Pizza Punks, Prepare for Battle

So, Kitty would like to think of herself as a pretty practical gal.

Well. Okay, maybe not the most practical gal you could meet—after all, she was friends with Jimmy Urine. That fact alone should speak for itself.

But, in any case—she had nothing but practicality in mind when she saw that Dominos was hiring, looking for delivery personal. Because, hell, she was nineteen and in desperate need of a job, so why the hell not?

Pizza delivery turned out to be a very exciting job.

Doors had opened to reveal at least four Spider-mans, two Lokis, a babysitter with blue hair and marker all over her face, a naked man, and a poor fifteensixteen-something boy who seemed to have lost a bet.

Kitty is trying her hardest not to think of these things as she climbs up the last set of stairs to the apartment she was supposed to deliver to. The complex is sort of shabby—the building creaks with a good few decades of age, and it clearly hadn’t had its hallways updates since, oh, maybe the late seventies. A few of the doors she passes smell faintly of pot, and there are cobwebs in the far corners of the ceiling. It’s a place filled to the brim with struggling musicians, welfare-reliant families, druggies, and low-income college kids.

The door she comes to is plain brown, woody—once spotless and well-shined, but now scratched and well-worn with age, particularly around the brass doorknob. She rings the doorbell, and said knob rattles loosely when the apartment’s occupant unlocks and opens the door.

She blinks, at first.

This guy—well, he definitely isn’t the weirdest man she’s come across delivering pizza, not at all, but he’s high enough on the list. The—actually, the first thing about him that catches her attention is that the wild, scraggly, red-haired mess that seems to be his beard, contrasting against his significantly darker shoulder-length brown hair. There are black, thick-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and there is an array of colorful tattoos splattered all the way up his arms and around his neckline.

She lowers her gaze to his legs to check of there’s any more ink hiding down there—but she blinks, and does a double take when she realizes that there’s a katana hanging out of his beltloop.

She blinks again. Oh, okay. Katana. Sword. Defense weapon of the medieval variety. She’s totally got this, she’s friends with Jimmy Urine.

She drags her gaze back up to his blue, glasses-framed eyes and grins brightly, chirping, “I’ve got your pizza, sir!” and holding up the stack of three pizza boxes , already soaked through with grease and delicious smell seeping into the walls.

He says, “Oh, cool,” and pulls out a stack up crumpled twenties, sorting through them while she pulls out their receipt for him to sign.

However, before the visually-impaired, red-bearded, armed man can finish counting, a stubbly, dark-skinned, and stocky fellow in nothing but boxers and adorable bunny slippers walks into Kitty’s line of sight.

“Oh, sweet, it’s the pizza,” he voices. “Fucking awesome.” He yawns without covering his mouth and scratches his stomach—which, she notices, is also inked. She thoughtfully concludes that these guys probably fall into the “struggling musician” sect of the people who occupy this building. Either that, or they’re druggies. Or both. Also potentially college kids.

The armed man ignores him and hands Kitty the cash while she in turn hands him the receipt, but before the man can fish around for a pen, a sharp yell comes from further into the apartment.

“Pete!” The stubbly guy freezes at the call—which Kitty assumes is his name—before relaxing and grinning down at his toes, wriggling underneath the faux fur. “Pete, did you fucking—yeah, you did, you took my fucking slippers, didn’t you.”

Kitty raises an eyebrow an eyebrow as a small, blonde-headed little creature shuffles up to Pete and pokes him in the arm, before looking up and noticing Kitty.

“Oh, hi,” he says, blinking, and Kitty blinks back before grinning brightly.

“Hi!” she exclaims. “Are those your slippers? Because they’re absolutely precious.”

The bearded guy finally manages to find a pen as the blonde blushes lightly, adjusting himself so he’s hiding a bit behind the other. “I—yeah, they are. Thanks.” His own feet are pale and bare, and his toes curl in as he ducks away from her gaze. Shy guy.

Kitty turns back to the redhead to find the receipt signed, and she smiles and thanks him as she tucks it away into her pocket. “Thank you!” she chirps, and says, “Enjoy your pizza, guys. And, uh. Try not to take out anybody’s cornea with that thing,” she adds in thoughtfully.

“I can tell you a few stories!” A voice calls from inside the apartment, and wow, how many of these guys are there?

The redhead grins sheepishly, and shrugs, saying, “Well, you know. Gotta learn self-defense and all that jazz.”

She laughs and says, “Absolutely. Can’t trust just any pizza girl who shows up on your doorstep.”