Mr. Refrigerator doesn’t let go. He jerks the strap hard and I stumble forward, almost crashing into his chest. He smells even more sour than he looks. I wonder if he bathes with the washcloth that the bartender at Khaza was using to wipe down the countertop.
“Shut her up,” one of his friends says. That would be Dr. Dishwasher. He’s shorter than Mr. Refrigerator, but wider, with a flat face and small, beady eyes.
I open my mouth to scream again, but before I can, a hand clamps over it. That’s Sir Shelving Unit, behind me now. I didn’t even notice him move. His palm is damp and unpleasant. I bite down as hard as I can and he rips his hand away with a grunt.
“The b***h fuckin’ bit me!”
I use that half-second of space to twist sideways and kick Mr. Refrigerator in the shin with my Prada h
