SO IS THIS HIS UNBIRTHDAY?
WHO: Valen and Martin a shoplifter.
WHAT: Mate is SERIOUS. BUSINESS.
WHEN: Saturday, July 9th. Happy Birthday, motherfu-
WHERE Trader Bro's, Aisle 9.
( Well, it won't be very merry, I can tell you that much. )
WHAT: Mate is SERIOUS. BUSINESS.
WHEN: Saturday, July 9th. Happy Birthday, motherfu-
WHERE Trader Bro's, Aisle 9.
( Well, it won't be very merry, I can tell you that much. )
"Ju are escuse," retorted Martín, fingers locking into a death grip on his side of the package. All he wanted to do was grab some yerba mate and drag his totally not twenty-three year old hide back into bed, never to be seen again. He gritted his teeth and looked askance at the little boy... girl... Valen. This whole time and she'd been right under his nose! And now she was trying to steal his mate!
He gave it a fierce tug toward himself. "Dejalo, Valentina!"
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"¿Cómo concha sabes mi nombre?" she hissed, jerking the package back once more.
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"¡Porque soy tu primo!" He tore his sunglasses off, letting them clatter to the ground, and fixed her with an incensed look. And with that cleared up, planted his free hand against the side of her face and shoved with all his might. How was that for a reunion? "This mate is my! I see it first."
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"I touch it first!" She gave into that urge relatively quickly, completely disregarding the fact that they were in the middle of a store.
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"No you did not!" He paused, seemed to absorb the bigger picture here, and suddenly grabbed her around the middle and hoisted her over his shoulder like a flailing sack of potatoes. The element of surprise on his side, he easily snatched the mate from her little fingers.
"First, I take the mate. Second, I take you to the aeroport."
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That meant going back to Uruguay, to her madre, to law school- and no more Mr. Zwingli!
"You no take the mate," she hissed, raising her fist, "and you no take me!" She punctuated the sentence with a well-aimed punch to his head, sending them both staggering towards a carefully arranged soup can display in the shape of a pyramid.
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Pale little bursts of light swam in Martín's eyes. Oh, shit, that hurt. He blinked to clear the stars and tears obscuring his vision, but it was too little too late: he had dropped the packet of mate in an attempt to restrain her bite-sized fists of fury, swinging them off-balance straight into the miniature tower of Chef Niñoarrdee.
It rained cans upon them. Cold, hard steel cans. One smacked him square in the nose and he swore wildly, desperately clawing his way out of the mess. Cans rolled out from beneath his palms and knees. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw something move, and a tiny voice croaked out, "M-my mate!"
There was only one box left, and by Maradona, he would be taking it and the little brat home. With a growl, he leapt forward and grabbed her by the ankle.
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With an eardrum-bursting squeal of static, a voice came over the PA system: CRRRRK! Clean-up on aisle five... Crrrrk! Clean-up on... Oh, oops, no it’s aisle three. Hahaha, thanks Sally, how do I turn this goddamn th-The response was surprisingly quick. Right as Valen had finally reached the mate, her fingers curling around the plastic packaging and shirt thoroughly soaked in tomato soup, she felt herself being lifted up by the scruff of her shirt. Her first instinct was to kick and yell, assuming that Martín was the one that picked her up ( ... )
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