron excused, sounding as pissed off as a cat getting a bath. 

Cindy’s stone-cold expression remained unmoved, aside from the one eyebrow that shot up. She put a hand on her hip and gestured to his poorly lit cigarette. “From the wrong end? You’re not supposed to light the yellow part, genius. And since when do you smoke?” demanded the woman. 

Neutron rolled his eyes and suppressed a cough. “What’s it to you? You smoke.”

Cindy walked towards him, snatched the cigarette from his hand, and stomped the flame out. “As if I haven’t heard a million times about how bad it was for you from that stupid black book you keep in the inner pocket of your jackets. You’ve hit a new low, Neutron. You can’t make people love you. Trust me, I know how bad it feels.”

Jimmy crossed his arms. “Remind me how this is your issue again?”

Cindy scoffed. “We signed a contract, did we not?”

“Not one that’s valid in a court of law.”

They were both silent, staring each other down. Cindy looked to her feet and rubbed her bare arms. It was cold outside. Jimmy stared back at her and he shrugged out of his jacket. 

“How’d you figure that one out?” Cindy asked, skeptical. 

“Oh, it was simple, really. Put this on if you’re so cold,” Jimmy muttered, shoving his tuxedo jacket into her hands. “Your so-called ‘contract’,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “didn’t have duration nor what you should be giving up instead. That’s how a contract works, Ms. Vortex. I ought to call your father and tell him that he should’ve been around more to teach you basic legal terms.”

Cindy was about to say something, but she stared at the jacket in her hands and then slipped her arms into it, looking back up at him with an extremely puzzled expression. “So why’d you sign it?”

Jimmy did not have a good answer for Cindy regarding that topic. “I wanted to see how long you would try to enforce a stupid piece of paper.”

That and he really did just want to get back into her good graces. He didn’t say that, though. Not in a million years.

“It was worth a try,” she grumbled. “The next time I catch you smoking, I’m gonna make you do a whole pack and then see how that feels.”

Jimmy nodded and leaned against the brick foundation of the Candy Bar. “Deal, but that means you have to give up tobacco, too, Vortex.”

She shook her head. “Not gonna happen.”

“Suit yourself. Your loss when you die from lung cancer or destroy your larynx, thus ruining your career,” Jimmy shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “Maybe you should put the words ‘prolific smoker’ on your headstone, too.”

“Jimmy..?”

Neutron patted his pockets. Since when did she call him by his nickname? “I don’t have any more cigarettes on me.”

Cindy gestured to the jacket that she was wearing. “Thanks.”

Jimmy looked stunned. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, begging to go on a rampage.  “... You’re welcome, Cindy.”

Chapter Text

Wedding bells were always a peculiar thought to James. Why on earth would you need a bell to commemorate something as powerful as a union? Perhaps through sound, but even then, just how far does the sound of a wedding bell echo? Not far enough, apparently, if you’re supposed to be telling the entire world that you’re married; not just a two mile radius of a small town that probably only had about 3,000 people total (and that’s if we’re being generous). 

Nick had rented the most extravagant and far-out hotel rooms in the joint— Hobbes was no Houston, but it would suffice for his and Betty’s wedding. Jimmy wasn’t complaining about a free room with complimentary room service. Nick was loaded, what could he say? Jimmy had unpacked his things the night before to help set up for the wedding. His room had a typical nightstand, telephone, 21 inch television, etcetera. The walls had a pale yellow floral wallpaper that made him want to have a serious discussion on whoever was in charge of interior design. The queen sized bed had a fluffy white comforter with matching pillows that he had slept on the night before. It was the morning of, and now Neutron wasn’t sure what to do.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, fixing his bow tie. Jimmy felt sick. It had been ten days since Nick and Betty announced their wedding; ten days since he tried smoking— ten days since Vortex smacked it out of his hand and stomped on it. Ten days since their little talk in the alley outside of the back door of the Candy Bar.

For some reason, Jimmy couldn't stop thinking about their talk— the tramp had made some pretty solid points.

