“Well, fuck me on a Tuesday,” said Ms. Volta, inspiring others around her to remove their clothes and curse. The others were blank slates, genderless, and were fond of violin solos that made them cry.

“It’s not Tuesday, Ms. Volta,” Mr. Charlie Pincushion said delicately. His veins, blue and beautiful, trembled in anticipation. His heart thundered like a little horse tramping in the grass.

“No, it isn’t,” Ms. Volta sighed. She dismissed the others, who left their clothes behind. Ms. Volta burned them. She and Mr. Charlie Pincushion roasted frogs over the flames.

“I found a new job,” Mr. Charlie Pincushion announced. Frog juice dribbled down his bearded chin.

Ms. Volta was not turned on, but she wasn’t hungry any more, either, so that was okay. “What was wrong with your old one?” she asked.

“Benefits were bad. Didn’t include enough…you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

Mr. Charlie Pincushion blushed a royal shade. “It didn’t include coverage for murder,” he whispered.

“Ah, yes. Good murder coverage is hard to come by these days.”

Mr. Charlie Pincushion ate the last of his frog. “This new job has great murder coverage, though. It’ll kick in after thirty days. After that, I’ll get back to it.”

“Any prospective targets?” Ms. Volta cleaned her nails with a French knife.

Mr. Charlie Pincushion smiled. “A few.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Steve Handler, the Microscopic Twit.”

“Interesting. I don’t have anyone in mind. I’m sure that’ll change, though.”

“If you ever need some ideas, Ms. Volta—”

Ms. Volta raised a thin hand. It flickered in and out of existence. “No, no. I can find my own people to kill.”

The two sat in front of the burning clothes until night fell. As the moon climbing into the purple sky, Mr. Charlie Pincushion fell asleep. Ms. Volta stabbed him in the heart at 2:34 AM. Mr. Charlie Pincushion’s eyes flew open and stayed that way.

“If it had been a Tuesday, I would have fucked you instead,” Ms. Volta said softly.