> Open Twenty-Four Hours
>  by Feech
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Istanbul Was Constantinople
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Number Five needed coffee. It wasn't a waste of time, it was a necessity for life. After coffee, Pogo could remove the tracker from Number Five's arm, and then Number Five could save the world. There were probably a few other action items in there somewhere, but coffee came first. Five got into the driver's seat of the Rolls, adjusted the seat forward, tilted the mirrors down, and roared off for Griddy's.

In the clouded-over night, the glowing, blinking Griddy's Doughnuts sign was a soothing beacon. It hadn't been updated since long before Five had left home.

When he pulled open the door to the doughnut shop, Number Five found that he remembered where the folds in time and space were before he felt them. He walked to the counter and hopped up onto a stool which had a hem in the universe cushioning the space next to it. The reality-fold cuddled up along Five's right side like an invisible security blanket. He could spin through it whenever he wished. Number Five dinged the counter bell. Now somebody would bring him coffee. All was going according to plan.

The exterior door opened behind him and began closing almost immediately, allowing time for one person to pass through. It was a small, lightweight person with bouncing footsteps—probably okay. However, it wasn’t out of the question that the Temps Commission would send a child, given Number Five’s own bizarre circumstances. If it were a lone person, it would be someone who knew him, and Number Five might have a fight on his hands. After he killed them, he’d have to remove his tracker right away, before the Commission sent somebody else. Without turning his head Five took a long look sideways as the person perched on a stool next to him. The kid was unarmed, and she—well, actually, it was pointless for him to be sneaking looks out of the corner of his eye, because she was leaning toward him, grinning widely, and talking to him.

"Hi! I'm Pinkie Pie! And you are…" the girl rolled her hand, prompting. Number Five regarded her uncertainly, and she pulled her hand back. "You were supposed to give your name, because I don't know it yet. And that means you must be new around here."

"I'm old around here," said Number Five, "but I've been gone for a long time."

The girl—Pinkie Pie—was pink, but not with what Number Five would think of as a normal, healthy flush. She had all-over bubblegum-pink skin and wild, curly hair in a deeper, brighter pink. She was cartoonishly slender. Her clothing, from barrette to belt to boots, suggested that a well-stocked candy shop had been transformed into an outfit. She appeared to be somewhere between fifteen and seventeen years old.

Pinkie Pie patted a rhythm on the sides of her stool's yellow vinyl seat. "If you've been away awhile, that could be why I've never seen you. I know everyone in the city."

"I find that hard to believe," Number Five said.

Pinkie Pie snicker-snorted delightedly. "Okay, you got me," she said. "You're in the city, and I don't know you, so there's one person in the city that I don't know! But otherwise, yeah, pretty much everyone. Hey, it's Agnes!" she said, as a waitress came out of the kitchen.

The waitress wiped her hands on her apron. "Sorry, sink was clogged." She took a pen and an order pad out of pockets in her bright-pink dress. "Hi, Pinkie. What'll you kids have?"

"I'll have my usual," said Pinkie. "One of everything you have in the cases, plus two extra cherry fritters, three extra apple fritters. Stack of pancakes. Oh—and give me a dozen chocolate eclairs. You can box those to go. The other stuff is to eat now."

Agnes took down the order as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, murmuring, "Uh huh, okay. Can I get you kids something to drink?"

Pinkie Pie had climbed up onto the counter and was sitting facing the dining room. She twisted around to look at Agnes and raised her hand. "Ooh, ooh, I'll have an orange-pineapple smoothie."

Agnes wrote it down and waited for Number Five's order.

"This kid wants coffee," Number Five declared. "Black."

Agnes hesitated. "You wouldn't rather have a glass of milk or something?"

Number Five gave her a wide, fakey grin—the best innocent smile he'd ever been able to concoct, even when he really was a little kid.

Agnes faltered. "Okay." She turned away, flustered. She got out a mug and took up the coffee pot.

Pinkie lightly kicked Number Five in his ribs with the toe of her beribboned boot. "No, really, what else are you having? What kind of doughnut? Or are you just getting a muffin? Waffle? Something like that? Soup and then a waffle?"

"I thought I'd just have the coffee," said Number Five.

