“What are weese good at?” I asked my boys.
“Killin’ shit,” Jango said.
“Spray paintin’,” Boba added.
Jango flopped down on the thick green shag carpeting that we’d requested and burped. “Cheatin’ at cards.”
“While youse both are correct, I’m thinkin’ Zelda won’t go for dat. Spray paintin’ dead people after we fleece dem for dough doesn’t sound legal to me,” I pointed out. “Also, weese are gonna have to return the big screen TV.”
“Why?” Boba asked.
“Cause weese stole it,” I told him, smacking him in the back of the head.
“And dats bad?” he asked confused as he walloped me back.
“Yep, dats bad.”
“I got it!” Jango yelled, ripping open a bag of pepperoni sticks and inhaling them. “Weese can combine all the things weese are good at into a business.”
“All the things weese are good at are criminal,” Boba reminded him.
Jango was a dumbass, but he might have made an excellent point.
“Dis is true, but what if weese spray paint dead people and charge for it?” I suggested, waggling my brows.
“Dat’s a business?” Jango asked, scratching his head.
My smile widened and I nodded. “Yep. Dat’s a business.”
“What the hell kind of business is dat?” Boba questioned.
“Weese are gonna open a funeral home,” I announced.
Boba wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Weese are?”
“Yep, Assjacket ain’t got no funeral home,” I pointed out.
“Might be because Shifters and witches don’t croak dat often,” Boba said, popping another can of beer.
He made a superb argument, but I needed a nap and couldn’t think of anything else. “Not a problem,” I assured them. “If nobody dies, weese don’t have to spray paint dem. Win-win.”
“I like it,” Jango said, nodding. “Weese could pilfer a building and set up shop.”
“I like it too,” Boba said. “And just so weese don’t get thrown in the big house, weese can borrow a building instead of pilferin’ it.”
“Good thinkin’.” I told him. Weese can borrow Roger the rabbit Shifter’s office. He’s on vacation for two weeks and weese only have to be law abidin’ for one week. The bunny won’t even know.”
“Perfect.” Jango grinned, warming even more to the idea. “Weese have tons of spray paint just in case weese accidentally off someone or an Assjackian kicks the bucket.”
I knew I could count on my boys. The plan was coming together.
“Wadda weese gonna call it?” Boba inquired.
“Maybe somethin’ dat rhymes with dead?” I suggested.
“Got it,” Boba said. “Dead and Shred.”
I almost puked in my mouth. “Dats fuckin’ disgustin’.”
“It rhymes,” Boba huffed, flipping me off.
Jango chuckled. “I can top dat. Youse Kill It—Weese Grill It.”
“While I dig the thought behind it, no f-in’ way,” I said with a laugh. “Hows about The Dead Bed?”
“Nah,” Jango said. “Should be more fun. Youse know, somethin’ dat makes people wanna bite the big one and come to our place.”
“Fine point. Well made,” I said, laying down on my bed in preparation for a nap. “What do people do when someone buys the farm?”
Boba raised his hand and waited to be called on. I rolled my eyes. “Speak.”
“They mourn,” he said. “Weese could call it Sworn to Mourn.”
“Closer,” I said, getting under the blankets. “Not quite right yet.”
“Grieve and Thieve?” Jango suggested, giving up on his diet and grabbing a pie we’d absconded with from the Assjacket Diner yesterday.
“Sounds a little shady,” Boba said, removing the pie from Jango’s paws and swallowing it whole.
The hair on the back of Jango’s neck stood up on end, and he hissed viciously. Pie was pie. You didn’t fuck with a man’s pie. Ever. They beat the hell out of each other for three minutes and twenty-six seconds. Smackdowns were a regular occurrence for us. Nails were out, chunks of fur flew and the language was salty. It was a good healthy way to communicate. Couldn’t let that shit stay bottled up. Last time we tried being socially acceptable, we’d ended up incarcerated for six months after an unfortunate spray-painting incident at the Super Bowl. We’d learned our lesson and tried to whack each other daily to avoid stints in the pokey.
“Youse girls done?” I asked. Both of them were bloody and laughing like dummies.
“Yep,” Jango said. “But when Boba drop kicked me into the garbage can, I had another idea.”
“Spill it,” I said, yawning.
“Bereave,” he announced, pumping his paws over his head.
“What’s dat mean?” Boba asked, mopping the blood off his whiskers and sipping on his beer.
I sat up. “It’s like when youse eighty-six someone and den youse feel guilty for offin’ him even though he deserved it because the jackhole bilked youse outta 10K.”
We sat in silence and mulled over the possibilities. They were endless.
“Youse Better Bereave It!” Jango shouted.
“Hows about Bereave It or Not?” Boba bellowed, not wanting to be left out.
“Or…” I said with a naughty grin. “Don’t Stop Bereavin’.”
“Dems all good names,” Jango said. “What are weese gonna do?”
“Three owners. Three names. Youse assholes in?” I asked.
“In like Flynn,” Boba said.
“I’m in with a grin on my chin drinkin’ gin with a twin and her kin on a spin…” Jango said, not to be topped by anyone.
“Shaddup,” I said with a laugh. “Youse are gonna give me a headache. I’d suggest a nap and den a trip into town to borrow a building.”
“Should weese get permission to borrow Roger’s office?” Jango asked as he settled himself on our cat-sized couch for a mid-morning snooze.
“Nah,” Boba said, curling up on the floor. “Much easier to apologize after a minor pilfering.”
Truer words had never been said.
Chapter Two
“Dat could work,” I said, casing Roger’s office while hiding behind the enormous half-headed cement bear in the middle of Main Street.
Sadly, the cement bear was also missing his nards due to the sticky-fingered groundhogs. With half a head and no balls, Assjacket’s mascot was a sad sight to see.
