For Charlotte it became clear that interception and redistribution were two entirely different disciplines. Tartiflette excelled at the former but she could not be trusted to transport surplus inventory beyond the hallway without either consuming it, baptizing it in water, or declaring it morally suspect. What they needed was someone who understood streets. And then Tulio, el ladrón de almas (the thief of souls according to Lilith) entered the chat.
Tulio began appearing on the back porch the previous spring, looking like death warmed over. By fall, a heated shelter had materialized on the back porch. Tulio had accepted it without gratitude and without discussion. He came several times a week, demanded food, ate, hissed, tried to shred the humans and left. He owed no one anything, except, apparently, Lilith. No one knew what had been arranged but Charlotte was going to take advantage of it. She approached the glass and they regarded one another through the window. He was going to be a courier and accept payment in kibble placed precisely three inches from the threshold. Behind her, Tartiflette was already vibrating screaming questions at the glass “WHAT IS YOUR SPEED? CAN YOU HEAR ZIPPER BAGS? DO YOU LIKE COLSLOH? WRONG ANSWER, NO ONE DOES.”
Tulio ignored her entirely and began eating his kibble with slow dignity. Luna flipped to a fresh tab in the spreadsheet and typed: External Contractor — Do Not Pursue. The entry flickered. Deleted itself.
Charlotte handled negotiations through the back window with immaculate executive flair, outlining objectives with subtle precision: a container here, a partial brisket there, post–quality-control inventory awaiting discreet relocation. Tulio listened from the porch step with the calm of someone who had navigated alleyways more complex than any corporate structure unfolding inside. He did not interrupt nor display enthusiasm. When Charlotte concluded, he blinked once in acknowledgment, and the terms were understood.
Tartiflette treated every transfer as a live broadcast event, like everything else in life. The first time Tulio collected a package, Tarti hurled herself at the back window with the ecstatic conviction that all movement was an invitation. “ARE YOU THE TRUCK,” she demanded through the glass, pressing her entire face against it and fogging the pane. She attempted to accompany him once. She made it as far as the back door before Luna intercepted her mid-stride and redirected her into a recycling bin labeled PAPER ONLY from which Tartiflette continued offering strategic advice while upside down among discarded mailers.
Once, Luna woke — not fully, but enough — and saw through half-lidded eyes the faint glow of Lilith’s laptop reflected in the glass. On the other side of that reflection sat Tulio, still as carved stone. No sound passed between them. The next morning, three new client locations appeared in the ledger, all in neighborhoods Tulio could reach without crossing main roads.
With Tulio as courier, the operation changed texture. Interceptions still occurred — Tartiflette still performed quality control with apocalyptic enthusiasm — but redistribution acquired geography.
Listings began including notes like:
“Pickup window narrow. Courier prefers discretion. Do not attempt contact.”
“Courier experienced. Do not attempt petting.”
“Transfer occurs at dusk. Silence required.”
Clients left reviews mentioning “professionalism” and “unexpectedly dignified handling.”
Tulio continued to arrive without announcement, collect what had been prepared, and depart into the network of back alleys that lay beyond Luna’s jurisdiction and Tartiflette’s attention span. Inside, Tartiflette kept on pressing her face to the glass at every exchange, narrating growth projections, singing Broadway tunes and shouting operational affirmations with evangelical conviction. Outside, Tulio accepted the container, gave one small blink that might have been acknowledgment or might have been wind in his eyes, and disappeared into the evening with the quiet efficiency of someone who understood the system perfectly and had no intention of belonging to it.
Luna documented losses under a column labeled “Acceptable Shrinkage”, though her whiskers trembled each time she wrote the word acceptable. Charlotte refined extraction percentages. Ziggy’s sleeping likeness became the logo. Karen continued ordering, unaware she had become an involuntary investor. (to be continued)