Pinkie Pie let out a sudden shriek of laughter, as if somebody had just tickled her. She laughed until she fell off the counter. A stool broke her fall, and she rolled off of the seat and onto the floor, where she curled up, kicking the base of the paneling and beating the tiles with her fist while one hand gripped her side.

Agnes held Number Five's filled coffee mug out to him and he leaned forward eagerly and took it. Agnes gave him a strange look. He hadn't truly realized how incongruous he seemed. But he didn't care, because he had bigger concerns, and also he now had coffee. "Um." Number Five pointed at the giggling pile of teenage girl.

"Oh, that's just Pinkie Pie," said Agnes.

"So this is normal?"

"Well, it's not normal, I guess. But it's Pinkie."

Pinkie managed to seat herself on the stool. Agnes brought her a smoothie. "Seriously, though," said Pinkie, "you need to let me buy you a doughnut."

It took a moment for Number Five to register that Pinkie Pie meant him, and not Agnes. There was nobody else in Griddy's. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome! Agnes, please get him a milk chocolate-glazed, vanilla buttercream-filled Long John with sprinkles. Oh, and a lemon Bismarck with powdered sugar on top. That's excellent, too. Make sure you get him one with plenty of jelly. It should be showing on the outside of the pastry!"

Agnes was working on Pinkie's order. She paused to wrap the requested doughnuts in parchment paper and hand them to Number Five.

He took a small bite of the lemon Bismarck and rolled the tart flavor on his tongue. It forced him to feel good, and put him in a talkative mood. He glanced around the dining area, which somehow managed to be dim in spite of the many white light fixtures recessed into the ceiling and the ball lamps hanging over the counter section. A couple of the orange vinyl chairs had duct tape patches, and the veneer on the tables was peeling. "I don't remember this place being such a sh—" he paused. Pinkie Pie was obviously a kid, and, given Number Five's appearance, she would think of him as a peer. He amended his choice of words. "Such a dump. I remember when I was a kid me and my brothers and sisters would sneak out, come here and eat doughnuts 'til we puked. Simpler—"

"Oh, that sounds like so much fun!" Pinkie broke in. "Are we talking literal puking, or are you using hyperbole for effect?"

Number Five took a sip of his coffee. It was strong and on the edge of too hot—perfect. "Hyperbole." He took another sip. "Puking wastes doughnuts. There's a fine line you have to walk. You have to enjoy all the doughnuts you can, and know when you're about to go over that edge."

"And then no matter how delicious the next doughnut looks, you have to sacrifice it to save the others you already ate," Pinkie finished for him. "So true. You're wise beyond your years. How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"Six. Four brothers and two lovely sisters." Number Five decided he'd feel better if he didn't differentiate about Ben.

"And which one are you? In order, I mean."

"I'm number five."

"Nice to meet you, number five. What's your name?"

"My name is Number Five."

"Wow, what a coincidence! Your number is the same as your name!"

A smile twitched at the corner of Number Five's lips.

Pinkie went on, "I have three sisters. All of them are lovely, too, like yours. So we have something in common already, in addition to understanding doughnut-puking-avoidance science." She gave a little sigh of satisfaction. "Now I know everybody in the city again."

"Everybody in the city?"

"You betcha."

"Good," said Number Five. "I need an address. I need to find my sister's apartment."

"What's your sister's name?"

"Vanya Hargreeves."

"Vanya Hargreeves is your sister? I should have bought you more than just two doughnuts! I should have bought you a whole cake! It turns out we were already friends before I met you! I'll have to send a treat with you for Vanya. Agnes, can I borrow a pen? And can you put a whole-grain muffin with cream cheese icing in a bag for me?" The waitress obliged and Pinkie Pie wrote an address on a napkin and slid it over to Number Five. He nodded his appreciation and put the napkin in his jacket pocket.

Pinkie said, "If you go to her place after this, with nothing in between, by the time you get over there you'll be a little early for her to be home from orchestra rehearsal. If you don't want to wait in the hallway, her neighbor is always home."

"It doesn’t matter," said Number Five. "I can get in without a key."