Vortex had been calling every few days, as was Neutron. Their bickering was something they left and returned to work with, often pestering each other over petty details and small disagreements from the night's petty squabbles. Jimmy would never admit it, but he enjoyed it far more than words could describe. In a know-it-all-I’m-always-right sort of way, of course— obviously. He did usually have the upper hand in his and Cindy’s arguments. 

Nick had phoned Neutron four days ago to ask him a pretty big favor: to be the best man at his wedding. 

Up until that point, Jimmy had no idea how to feel about the phrase, “always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” He wasn’t a fan of it. Or rather, he would have it be coined as, “always the groomsman, never the groom.”

Jimmy was obviously still a teensy bit upset about the whole Betty ordeal— after all, you don’t just get over rejection in ten or thirteen days. Either way, Nick was his friend; he wasn’t about to turn down a role in his wedding just because he had a small case of sour grapes. No way, no how.

Jimmy had been to his fair share of bad weddings— he would rather forget the tragedy of Jet Fusion and Beautiful Gorgeous’ wedding. Beautiful Gorgeous (nobody knew her real name) was Dallas mob boss Finbarr Calamitous’ only daughter. She was an entitled little termagent who was only after Jet’s cash and to tarnish his sparkling reputation. Jimmy was also the best man at that wedding, but that was a different feeling entirely. Being Jet’s best man made him feel prideful; being Nick’s just made the guy feel even more alone and down in the dumps. He sighed to his reflection, straightening his tux. It was no wonder that Beautiful Gorgeous and Jet Fusion had gotten a divorce just six months after their marriage began. 

The tuxedo he was wearing matched Nick’s navy blue groomsmen theme. There were two groomsmen— Carl and Bolbi. Sheen wasn’t invited to participate in the wedding itself (mostly because he was a pity invite and they needed someone to make drinks for no extra charge and Sheen had the brilliance of a broken lightbulb), but rather to run the bar at the reception party immediately following their wedding ceremony. You would think that Bolbi would be a terrible fit for a groomsman, but —surprise, surprise— Bolbi was riddled with hidden secrets.

It was Bolbi, for Flurp’s sake!

Neutron looked at the black plastic comb that was on a nearby countertop in his hotel room and ran it through his swirly chocolate brown hair. He sighed and flopped down on the bed. How could things turn out like this?

There was a gentle knock at the door. Jimmy bolted up. Who could be knocking? It was probably room service, if anything. He softly padded his way to the door, trying to make it sound like he wasn’t initially startled. 

Neutron opened the door. “Hello?” 

It was Cindy..?

Jimmy felt his heart squeeze, but he couldn't put a finger on it— or rather, he wouldn't put a finger on it. Neutron took more than a quick glance at the lady at his front door. She was beautiful— not that he'd admit it.

Vortex stood at the doorway. She was wearing a nice yet professional-looking dark green collared dress with some emerald earrings and a string of pearls around her neck to match. Her sleek heels were black; a staple of any outfit. She looked breathtaking. Her long golden hair was in a lovely updo— it was one of the few times Jimmy had seen Cindy without her trademark pin curls. Quickly looking him up and down, her eyes widened a twitch, eyebrows ever so slightly raised. Cindy quickly composed herself, wearing her usual scowl. 

Jimmy scoffed. His face dropped and he sarcastically rolled his eyes at her. “What do you want?”

Cindy rolled her eyes and examined her nails nonchalantly. “You sure you’re up to do a wedding for Mr. Steal Your Girl?”

“She’s not my girl, Cindy. I thought we went over that,” he scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. “And besides, why do you even care?”

“I don't,” lied the woman, examining her sparkly pink nails.

Jimmy was bad at reading social cues, but even he could tell she was lying through her teeth. “You sure, Vortex?”

Vortex shoved him aside and barged into his hotel room, plopping down on the bed that he had just spent all morning making so as to not leave a mess for the housekeepers. It made a soft thump. Her emerald eyes scanned the room. “Nice place you got here— it come out of Nick’s pocket?”

