nice one, bro. now try saying something beautiful and true

"Can I help you?"

Most of the other occupants of this town over-enunciated, exuberantly cautious in their speech to a newcomer. Slow, blink-eyed, with the eyes and chin moving in opposite directions. They nodded resigned yeses and scowled hopeful nos all at once, heads cocked to one side or the other without their realizing it.

This one, however, swallowed the "can" and made the interrogative into an uncertain, uncaring declarative. He watched his guest, working a screwdriver in a rag.

"I don't have a car," Malos said flatly, pointing at the vehicle to underscore his statement.

"But you need one?" the mechanic supplied. "Thinking if you hang around the shop pinchin' pennies long enough you'll figure out where to get one cheap?"

"I'm not here for a job."

The human studied Malos for a few moments, giving the impression of neither impatience nor confusion. His lips worked, minutely, as if he were chewing gum, or tobacco, or his tongue.

"Alright. Well." The puce of his jacket shifted in attention. A windbreaker, meant to crackle and shear so the soft body underneath didn't have to. "If I can't do any work for you and you can't do any work for me, then, ah, I guess our business here is done, yeah?"

From whencever the conclusion about a hardworking, hard-off young traveler with a hard-on for racing rubber and hardware had come, it swiftly returned. Yeah, Malos's engineer boots were worked-up thrift store finds, but hell if they weren't worked-up. His t-shirt was spotless. His jacket was a behemoth of buckles.

(Goodwill, they called it. Sounded cheery enough for the suburbs. But everything was a brand and a false-flowered promise, in the suburbs.)

"Hey, Fonz-"

"Not now, Red."

A gaggle of freckles and larynx bobbed a peaceful "oh" in the direction of the apparent altercation, beat-up but natty Converse taking their owner back out of the garage and into the sunshine where he belonged. His presence remained, though, teetering at the shop's exterior threshold.

Malos couldn't help but start to smirk. "I thought you said our business was done." Fonz, was it?

"You didn't leave."

"I don't take hints."

"I can see that." But despite his darkening tone, Fonzie made no moves to push, or swing, or spit. Malos realized he had about a foot on the man.

The room, such as it was, concrete-floored, smelled of at least three different types of grease. There was nothing antiseptic here - but, neither was there the smell of cigarette smoke. The redhead that had poked his button nose in appeared somewhat comfortable carousing at Bronko's, in the way that all those living comfortably inure themselves to the necessary undercarriages of the "civilized" world.

"Listen."

As if Malos needed to be told. Though he'd never admit to being captive, he could feel the tension lock in the air. Mutual, for once.

"You're a looker. Not like a chick," Fonzie amended on cue from Malos's steely gaze. "You're curious. You're dangerous. You don't really care if anybody likes you very much. You're here for a bad time, not a long time."

The words I don't want to start any trouble swam in Malos's throat. I don't want any trouble with you, buddy.

I don't want any problems. I just want to--

"I still don't want a job."

(In itself, an admission that something significant had been said. That Malos and his pompadour together did at least a little bit of caring. Of listening. Of curiosity.)

"Somebody messes you up, gives you a bum rap. Doesn't exactly make you feel like bein' a good little member of society, square. Sure.

"But everybody wants a purpose. Everybody wants somethin' to do, while this rock keeps spinnin'."

Now Malos chewed his cheek. Tasted like copper. Maybe a little bit of grease.

"Who's the nerd?"

Fonzie spoke too quickly. "Richie's not a nerd. He's my friend."

The intent was there, and clear enough: Don't touch him, or I'll end you and your rocks. Send your head spinning, et cetera. And it was a real threat. No denying. But the quiver that barrelled bigger between each word shook Malos most of all.

They still hadn't exchanged names. Malos knew if he used what he'd heard he'd get wound on just the same. And just how long had it taken Richie - "Red" - to coax the blood of an identifier from this brown-haired stone?

"Here," Fonzie said, careless again. "Fix this carburetor, and you can have a jumpsuit."

"Tch. Don't need it."

"And spoil your t-shirt?"

Malos got to work.