Limitless Evolution As a Snake

That should probably worry me.

It does not worry me even a little bit, because none of them is leaving.

The woman who abandoned her noodles is crying now, actual tears, snot and everything, and she’s still walking toward me with her hand already digging in her pocket for coins. Behind her, the crowd just keeps growing, more people peeling off from their stalls, covering their mouths, wheezing, wiping their faces on their sleeves, and still shuffling closer like the smell has some kind of leash wrapped around their noses.

A feral, sniffling, red-eyed queue forms right outside my shack.

I didn’t even put up prices yet.

”Spicy,” someone croaks from near the front, voice all wrecked from coughing. ”Give me the spicy one.”

I recognise her. Big lizard woman who runs the smoked eel stall three doors down, the one who’s been giving me the stink eye for robbing the place. Now she’s standing there dabbing her eyes with a rag, practically begging.

”The spicy spicy,” she says again, louder, like she needs to make sure I heard her right. ”Not the baby one.”

Behind her, a couple more of the market’s big names start crowding in, all the ones with the good stalls, the reputations, the regulars who never bother looking twice at some snake kid running a shack out of spite. Now they’re lined up together, wheezing on each other, all demanding the same thing.

The hottest batch. The one that’ll make you scream and cry and question your whole life.

I raise what would be an eyebrow if I had actual eyebrows, just a little flick of my head, tail curling with pure smug satisfaction.

”You sure about that?” I question, voice all casual, dragging it out. ”That batch’ll probably kill you. Or at least make you pass out face-first into the gutter.”

”Shut up, I don’t care,” the eel woman wheezes, wiping snot on her sleeve. ”Give it here.”

I glance over the whole queue, all of them red-faced and crying and coughing up a storm, and not one of them steps back.

Yeah, this is exactly how I wanted this to go.

[System: this is not how I pictured this, but I’m keen.]

I pass the next one to the nearest customer. The crowd surges, hands outstretched, cash and trade chips and weird undercity tokens offered up like tribute to their red snake tactical pool noodle.

It’s not even noon, and I’m running the most popular food stall in Twawi. All because I bullied a couple of mafia guys into doing my grocery shopping.

As I’m serving customers, Cherry appears again now with a bunch of new customers trailing behind her, probably either hooked on her succubus mist or the fact that you can see her ass in that outfit.

She hops over, still doing the little maid march, and plants herself in front of the grill. ”Everyone! Please line up in a single file! Order politely, or you’ll get skipped!”

The crowd actually listens. There’s a ripple of pure, animal focus as the entire market orients on her.

Cherry turns to me and whispers, ”You okay, boss?”

I nod, absolutely not okay. My hood is doing something I can’t control, and it takes all my willpower not to just swallow a skewer whole.

Her little bat wings give a sharp, excited flutter. ”Good! Because we have like, a million customers.”

The next twenty minutes are a blur of grilling, trading, and explaining to grown men why it’s not okay to ask the maid for ”extra sauce.” Cherry handles it like a pro. She smiles, she flirts, she calls out the creeps by name and makes them apologise in front of everyone. Her tips pile up faster than I can count.

Even the mafia guys from Dad’s side and the other side come over. They each buy three skewers, take selfies with Cherry, and tip 500% without blinking.

At the half-hour mark, I realise the line is longer than ever.

I also realise that this was probably the Old mate’s plan all along.

[System: Told ya, you wanker, you’re the boss. Enjoy the perks; now I won’t take ya points]

Yeah, please don’t do that i need those.

I don’t know if it’s the rush of victory, the smell of grilled meat, or the maid outfit, but I suddenly feel a lot better about everything. Even the part where I’m pretty sure my ”girlfriend” is now the most famous mascot in the market.

And every bastard wants in her pants.

Old Mate what should we do about the fuckers looking at cherry wrong?

[System: I dunno kill them? rob them?]

Kill or rob is a weird way of thinking but sure, I’ll allow it as an option for later.

Right now I’m too busy watching Cherry’s tail do something that should not be physically possible with a wallet.

She’s got this one guy, some fat cat with rings on every finger, practically hypnotised while her tail slides into his coat pocket smooth as anything, plucks his wallet clean, and drops it into her apron before he even notices his own hand reaching for his coin purse.

”That’s fifty dollars for the Extra Spicy,” she chirps, batting her eyes at him like she didn’t just rob him blind two seconds ago.

The guy’s expression is totally vacant. He just hands over actual gold coins, real ones, the kind that clink and gleam like they were minted yesterday. I watch this happen three more times in the span of flipping six skewers, each customer more loaded than the last, each payment more absurd. A lizard man pays with a handful of black pearls; a shadowy figure wrapped in rags drops a pouch that jingles with what sounds like human teeth.

My brain can’t decide if I should be impressed or worried, or just start pricing everything in body parts.

Cherry catches a rich-looking bird woman eyeing the menu and leans in close, her voice dropping to something between a purr and a promise. ”For you? Ohh, that’s the premium batch. Very expensive. Very worth it.” She runs a finger along the woman’s arm, leaving a faint trail of pink glitter that smells like sin and sugar.