I had already walked out of a discount department store because the high-pitched squalling of some infant in a cart was making me bugfuck, and there in the lobby of my bank was some kiddygartner sitting with her feet dangling off one of the seats, lolling against an older sister and wailing a long, thready, tuneless complaint about whatever. Her mom, deeply involved at a teller window, didn’t sound like the sharpest knife in the drawer either and I could tell it would be a while. As the whine spiked for the second time I snapped my head around in explosive frustration. I was not trying to make a face of any kind, but I must have given the kid the Crippling Stinkeye Of Thor because her eyes got wide and she Shut. Up. Completely. Until I finished my transaction at the window she barely issued another murmur.
I have to figure out how to do this at will. Not least because it’s Halloween night again and pretty soon the little bastards will be knocking at the door demanding their ransom. I got their number — I’ve had candy left over for the last five years and this year there was really no point adding to the reserve supply. Packaged Halloween candy is such crap I doubt they can tell the difference; it’s been down in the spare fridge anyway.
They’d probably think the Valhalla Glare was just part of the Halloween fun though. Maybe I should get a paintball gun.