Agnes had filled two trays with a rainbow of doughnuts. She set the loaded trays on the counter in front of Pinkie. "Be back in a jiffy with your pancakes," she said, and went to the kitchen.

Pinkie gazed at her treasure of baked goods for a long moment. She reached for one and had it halfway to her mouth when she paused. Her eyes widened. "You're the Number Five."

"The only one I know," said Number Five.

"You're Vanya's missing brother! Oh my gosh! Where were you?"

"Here in the city, most of the time," said Number Five.

"Really?" Pinkie Pie scrunched up her brow. She still held her doughnut halfway to her mouth. "How did I not know you, then?"

"I was here in the future," said Number Five.

"Oh.” Pinkie gobbled her doughnut in two bites and brushed her powdered-sugary fingertips together. “I usually have to wait to know people in the future. It can be a bummer, waiting so long. They turn out to be such neat people!"

Agnes came out from the kitchen, carrying a white stoneware plate. Pinkie moved her doughnut trays to each side to make room. Agnes set down the pancakes. A pat of butter melted down over the syrup. "Mmm." Pinkie licked her lips. "Wait, Agnes, let me pay you." Pinkie Pie reached into a pocket and brought out a little clasp purse. She pulled out a wrapped peppermint; a few multicolored, deflated party balloons; some metallic arcade tokens; a gold-foil-wrapped chocolate coin; and a crumpled wad of bills. Glitter confetti fell out of the handful of bills and onto Pinkie's lap and the floor. She handed the money to Agnes and put the odds and ends, except for the escaped glitter, back in the purse.

Agnes checked the pocket of her apron. "I'll have to go in back and get change." She went around a doughnut case and through an Employees Only door.

Pinkie took a couple of bites of her pancakes, chewed, and took a third bite. She finally swallowed and stuck her fork in the pancakes again. She dabbed at syrup on the corner of her mouth and looked at Number Five. "Does Vanya know you're coming over?"

"I haven't told her."

"Are you bringing her a present, to celebrate you being found? I'm sure if she knew, she'd have one for you." The pancakes were disappearing as if in a timelapse film.

Number Five frowned at his coffee. "I didn't think of bringing a present. I have to tell her how the world is ending."

"At least you can bring her a treat, and we can have a party soon. I can set one up tomorrow afternoon, if that works for you. The world isn’t ending before then, right? But think how happy Vanya will be to see you! She's gonna hug you so hard! Vanya's a great hugger." Pinkie laid down her fork, hugged herself and let out a happy squeak. "And just think how many hugs you've saved up after all this time. Wait until she sees you!"

How many hugs had he saved up after about forty-five years? No—Five couldn't count it from his point of view. To his siblings it had been sixteen and a half years. Had it felt very long to them? How many hugs would that come to? Number Five took a sip of his coffee, holding the mug to his lips beforehand, feeling the steam. He kept it there for a long moment after he'd taken the drink.

"Hm." He put the mug down. "She saw me. Vanya was at the house when I got home. I had to eat a sandwich and then get out of an ill-fitting suit. Then I looked at a painting in the living room—it was a portrait of me. I wondered how long it had been there. Vanya came in and I … I started talking about Dad and her book before she could say anything. Then we all had to go stand in the rain in the courtyard because Luther thought that would be a good way to remember Dad. Not that Luther's wrong about that." Number Five turned the hot mug back and forth in semicircles with his fingertips. "I haven't gotten hugged yet."

Pinkie Pie's pancakes had vanished. She pushed the plate to the back of the counter, popped up to sit in the place the plate had occupied, and selected a German chocolate cake doughnut with extra coconut flakes. "Did you ask? When you got to the house, I mean. I'm pretty sure hugs still work pretty well through an ill-fitting suit. They even work while you're eating a sandwich, depending on the kind of sandwich."

"The marshmallows might have fallen out," said Number Five.

"Mm." Pinkie nodded sagely. She dipped her doughnut in the syrup and melted butter left from her pancakes and took a bite.

