When given an inch, I consider it rude not to take the entire mile.
So, when my grenade lady offered a BOGO, I decided it was time to stock up.
She normally retailed them at $300—her wholesaler was an African warlord’s angry wife, or so she claimed. But TODAY ONLY!, your average purchaser of grenades could exchange three pictures of Ulysses S. Grant for one M67 fragmentation grenade.
It’s important you know I was not Ye Ævyrage Purchasyr, because my father taught me long ago that bulk buying and negotiation are two bullets in a magazine. I hadn’t paid retail grenade prices in years. I’ll admit, Marie was a sharp negotiator, and despite the stunning figure she cut in that dress, the K-Bar strapped to her inner thigh—so the legend went—was always on your mind.
But she’d taken a liking to yours truly, it seems, and after asking the last three times, she finally gave in. I think she liked me.
“I can’t actually stand you, Horace.” We were in a warehouse just off one of the plethora of waterways in Miami. They all led to the Gulf, eventually. This one was empty, and our voices echoed off everything. She had two guys in sunglasses flanking her, both straight out of Central Casting. Gray slacks, black shirts with vertical stripes that showed off their genetically annoying bodies.
“But you’re the only customer I have who hasn’t blown himself up, fingered me to the cops, or tried to kill me more than once. Who knew grenade sales could bring repeat customers?”
I smiled. “Marie, baby, I’m here for all of it. Don’t you think I’ve earned a discount? Shall we say…$100 a pop?”
She barked out a laugh. “I’m not your mother. I’ll come down fifty bucks, and that’s only because your face makes me cry.”
“$250? Come on, baby. I know you can do better than that. How about $150? For me?” I tightened my upper body to show off my 18-pack and A-cup man boobs. She wanted it bad.
She stared at me. “$250.”
I shook my head and frowned. “I guess I’ll just have to go see Wei.” I turned to leave. Sunglasses Number One angry-walked around me to block my path, a 250-pound stop sign.
“Wei!” she yelled, her voice cracking. “You know damn well the Type 67s are shit.”
I turned to look back at Marie.
“They might be shit, but they still go boom. In my business, that’s enough. Now, if you’ll kindly ask Thing One to back off, I will take my leave.”
“Fine! $200 is the best I can do, and I’m practically losing money.”
I gave her a satisfied grin. “Wonderful! I’ll take ten.”
That had been almost three years ago, and now that tête-à-tête was about to pay out like a forged scratch-off. I’d decided that I would stop killing people, you see, but bills don’t care about your newly discovered morals. Murderer or Mormon, a kilowatt hour costs the same. So I needed money, and this was it.
One of my colleagues in Hoboken knew a man in the north of England who was friends with a German Pakistani named Bilal Becker. Turns out Bilal was an undercover investigator for Interpol, on loan from the BKA. He made it his personal mission to buy as many American grenades as he could after his hamster was unceremoniously exploded by the aforementioned Hobokenite in an assassination attempt.
When he got wind of a massive shipment available for purchase, he thought he’d stumbled on the sting of the century. It was actually my retirement party.
My bank accounts were emptied; I’d sold all my guns except the Hi-Point—hard to part with a classic—and I’d even cashed in the twelve shares of IBM stock Grandma bought for me when I was born. All in, I was sitting on $525,600, which, at my rate, bought me 5,256 grenades.
Sold for $900 each—wily agent Becker had beat me down from my $1200 asking—I was going to be walking away with around four million dollars after expenses.
In Cuenca, Ecuador, four million might as well have been eleventy billion. For a lousy $800,000, I was getting five thousand square feet of house. On the water. Furnishings included. The interest on the remaining three million would pay for my chef, my butler, my maid, and a very nice 2012 Honda with just under 72,000 miles. Carlos was waiting for my call.
But Horace, who owns over 5,000 grenades? Marie. She had more grenades than the Pentagon’s lost-and-found. Bragged about it constantly. Her continued freedom was practically the Eighth Wonder of the World.
“I can get my hands on a hundred thousand if you’re going to war, Horace.” She was in a bikini this time, what with me crashing her sun tanning on Miami Beach and all. Turns out the K-Bar was real. The teal scabbard complemented her two-piece.
“Actually, I just need 5,256.” She held her hand over her eyes as she looked up at me. Going only on the position of my head’s shadow, I imagined I looked like an angel to her, the Florida sun making a halo around me.
“You have a million for me? Cash?” Her eyes darted around, waiting for the Candid Camera guys to jump out.
“No. I have half a million for you, my love.” She turned her head to the side, looking like she might ralph on the sand. “Remember, I buy one, I get one.”
She sat up so fast that her left AirPod yeeted itself onto the beach. “Absolutely not. Offers may not be combined with any other discounts, coupons, or promotions.”
“Marie, baby, where else are you going to get this much business?”
“It’s not about business. It’s about I pay—” she stopped herself.
“You pay less than that? Is that what you were about to say, snookums?”
“No, I pay much more than that,” she sputtered.
“Now pumpkin, let’s not bring prevarication into our relationship just yet. I had a very enlightening phone call with Efua Mensah yesterday, and she told me that she’s been selling to you for sixty American dollars each. How can you turn down a profit of two hundred grand?”
Had she been a cartoon, steam would have blown from both ears. I had to settle for a red face and a vehement standing. She pointed to her lounger without a word, and Temu Bodyguard Dos folded it up before following her to the parking lot.
“Warehouse at nine,” she yelled to me over her shoulder. I couldn’t wait to tell the story to our grandkids.
At 8:47pm, I peeked my head over the transom and peered through the binoculars, in search of Marie-shaped reinforcements. She loved my money at least as much as she loved me, so I had to make sure this Very Big Score wasn’t going to be my Very Last Alive.
It seemed that Marie was an honorable woman, at least…as honorable as a drastically overpriced hawker of instruments of death could be. I detected nothing of interest. Which was saying something, me having graduated with honors from the citizen police academy in Dubuque.
I grabbed the bag of money and dove—by which I mean flopped—into the water and started hoarding armfuls of water in an effort to reach the dock. Pick an apple, put it in your pocket.
I climbed the ladder at the dock and walked confidently toward the warehouse. Marie was standing just inside the main door, smiling like she was ready to consummate our unspoken love. A crate the size of Rhode Island was sitting quietly next to her.
M67 FRAG – HANDLE WITH CARE – QTY 5000ish
She stepped forward and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Dolph Lundgren Number One punched her in the back of the head. She dropped to the dirty cement floor like she’d been punched in the back of the head.
“What the hell, dude?” I protested.
“Red shirts! Thug Number Fours! Unnamed Bodyguards! This is for story functionaries ignored everywhere!” He looked across the river and nodded. Rifle fire began peppering the crate.
Explosion of approximately 5,256 grenades seen from International Space Station, the headline read.
The article didn’t even spell my name right.