“Do you really think I could afford something like this?” snippily asked Jimmy, gesturing around the room and cocking his head at her. He touched up his pompadour. Nothing was wrong with it, but nobody wants to look bad for a wedding, right..?

Right...

“I think we both know you can’t, Neutron,” she smirked. “I’m still surprised that Nick made you his best man— you’d think the guy has other friends, right?”

“Did you come here just to barge into my hotel room, ruin the bed that I just made, and slander me, or do you want something?” Jimmy questioned, raising an eyebrow. There was clearly a deeper meaning, but he’d have to milk it out of her to get any sort of real answer. 

Cindy shrugged, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her eyes. This conversation was deflection at its finest. “How are you gonna stand there, Neutron? You and I both know that you’re not exactly happy about this.”

“Why do you care?”

That was the question that Cindy had been asking herself for weeks— why did she care? Unfortunately for Neutron, that was for Vortex to know and for him to never find out. She continued. “Why’d you agree to be Dean’s best man?”

Jimmy plopped down next to her on the bed. “I don’t know,” he defensively scoffed.

Cindy looked over to him. He stared off into space. “Even then, I don’t think you and Betty would’ve worked out.”

Neutron rolled his eyes sarcastically and scoffed, glancing at her. “Gee, Vortex, how helpful to this situation.” He shot her another glance before resuming to the spot on the wallpaper he'd been staring and sighed. “And where do you suppose I look next?”

Jimmy shifted on the bed, their fingers brushing together like butterfly kisses. Neither of them acknowledged it, nor did they move their hands.

“A girl who actually likes you, though I doubt you’ll find that,” she smirked. Cindy moved her hand a little closer.

Caught off guard, Jimmy thought for a half second before returning with a backhand. “I’m sure you speak from experience, seeing as you and I are both in the same boat.”

“Oh, shut it. You and I both know that I could get any man I want,” Vortex grumbled, standing from her perch on the bed. “Just because you’ve got a case of sour grapes doesn’t mean it’s everyone else’s problem.”

“It’s not everyone else’s problem, Vortex.”

“Then why are you such a mope? I don’t understand why you’re even in the wedding,” Cindy scoffed.

James smirked. “No, no, I’d be happy to explain myself, Cindy, but I haven’t the time nor the crayons to get it through to you.”

Cindy stared at him for a half second, turned, and left, slamming the door behind her. 

Jimmy stared at the closed door, his heart fluttering with a strange feeling he was all too familiar with: love. And he'd just watched his love walk out the door with a snooty air. Snooty was his favorite fragrance, after all. Good golly, Miss Molly— James Isaac Neutron was in love.

Cindy exited the doorway of the floor in a huff. Why did Neutron always seem to ruffle her feathers?

She sighed, making her way to the elevator doorway, following the arrows on the plaques on the horribly ugly wallpapered walls. There was no way in hell she'd let Neutron beat her in an argument. Vortex stepped into the elevator, frantically pressing the button for the first floor. A warm yellow color emanated from the button as she clicked it.

She couldn't stop thinking about the way his blue tuxedo looked on him. If Vortex had no sense of self, she would've thought he was a hunkmuffin. Not that she did, though.

She didn't…

Right..?

Ah, hell, Cindy couldn't deny that one.

Why did she care, Neutron asked? The horrible sad truth was something truly horrifying: Cynthia Aurora Vortex had caught the L-word, and she was too stubborn to accept or admit it.

Petunias, roses, and baby’s breath flower arrangements adorned the halls and made up the centerpieces for the wedding. There were gold accents everywhere— almost too much. It was gaudy, tacky, and oh-so frilly. Whoever was in charge of the decorations— most likely Betty; the poor girl had so much sense of style that it was a bad thing— should've been punched squarely in the nose. 

The actual venue of such an event was set in one of the lovely churches of the town. Nick was loaded, so he rented out the biggest and most majestic cathedrals. Decorations in pink, gold, and navy blue filled the room. Carl was running around looking like a dunce, trying to make sure everything was in order. Bolbi was welcoming the guests— which, in hindsight, was a bad idea— with the Slap Clap dance from Backhairistan. It would make a mark for the small number of guests that Nick had invited. Miss Libby was chatting with a few attendees. Sheen was standing guard at his post behind the bar at the reception hall down the street like the average dimwit he was.