It was true about the marshmallows; his favorite sandwich was a precarious house of cards at the best of times, unless you melted the marshmallows and peanut butter together. Nonetheless Number Five felt that he had made a thin excuse, though Pinkie seemed to accept it. He sighed quietly to himself. None of his siblings had piled on him with hugs the way he had hoped they would. Of course, Number Five would have told them all that he didn't have time for hugs, which was true, but the idea was that they were supposed to provide hugs anyway, no matter how busy and surly he was. Who had time to ask their siblings, in so many words, for hugs, and then humbly receive and reciprocate those hugs? Not Number Five Hargreeves. He had to weigh the Apocalypse against hugs. He said petulantly, "Luther is still the leader. It should be his job to decide when it's time for hugs."

"I know it's not the same, but would you like me to give you a hug?"

Number Five was thinking that over when the door opened. A breath of chill, slightly damp air made its way across the floor and brushed his bare knees.

The door stayed open. The person who had opened it was hesitating before stepping in on the tiles—letting someone else through before them. They weren't chatting like a family coming to get doughnuts together. Number Five heard the shuffle of boots. There were too many individuals to be good enough to handle him. These weren't agents straight from the Temps Commission. These were local thugs; they didn't have a Briefcase, and they had no idea what they were dealing with. Number Five relaxed. He did hope that none of them had any children. He didn't want to create orphans tonight.

"That was fast," Number Five said, undisturbed, without turning around. "I thought I'd have more time before they found me. Pinkie Pie, I need you to go where the waitress just went. Hide under a heavy piece of furniture. Stay there until it's been quiet out here for a couple of minutes."

Pinkie showed no sign of having heard him. She sat on the counter swinging her legs and chewing her doughnut, her heels thumping lightly against the paneling. She looked intently at the men behind Number Five. Pinkie turned to her trays of doughnuts, and while she ate, with her free hand she pointed to one doughnut after another—counting them, Number Five realized. He blinked and her German chocolate doughnut with extra coconut flakes had been consumed and replaced by a vanilla with chocolate glaze, also dipped in maple syrup.

The thugs fanned out. Number Five still did not turn around. He checked the reflection in the counter bell. Five men, all in unsubtle black, with matching Baby's My First Select-Fire Rifles. The lumpy stocking caps visible in the reflections of three of the hitmen suggested to Number Five that these guys thought wearing balaclavas to cover their faces, and then rolling them up to reveal their faces, made them look badass. A huge guy near Number Five's right elbow wore no stocking cap.

"Pinkie." Number Five tried again. "Go calmly into the office and block the door. Wait until—"

Pinkie finished her doughnut, wiped her fingertips on a napkin, and waved at the hired killers. Her squeaky voice piped up. "Hi, guys! Tommy! Long time no see. Hello, Barry. What are you guys here for? Is the gun safety class being held here tonight?"

"Not exactly," said the deep-voiced giant at Number Five's right. "It's nice to see you, Pinkie, but you can't be here. You should go."

"Oh, hi, Jamal! I almost didn't recognize you without your paper hat!"

"It's Big Jake. Not Jamal."

"But your nametag at Burger Flipper says Jamal."

"Well, it's kind of a code name."

"A code name!" Pinkie squealed. "How mysterious and exciting! Which one's the code name—Big Jake, or the name your mom gave you?"

"Look, the Jamal thing is a secret, okay? From these guys."

"But Tommy knows who you are! Right, Tommy?"

Tommy, behind and at a slight angle to the left of Number Five, grunted.

Pinkie said, "Wait, are you both in on the secret, then? Can I be in on it?"

"Pinkie, you shouldn't be here," said Big Jake, aka Jamal. "We have a job to do."

"Ooh, what kind of job? Is this what you've been training at night to learn to do? You're not quitting Burger Flipper, are you? You flip the best burgers."

"I'm still working there during the day," said Big Jake-Jamal.

Number Five allowed himself a small amount of panic as he turned over his options. He had been going to destroy these men and go home. Pinkie Pie sitting up there on the counter was ruining everything. Any mayhem was out of the question now. But Number Five could save the world and Pinkie couldn't. He had to make it. He could teleport outside, but the thugs would hear the car starting up, get into their newer, faster vehicles and pursue him. If he jumped out of the car and into a fold on the way, where could he stop long enough to cut the tracker out of his arm before they found him again? It would take at least two minutes to get the thing out of his arm, and he had to have a sharp knife—these guys had knives. But that was circuitous—if he had their knives, he also had time to remove the tracker.

