Mavis first began augmenting her parts in the fifties, first out of vanity: breasts, eyelashes, hair. Later, as she aged and the concept of maintenance eluded her, she began having parts replaced as they failed, until almost half of her body weight was composed of stainless steel (hips, elbows, shoulders, finger joints, rods fused to vertebrae five through twelve), silicon wafers (hearing aids, pacemaker, insulin pump), advanced polymer resins (cataract replace-ment lenses, dentures), Kevlar fabric (abdominal wall reinforcement), ti-tanium (knees, ankles), and pork (ventricular heart valve). In fact, if not for the pig valve, Mavis would have jumped classes directly from animal to mineral, without the traditional stop at vegetable taken by most. The more inventive drunks at the Slug (little more than vegetables themselves) swore that sometimes, between songs on the jukebox, one could hear tiny but powerful servomotors whirring Mavis around behind the bar. Mavis was careful never to crush a beer can or move a full keg in plain sight of the customers lest she feed the rumors and ruin her image of girlish vulner-ability.

When Theo entered the Head of the Slug, he saw ex-scream-queen Molly Michon on the floor with her teeth locked into the calf of a gray-haired man who was screeching like a mashed cat. Mavis stood over them both, brandishing her Louisville Slugger, ready to belt one of them out of the park.

“Theo,” Mavis shrilled, “you got ten seconds to get this wacko out of my bar before I brain her.”

“No, Mavis.” Theo raced forward and knocked Mavis’s bat aside while reaching into his back pocket for his handcuffs. He pried Molly’s hands from around the man’s ankle and shackled them behind her back. The gray-haired man’s screams hit a higher pitch.

Theo got down on the floor and spoke into Molly’s ear. “Let go, Molly. You’ve got to let go of the man’s leg.”