“Cut the crap, Benji. It’s me, Dick.”
“Couldn’t you. Have picked. A. Better. Time.”
“I need supplies and am willing to pay for them.”
“Hot. Damn. Let me. Put. Away. The lube.”
A few moments later Little Benjamin emerges, a stocky man in a gray T-shirt, bright orange hunting vest, and camouflage pants. The edges of the pants are tucked neatly under his stumps and the power supply on the back of his wheelchair constantly makes a noise like a scuba respirator. Indicator lights flash patterns in green and orange and the handguns mounted on each armrest swivel to track me. The chair’s bulletproof hood is raised and the nozzle of the acid-sprayer tucked underneath the seat is barely visible.
“Well, I’ll be,” he says, intentionally blocking my view as he closes the door behind him. “That inf