Number Five could lead the men off of Pinkie, drive to some likely location for a whirlwind fight and leave the tracker in his arm until he took a knife off of one of the thugs' bodies. He released a nearly inaudible snort of disgust. There was no guarantee they wouldn't open fire on the counter area if he so much as blinked out of existence. Besides, it disgruntled him to think of sacrificing the Hargreeves family's Silver Shadow to a chase with these idiots.

Big Jake-Jamal switched from conversing with Pinkie to talking to Number Five. "Okay, so let's all be professional about this, yeah? On your feet and come with us. They wanna talk."

Number Five did not deign to turn his head. "I've got nothing to say."

"It doesn't have to go this way. Think I wanna shoot a kid? Go home with that on my conscience?"

Number Five casually tilted the table knife that lay on his napkin. High-quality, heavy steel. "Well, I—"

"Well, I wouldn't worry about that, silly! You won't be going home." Pinkie jumped up and stood on the counter. "You're staying for doughnuts! Your mother is okay with that, right? Why don't you bring her some? A dozen is always six dollars, that's one of the reasons why I come here so often! Come and get your doughnuts, I'm buying. I counted. There are eleven and a half still here on the trays, besides the eclairs I'm taking home with me to eat while I do my homework. And this one is for me." She brandished a pink-frosted vanilla cake doughnut with rainbow sprinkles. "That makes two for each of you! Can you believe it? There's one extremely delicious raspberry and cream cheese Danish, only one person is getting that. The other Danishes are plain cream cheese—oops. I see I made a mistake. Silly me. There's also a Danish that has cream cheese and chocolate." She sing-songed, "I wonder whose favorite that could be, Barry."

One of the rolled-up balaclava boys said, "You could toss it over to me, Pinkie."

"Shut up, Barry!" said Jake-Jamal. "I'd like a doughnut, too, but nobody's getting any treats right now, okay? We have—"

Pinkie interrupted. She had been staring across the floor at another of the thugs.

"Now, I know I know you," said Pinkie. "But weirdly, I've never caught your name. You're Heidi the goat's owner. The funny thing is that I think of you that way—Heidi the Goat's Owner—and so do all the kids at the park where you walk Heidi. The children sure do adore Heidi. Is she waiting for you in her little goat-shed up on the roof of your apartment building at home?"

Heidi the Goat's Owner gruffly replied, "Yeah."

Pinkie Pie asked, "Did you tell Heidi where you'd be?"

The goat-owning thug sighed. "I gotta buy hay for her somehow."

"I get that," said Pinkie, bobbing her curly head. "But maybe don't tell her where you got the hay money. I mean, Heidi likes kids so much. She might be upset."

"I won't tell her."

"Number Five, you ought to see Heidi," said Pinkie Pie. "She has the cutest white face, and she wears a bow and a bell. So adorable!"

"Indeed. Adorable." It would be a shame if Number Five had to orphan the goat.

"Tommy!" shouted Pinkie Pie. Behind Number Five, Tommy startled—the fasteners on his gun sling gave a small rattle. "Tommy, Tommy," Pinkie went on, "Want to hear one of those weird small-world things? Remember when we went to the classical music concert because your nicest aunt gave us extra tickets, and you said you knew you were supposed to be listening to the music, but you couldn't help noticing the second-chair violin? Remember that? Do you?"

Tommy cleared his throat. He may also have nodded; in any case Pinkie seemed to take it as encouragement. "You said she was really pretty and she had such a serious, sad expression and you couldn't stop looking at her. Well—" Pinkie swept her arms in a gesture of presentation toward Number Five "—this is her brother! He's been missing for over a decade and the little violinist misses him a whole bunch and he's going to visit her tonight! Small world, huh?"

While Tommy's boots made sounds of uncomfortable shuffling in place, Number Five mentally enumerated the possibilities of a napkin dispenser that stood just out of arm's reach. One wrinkle he needed to develop his strategy around was that he'd have to tackle Pinkie first and get her somewhere relatively safe within the dining room.

