by John Serpico
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/vitaliy_sokol

“So, just the sword?”

The pawnbroker addressed the question to the woman, despite the fact that butterfly had been doing all of the talking. Though he wasn’t sure of the relationship between the woman and the butterfly – master and servant, VIP and bodyguard, dear friends – he was absolutely certain that he was doing the right thing in speaking to her instead of it. It would be like, he would dryly tell his granddaughter over dinner later that evening, talking to the translator standing next to a visiting dignitary instead of the dignitary herself.

She smiled at him, locking eyes for just a moment before lowering her head to look at the collection of watches in the glass case. Men’s watches. The women’s were next to it but she seemed to have no interest.

“Just the sword, thank you,” the butterfly responded.

He couldn’t place the butterfly’s accent. It wasn’t Australian. New Zealand? Are those accents different than Australian accents?

“Alright. I’ll start on the paperwork,” he said, looking at the same watch that the woman was looking at. A Timex that just came in on Monday. He rested his hand on the glass above it, to interrupt her line of sight. She moved her eyes back to his, and her gaze rested for a moment before drifting off to a pair of canoe paddles zip-tied to the ceiling joist above the cash register.

“This thing is genuine magical, you know. Glyphs of proficiency and fire. My guy came in the other day to have a look and wrote it up. He told me to strongly recommend that anyone that was interested should also pick up a warded arming jacket… the one I have in is probably your size… or at least some kind of protective totem. I’ve got a circlet on the rack in the corner, and a wallet chain that is certified as having an aegis on it.”

He tried to keep the pushiness out of his voice.

“She’ll be just fine, though she appreciates your concern,” the butterfly readjusted its position on her shoulder to continue to face him as she started walking towards the rack of DVDs.

“Of course.”

He wrote up the bill of sale and, as was his habit, started whistling “Stormy Weather.” Immediately on the first note, she started whistling it too. He noticed but felt no instinct to stop. It was his habit, after all. As comfortable as an old pair of sneakers. His pen stopped on the last empty line.

“I’ll need a name for my record, but there’s no background check on swords. You can thank the legislature.”

She put down the Ocean’s Twelve box, turned, and walked towards him. She placed a loosely rolled scroll on the glass counter above the men’s watches. He unfurled it, started to look it over and gave up immediately upon realizing he couldn’t read whatever language this proclamation was written in. He wrote the two largest words from the parchment down on the blank line of his form – Terra Mariana – and then separated the original from the yellow and pink carbon copies behind it. If the great state of Florida had any interest in knowing who bought what magic sword, he mused as he folded the pink copy into thirds, they’d want the full background check.

“Cash or credit?”

He asked with his back turned, as he was looking on the shelf behind him for a bag large enough. He didn’t need to, because there were twelve perfectly crisp hundred dollar bills fanned on the glass counter when he turned around.

“Cash,” the butterfly replied anyway, “and she doesn’t need a bag.”

“She’ll wear it out?”

“She’ll wear it out.”

She looked into his eyes, conjured and vanished a slight smile, and then looked at the sword. She picked it up with her right hand and rested the back of the blade against her shoulder. She walked to the door, slowing her stride for just a moment as she passed the bowl of hard candy on the low table (he really ought to drop the price, it’s been there for two months). She plucked one out with her left hand, held one edge of the wrapper and put the rest in her mouth, pulling the wrapper back out between her front teeth to liberate the butterscotch.

“Enjoy your time in the Keys,” he said as the door started to close.

“We will,” the butterfly called back from the parking lot.

***

John Serpico is a Boston-based writer and comedian. He stays busy through a combination of The Advice Men, ImprovBoston and an unending search for the best brisket in town.