That only leaves us with Jimmy. He adjusted his small pink boutonniere and sat on one of the syrupy glazed oak pews as he waited for the rest of the guests to pile in— random friends of Nick’s that were in the area, his mother, Betty’s gals from her Tupperware club, everyone from the Candy Bar, etcetera. A flash of green caught Neutron's eye and he felt his face start to burn up. Cindy.

Scanning the room, Cindy found Neutron sitting all by his lonesome and decided to pounce on the poor creature. Jimmy put on an annoyed face. She sauntered over. “So, ready to watch Miss Perfect come down the aisle to another man?”

“Salty is as salty does, Vortex. May I remind you of a certain Mr. Right?” replied Neutron, scowling. He crossed his arms. Cindy shoved him aside and sat next to him on the pew.

Vortex scoffed, crossing her arms defensively. “That ship sailed and sank. I'm over it, and I kindly suggest you get over it as well,” she said through gritted teeth.

Jimmy hid a smirk, taking a quick glance at her from the pews. Golly, she was a doll. “Then I think we've reached an agreement, haven't we?”

“If you could call it that,” Vortex murmured under her breath.

Jimmy nodded and stood from the pew, a slight woody creaking sound coming from the legs and boards of glazed oak as he did so. He dusted invisible crumbs from his suit. “I gotta go check on Nick,” he divulged. “Try not to claw Betty to pieces.” He clicked his tongue at her with a wink and walked away, already cringing at himself for doing that.

“Whatever, Neutron,” Cindy sighed as she rolled her eyes and then proceeded to swoon as soon as he was out of ear and eyeshot.

Meanwhile, Neutron almost ran to the groomsmen’s claimed room in the building. He rapped a knuckle at the door thrice amount of times. “Nick? It's Jimmy.”

“Come on in,” the groom replied as if nothing was the matter. Unfortunately, Nick was like that of an insect in the way that bugs have a tough exoskeleton and a squishy vulnerable middle. Wedding nerves had squashed him like an ant. Even celebrities were capable of feelings, somehow. Jimmy opened the door to find Nick standing there— and he was an absolute mess. 

“Nick, almost everyone is here. You doing okay?” Jimmy asked, patting his shoulder.

Nick nodded. “Yeah, I'm alright. Don't tell anyone, but I'm a little,” he gulped and whispered, “nervous.”

A small chuckle escaped Jimmy. “You? Nervous? Never thought I'd see the day.” He returned to the original topic. “It'll go great, you're making a good choice.”

“Well, what if I'm not..?” Dean turned to face Neutron, his almost-black brown eyes showing a hint of vulnerability. 

“Go with your gut, Nick. Come on, let's go get you married.”

The wedding itself was nothing short of a cross between tacky and beautiful. Nick and Betty had definitely found the right person for each other— or at least, it looked like it. Everything had gone according to plan: Jimmy didn't screw up his best man speech somehow, Carl didn't have an asthma attack, and Bolbi was…

Uh…

He was Bolbi.

 The reception, however? Biggest shindig Hobbes, New Mexico had seen since… well, ever. Sheen was manning the bar like a champ and making goo-goo eyes at Miss Libby, who was sitting across from him and also making goo-goo eyes at him back; Betty and Nick were dancing together, guests were filtering in and out, Jimmy was staying sober and refusing to dance, Bolbi was doing the Slap-Clap dance and recruiting dates for his sister Ignishka, Sam and Winifred were taking shots and being gross old people in love… Yuck.

There was another short older man who couldn't seem to finish his drink, but maybe he was just being on the safe side.

That just leaves us with Cindy. She wanted to poke fun at Neutron, but at a wedding reception? Yeah, she might have been snippy, but she wasn't downright awful. As an added bonus, she was avoiding Neutron by getting drunk. She sat down next to Libby. Vortex had more than a few drinks, but she was used to the hard stuff— yet somehow, she couldn't see straight and she almost fell off her stool.