"Need a napkin?" Pinkie Pie asked Number Five brightly, and she slid the dispenser a few inches in his direction. He glanced up at her, and she was looking at him with something approaching a significant glance. The napkin dispenser was a little beat-up, but it was made of steel, and he found when he pushed it nonchalantly with a finger that it was as heavy as he'd hoped. It would stave in a temple nicely, and certainly wouldn't break, but it wasn't as ergonomic as the table knife.

"You don't need a napkin?" asked Pinkie. "What about a handy tool?" She arched her back, leaned over the opposite side of the countertop, turned her head to look beneath it, and picked up an object. At the sight of it, Number Five's mouth actually watered. Pinkie clunked it down near him, saying, "Such as this claw hammer?"

Big Jake-Jamal growled, "Pinkie Pie, get that away from him. Can't you see he could use it as a weapon?"

Pinkie Pie screamed with laughter and fell off the front of the counter for the second time that night. Apparently Number Five wasn't the only guy who could make a funny joke.

While the thugs' eyes were on Pinkie on the floor and their thoughts were on the claw hammer, Number Five tucked his table knife up his sleeve.

Pinkie Pie made the heroic climb back onto the counter. "Oh, Big Jake-Jamal, you are so funny. The claw part is for pulling nails, and the head part is for pounding them. What part is he gonna use as a weapon?"

Tommy supplied, "The handle?"

Pinkie stared at him wide-eyed for one silent moment, then bent double, overcome yet again with uproarious glee. Number Five wanted to shoot an arm out in front of her to prevent a third fall to the floor, but he dared not make any sudden moves. Pinkie Pie managed to stay on the counter. The only sound in the place was her wheezing. She clutched her stomach and lowered her head, and held a hand up to ask for time to catch her breath. When she caught it, she grinned, teary-eyed, at Tommy and said, "The handle—the handle. But then—oh Tommy, you crack me up. Then how on Earth would he hold the hammer?"

Tommy snickered. Number Five couldn't believe his ears.

"Besides—" Pinkie Pie took Number Five by the wrists, wobbled his arms and flopped his hands "—look at his adorable little noodle arms." It was with some amount of surprise and respect that Number Five noticed Pinkie's finger at his cuff keeping the table knife from sliding out the underside of his sleeve. "Pfff, weapon, heehee." Pinkie let go of Number Five's wrists. "But you know what, just because you asked me to, Jamal—" she winked "—I mean Code Name Big Jake, I'll put it away." The claw hammer went back into its place on the shelves behind the counter with a noisy clunk.

"I'm mildly curious," Number Five said to Pinkie Pie. "Who's the fifth guy?"

"That's Doughnut Bob." Pinkie did not smile, and her tone was reserved, without her joyous, lilting squeak.

"'Doughnut Bob'?"

"He's been a hitman in this city for years. Also he loves doughnuts," explained Pinkie. "We're intermittently friends."

"I was hoping this job would involve doughnuts," said Doughnut Bob.

"Turns out it does," said Pinkie. She picked up her smoothie, took a sip, and licked her lips. "I have something serious to say before we begin the party. I really hate to be a tattletale, and I wouldn't want to get you guys in trouble, but … if you kill us, we're gonna tell."

"I'm gonna say it again, Pinkie," said Big Jake-Jamal. "You don't have to be here."

"I do though, because I'm buying the doughnuts for the party! Each of you guys has seen me eat doughnuts. You know how quick I am. You want me to start on these before you even get a chance to pick your favorites? Unload your rifles and sling them over your shoulders. I'll wait, but not too long. That caramel-glazed custard Bismarck is tempting…" Pinkie Pie walked her fingers across the tray toward the doughnut.

"Go ahead, do as the girl says," said Number Five. "Eat. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world."

"Can't enjoy doughnuts right now, Pinkie Pie," said Big Jake-Jamal. "We have to keep an eye on this guy. He has to come with us."

Number Five turned his head just enough in Jake-Jamal's direction to make himself seem conversational. "You can't enjoy doughnuts with me sitting right here? So you think there's some way I can just—" he made a small fluttering motion with the fingers of one hand "—disappear if you turn your back on me? That I have the power to bypass conventional travel on foot and get outside before you know I'm gone? Such as if, for instance, you were distracted? You believe even a brief distraction would give me enough time to use my magic powers?"

