With that bastard’s shamelessness, he would absolutely do it.

Martin and Harris each took some change, got credit cards, and headed out to the car.

Eleanor asked, “Your legs and arms don’t hurt anymore?”

Martin closed the passenger door and said, “I’ve realized, only when you’re broke do your legs hurt. When you’ve got money, damn, your whole body feels great.”

Harris, slumped in the back seat, his excitement fading, urged, “Hurry up and take me to the hospital, I’m dying from the pain.”

Eleanor started the car: “A car crash couldn’t kill an idiot like you, this little injury won’t take your life.”

Passing by the accident scene, the bicycle was gone.

None of the three cared; that wreck of a bike, which rattled everywhere except the bell, was already dog crap in their eyes.

Now that they had money, they could get Harris’s arm treated without having to go to Bill the vet.

Suddenly, Eleanor had an idea: “It’s not easy to break an arm—should we do it again? There are lots of junkies.”

Harris protested, “There’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’ll die!”

Martin had already thought about it: “Max has a happy family, two kids, doesn’t want to become a criminal. What if next time we run into some hot-tempered guy? What if he just shoots Harris’s pig head off?”

Eleanor focused on driving and said nothing more.

At the hospital, Martin accompanied Harris for treatment, while Eleanor went to return the car and the teddy bear.

Martin asked, “Whose car is it?”

Eleanor replied, “Monica’s. She’s a nice person.”

Martin said quietly, “Remember to fill up the tank.”

Eleanor stared at him for a moment: “Did your idiot brain finally get knocked straight?”

Martin saw Harris coming out of the CT room and hurried over.

Harris’s situation wasn’t too bad; he didn’t need surgery or metal plates. After the doctor set the bone, they put on a cast. The rest was just medication and rest.

Leaving the hospital, Eleanor, who had rushed back, suggested, “Let’s celebrate tonight.”

“Celebrate an idiot breaking his arm? I’m in!” Martin was generous: “My treat. Come on, let’s go buy some beer!”

Harris, arm in a sling, followed along: “I want funnel cake, and a Monte Cristo sandwich!”

Eleanor was delighted: “It’s rare for a broke guy to treat us. I want sweet beer and oxtail rice!”

The three of them went on a shopping spree at a roadside restaurant and convenience store, planning to go back and party.

Chapter 6: The Thing We’re Best At

Outside, the sky was pitch black; inside, the lights were bright and laughter filled the air.

Harris finished his Monte Cristo sandwich, picked up a can of beer and tossed it to Martin, popped open another with one hand, and shouted, “Martin, my admiration for you has gone from zero to ninety percent!”

Eleanor walked over with a plate, sat next to Martin, and forked up a piece of oxtail: “This is your reward.”

Martin took a big bite of meat, popped open his beer, raised it and said, “Losers, let’s raise a glass together!”

“Cheers!”

Lily and Hall, the two idiots, also raised their Cokes.

The afternoon’s gains brought real joy.

The happiness was so pure, it tempted Lily and Hall to reach for the beer.

Eleanor glanced over, and Lily shrank her neck and said, “It wasn’t me, Hall grabbed my hand!” She glared fiercely at Hall: “If you do that again, I’ll chop off your little brother and stuff it in your mouth.”

Hall shot back, “My baseball bat will flatten you like a pancake!”

Martin knocked his empty can: “If you two idiots ruin my good mood again, I’ll throw you out to sleep on the street.”

“Since you’re treating.” Lily’s straw buzzed as she sipped, and she stopped bickering with Hall.

Martin stood up and said, “Alright, I’ll mix you girls a drink.”

Eleanor was surprised: “When did you, you idiot, learn to mix drinks?”

Martin picked up a can of sweet beer, walked to the open kitchen, rummaging as he spoke: “Old bastard Jack is the most talented guy in northeast Marietta. How do you think he managed to steal your mom away?”

Harris quietly circled behind the sofa and deliberately said to Eleanor, “The son of bastard Jack has a ninety-nine percent chance of being a bastard.”

Lily, nearby, chimed in: “Scott and Jack are both bastards. Mom Emma likes to fuck bastards, Eleanor likes to fuck bastard Martin. Perfect inheritance!”

With a thud, Eleanor’s fist landed on Lily’s face. Lily clutched her nose and fell silent.

There were no professional ingredients in the kitchen, so Martin had to find a few substitutes. Without a cocktail shaker, he just grabbed Lily’s school water bottle.

Jack-Davis really was multi-talented, but Martin-Davis had never learned bartending from him.

This was something Martin had learned specifically for a bartender role when he was drifting around.

Back then, Martin loved to drink and practiced a lot.

Martin poured in half a can of sweet beer, added sugar, salt, cola, and baking soda, cracked an egg and added the egg white, squeezed in a bit of lemon juice, then screwed the lid on tight and shook it up.

He grabbed two glasses, set them on the coffee table piled with food wrappers, unscrewed the bottle, and poured: “Foamy Beauty, enjoy.”

The glasses were filled with foam.