“You good there, Cyn?” asked the lady, wearing her usual pink color. 

“I'd be better if Mr. Hunkmuffin came over,” Cindy giggled, taking a sip of her Long Island iced tea. She pointed at Jimmy, who didn't notice. Thank the Lord— he'd rub it in like salt to a wound.

Libby snatched it from her hand. 

Vortex scowled and swatted at her friend but ultimately missed. She crossed her arms and pouted like a four year old during a conniption fit. “Hey, what'd you do that for?” 

“Seems like you don't need that extra Long Island, Cindy— you're drunk as a skunk,” Libby commented, stirring around the cocktail with a straw before taking a sip. “Get you some water. And what's all this hunkmuffin stuff about?” she asked with a disgusted look, making air quotes. Libs about gagged on her words.

Cindy wasn't listening— she was staring at Neutron. “Did you ever notice how good Jimmy looks in a suit?”

“Put your eyes back in your head and listen, Cindy,” Libby sighed, exasperated already. “I mean, I knew something was going on with you and Jimmy, but I never thought you'd admit it so easily… Guess the alcohol helps,” she mumbled. 

“Always does,” Sheen chimed in before going to make another order of cocktails. 

“What are you talking about, Libs?” slurred Cindy. She turned and pointed a thumb at him. “I hate that guy…”

“Then why’re you making goo-goo eyes at him from across the room?” Libby asked, cocking a brow at her. “Doesn't sound like hate to me. Hey, Sheen!” she called from across the bar.

Sheen looked up from shaking up a drink for one of the guests. “What?”

“What's the opposite of hate?”

He thought for a moment. “Uh… Indigestion?”

Libby facepalmed. She turned back to face Cindy. “Don't listen to him, he's an idiot. It's love, Cindy,” Libby teased. 

Cindy rolled her eyes. “No,” she denied. “I'm not in love with him. That's crazy.”

Sheen gasped from across the bar, as he only heard the last six words of what she said. “I knew it!” He muttered a few excited things in Spanish— I.E, “Esta chica es tan loca,” “súper borracho,” and “¿Ella habla en serio?”

“You're lying through your teeth,” Libby stated, draping an elbow on the bar countertop. 

Cindy pouted. “So?” 

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

Vortex shrugged. “I'm gonna take advantage the view,” she slurred. She chuckled like a teenage girl. Libs could smell the alcohol on her breath. 

Miss Libby turned to Sheen, grabbing him by the collar. She spoke through clenched teeth. “Say anything to Jimmy and you're a dead man, got it?”

Sheen saluted. “Sir, yes, sir!”

Libby kissed his cheek, leaving a more than usually goofy-faced Sheen speechless. “Good.” She turned back to Cindy. “You need to lay off the sauce, girl.”

“But Neutron likes Betty. What's she got that I don't?” Cindy complained, leaning on Libby’s shoulder. It was a good thing nobody heard what she had said— besides Libs, of course. 

“Woah, woah, woah, Cindy. You and I are gonna take a little walk outside, okay? Okay.” Libby took her friend's hand and led a stumbling Cindy through a crowd of people on the dance floor. Libby slammed the door shut outside and stood in the cold with Cindy. “Now you're going to tell me how you feel about Neutron, and we're not going back inside until you do.”

Cindy stubbornly plopped down on the stairs. “There's nothing to talk about.”

“I'll get you another Long Island,” Libs bribed. 

Quick agreement. “Deal.”

“So, you and Neutron?” Libby asked. 

“I hate him.”

“No, you don't.”

Cindy rolled her eyes. “How do you know?”

Repeat conversation. Libby felt herself spiral. “You gonna admit anything? There's nothing you wanna own up to?”

“Nope,” replied the stubborn drunk. She crossed her arms.

Bolbi opened the door to leave with Emily, another barista, on his arm— Oleander, the man who owned a rival bar, was going to murder Bolbi. That was his woman!

Jimmy followed. “Bolbi, bad idea!” He stopped at the stairs. “You're on your own if you drive off!” he called. 