"Well, you have a point, I guess," said Jake-Jamal. "Okay, guys."

All of the men unloaded their rifles. Number Five's logic centers could not agree with his senses. The weight of the table knife up his sleeve calmed him.

Pinkie Pie pushed the paper bag with Vanya's treat in it along the counter until it rested in front of Number Five. "Gentlemen!" Pinkie abruptly stood up on the counter. "We have to make it fair for everyone. Line up to the left of Number Five here and face away from the counter, toward the windows, and cover your eyes. When I say go, you turn around and pick your doughnuts, all together at one time."

The men lined up, turned around, and covered their eyes. Number Five said, "Implausible as it is that I could have magic powers, it'd be an even more ludicrous notion that there could be some sound in the doughnut shop which would make it difficult for anyone to hear me driving away in my car."

Somehow Pinkie's arm reached all the way to the little radio at the pass-through over the coffee machine. She switched it on and cranked it up. Out came the sound of The Four Lads performing "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)".

"Ooh," said Pinkie. "Old-timey!”

“Barry is peeking,” said Number Five.

“Hey! Barry, really cover your eyes and then I'll give the signal. Okay … good. Go!"

Number Five grabbed the bag with the muffin in it and wheeled to the right, off of his stool, out of reality, and back into it in the chilly March air. His feet landed on the sidewalk. He paused for a glance through the shop window. The thugs, backs to the windows, were selecting their doughnuts.

Pinkie Pie was standing on the counter. She lifted her head, brought her hands up to her shoulders and made fists, and her arms vibrated—she was obviously refraining from waving to Number Five. He saluted Pinkie with the muffin bag in his hand, hopped off the curb, and let the table knife drop from his left sleeve into a puddle. He found that his tie was loose. Being so nearby Pinkie during her bouts of hilarity had apparently disheveled it. Number Five adjusted it as he crossed the street to the car.

He got in behind the wheel and drove the Rolls homeward. Pogo would cut the tracker out of Number Five's arm and then they could destroy the thing. As he drove, Number Five muttered to himself, practicing. "'I would like a hug.' I should probably say 'please.' It might go over better. 'I need a hug, please.' Using the word 'need' sounds, well, needy. I'll try it on Vanya. I have to spend a few minutes explaining the looming Apocalypse to her anyway. Maybe she can cuddle me while I exposit."





Detectives Patch and Beaman responded to a call about a disturbance at Griddy's Doughnuts. As soon as they entered the place they were greeted by a familiar, cheery voice.

"Hi, Eudora! Hi, Chuck!

"Hello, Pinkie," Detective Eudora Patch replied distractedly, looking over the mess. Order-number slips littered the tables. Napkins lay strewn. Globs of glaze, frosting, and filling splattered the framed posters of coffee and doughnuts on the walls. A rather shaken-looking waitress was sweeping up sprinkles.

"This is a once-in-a-blue-moon type of situation, I'd say," said Patch, to Beaman.

Chuck Beaman sighed. "I'm inclined to agree."

Several men in matching black combat jackets were scattered about the shop in various states of incapacity. Two of the men, seated at a table and leaning on each other, clinked their coffee mugs together.

Pinkie Pie sat on the counter next to a big, muscly man; they swayed with their arms about each other's waists and sang a maudlin, traditional doughnut-eating song. Another man lay on his back on the floor, a pyramid of doughnuts on his chest. He sang along until emotion overcame him and he wiped a tear from his eye.

Patch leaned over and examined the floor thug's rifle. "Same gun on every partygoer—all M4s," she said. "Parchment paper squares for serving doughnuts—” she used the tip of a pencil to hold up a glaze-flecked piece “—all eight inches."

"All quick and efficient fried-doughnut-eaters," said Detective Chuck Beaman. "Not one funnel cake left in the place. And I brought cash for a funnel cake."

"These guys were definitely professionals." Patch smiled a little. "Dumb, but professionals." She gave Beaman a knowing look. "You know what I think? I think these idiots all hugged each other."



The End