Bolbi shot him a smirk from across the street as he got inside his car. He rolled the window down and shouted, “Bolbi make sure Emily never tell!”

Jimmy facepalmed and leaned against the brick of the reception hall. “He's gonna get himself into trouble… My gosh,” he muttered. Neutron took a long pause and sighed heavily, facepalming. “I'm going home.”

“Hi, Jimmy,” a drunk Cindy slurred as she waved at the tall, gorgeous hunkmuffin standing beside her. 

Jimmy, feeling his face burning up, looked at Libby for help and answers. He gestured to Vortex and adjusted his neckline nervously. “Is she alright?”

Libs smirked. “Too much to drink— she’ll be fine. She was talking crazy stuff earlier.”

Jimmy shuddered. “I don't wanna know. What should we do?” asked Neutron.

“You said you were going home, right?”

He nodded at Libby.

Libby got an idea. “Can you take Cindy home? She's had a lot to drink and I drove with Sheen. Is that alright?”

Jimmy pursed his lips and took a deep breath. He opened his mouth to say something, but just huffed and replied, “Yeah, no problem.”

Folfax shrugged, sighed, and snapped a few times in her face to get Vortex’s attention. “Hey, Cindy—” Cindy was in Cindyland staring at Jimmy once again. Libby groaned and snapped again, shaking her shoulders. Cindy’s head rattled about like an egg on a spoon. “Do you need a ride home?” She pointed at Jimmy and mouthed the words, “yes, I do,” at her. 

Jimmy, ever terrible at social cues, didn't catch that one.

“Yes, please,” Cindy nodded, eyeing up Jimmy.

Jimmy's face went red and he scowled to avoid showing any other emotions.

“You heard the woman: take her home, Neutron!” Libby hooted. She took Cindy by the arm and made sure she stood straight. “She's all yours. I'll write down her address and you make sure she gets home in one piece, alright? If not, so help me I'll whoop your ass—”

“I got the point, Libby. And don't worry, I know where she lives. Phone books, remember?” Jimmy smirked. What he left out was that he had memorized her entire phone number and address like the back of his hand or his own social security number. He took a glance at Cindy, already imagining the amount of teasing to come. Or maybe it could be his little secret if she didn't remember. It didn't matter. Jimmy had a job to do, and he was going to get it done.

“I’ll see you later, Cindy,” Libby said as she gave her friend a hug. She glared at Neutron. “I mean it, Neutron.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes and took Cindy’s arm to lead her to his car. She fell over twice, and after he had made sure she was alright, started doubling over laughing. 

Libs, watching from a distance, couldn't believe how immensely stubborn the two of her friends/co-workers were. She stood there for a few moments before she went inside to party the night away.

The reception party was a hoot. Drinking, dancing, smoking— just all-around fun. Even Sam was having a good time, so that says enough. He got up to use the bathroom (maybe do a few puffs of reefer, but that wasn't legal) and got abruptly stopped by an older man about his age, maybe a few years younger.

The man was bald, short, had bushy white eyebrows and a mustache, and hadn't finished his drink. From the looks of it, he couldn't finish anything. He was dressed in a nice dark gray pinstriped suit and wore thick round glasses. 

He was British. That's a sight nobody sees in New Mexico— or the South whatsoever. “Excuse me, but do you own the, uh…? The…?”

Sam was confused. “The Candy Bar?”

“Ah, yes, that's the one. You're Sam?”

Sam lifted a brow. “Yeah.”

The man reached out to shake his hand. “Call me Fin,” the man smirked. “I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other,” he laughed sinisterly. “Anyway, I should be going. I've got some business to take care of. It was nice to meet you.”

“Uh… Sure, yeah,” Sam replied, wide-eyed. 

It clicked as soon as Sam thought about the name. That's where he'd seen him. It was Finbarr Calamitous, notorious gangster who couldn't finish a job, but was a complete pain in the neck regardless.Sam took an extra few puffs on the grass to calm himself down and get himself ready for the rollercoaster he was about to experience.