A philosopher, a psychologist, and an extraterrestrial walk into a chocolate bar …. Jass Richards

      Jane nodded. “They knew I was unemployed.”

      “All set then.” Spike grinned at her. “Do you need to buy anything?”

      “No. I was so depressed when I figured out what had happened, why my interviews were so—not, my travel bag is still in the trunk. Though all I really need is in here!” She nudged her laptop.

      “Okay then!”

      “We’re on our way to Paris,” Jane sang, “We’re on our way to Paris …”

      “What say we check in to a motel or something?” It was a couple of hours later, and starting to get dark. Spike didn’t enjoy driving at night. And Jane hated it. More to the point, neither of them wanted to deal with Montreal’s rush-hour traffic. Despite it being considerably better than Toronto’s rush-hour traffic.

      “Good by me.”

      The room was pretty basic. Jane put her laptop and travel bag onto one of the beds, then headed for the bathroom, happy to see towels and a little wicker basket of soap, shampoo, and toothpaste. She’d belatedly suspected, rightly, that her own supply was somewhat depleted.

      Spike tossed her knapsack onto the other bed, flipped through the many take-out menus on the nightstand between the two beds, then made a call.

      “Yeah, I’d like a large, double cheese, pineapple, and sun-dried tomatoes.”

      She waited.

      “And one of your dessert specials.”

      She waited.

      “Chocolate milk. Two.”

      She waited.

      “Mozey’s Motel. Fifteen.”

      She waited.

      “Okay, thanks.”

      Sometimes it was nice when conversations followed a well-defined script. She pulled her tablet out of her knapsack and quickly uploaded the Manus video and the Just-the-girl-I’m-looking-for audio-only recording she’d made, then she opened the nightstand drawer, looking for the remote, and—just stared.

      When Jane came out of the bathroom, considerably refreshed, she saw her standing there, still staring into the drawer. Curious, she walked over to see what she was looking at. A book and a magazine. The Holy Bible and Fuck the Bitches.

      “It’s perfect,” Jane said.

      “It is, isn’t it,” Spike agreed.

      “In a purely juxtapositional way, of course.”

      “Of course.”

      “But the relationship isn’t oppositional,” Jane continued her analysis, “or even complementary … It’s like the one is a distillation, a—”

      “A Reader’s Digest version of the other.”

      Jane considered that. “I think ‘reader’ is pushing it.”

      She picked up the Bible then, settled onto her bed, and merrily began deconstructing it. She ripped out the entire book of Genesis: Abraham pimped his wife, twice, and Lot offered his daughters to rapists. First Corinthians was next: Woman was created for Man. Then Ephesians, wherein women were told to submit to their husbands. Then Colossians. Then Romans, Titus, First Peter, and Acts. “A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man”—the book of Timothy got tossed into the garbage. Then Deuteronomy: women who have sex before marriage should be stoned to death. And Leviticus: men are worth fifty shekels; women, thirty.

      Had she taken a Bible Study class? In a manner of speaking. She’d read The Woman’s Bible by Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Shortly after, she and Spike had been amazed, and horrified, to see fifty copies of the book on the remainders table in a bookshop. Not a bestseller, apparently. Because who the hell was Stanton? Not Beyoncé, that’s for sure. They’d thought the book was out of print. They’d also thought any remaining copies would go for $100 each. Not $1. The box was still in the trunk of her car. Now full to the brim with other books they’d since added. In case of emergency.

      “Do you want to leave?” Spike asked Jane a few moments later. Fuck the Bitches was still in the drawer.

      “Yes. Would a black person be comfortable staying at a motel in which the nightstand contained a copy of Let’s Lynch ’Em!?”

      “Such a magazine would be illegal.”

      They both sighed. For Andrea Dworkin and Catherine MacKinnon and …

      “Regardless,” Spike added, “black people wouldn’t even be allowed in whitey’s motels.”

      Jane looked at Spike, oddly. Smiling. As if she’d just seen a posting for a job she could apply for. A job she might even get. “Imagine a chain of women-only motels, owned and fully operated by women, accepting only women as guests … ”

      “Such a motel chain would be illegal.”

      “Yeah,” Jane acknowledged. Sighed again. Then added, “I’m too tired to find an alternative.”

      “Should any other motel actually be alternative.”

      “Yeah.” Sighed yet again.

      “Pizza’ll be here in half an hour. Does the shower have actual hot water?”

      “It does.” There was that, at least.

      Spike took her knapsack off the bed, and headed for the bathroom.

      Jane tossed what was left of the Bible into the trash can, then opened her laptop.

      There was a knock at the door. It would be the pizza guy. They froze for just a moment, then forced themselves to relax. Living in an occupied country required a constant—pretense. How else could one ever answer the door, knowing it was a man on the other side? A man who, quite possibly, found Fuck the Bitches a good read. How else could one eat, and enjoy, a pizza?

      Especially a chocolate fudge brownie pizza.

      Next morning, they packed up their stuff and left. But not before Jane put a copy of The Woman’s Bible into the nightstand drawer.

      Spike left a copy of Valerie Solanas’s SCUM Manifesto.

      3

      The next day was relatively eventful. Spike didn’t see the point in having any other kind.

      “So what are we doing in Montreal?” she asked about half an hour from the city limits. She knew Jane would’ve googled and prepared a list.

      “We’re going to Sophie’s Croissant Café. Apparently she has ‘the best ever pain au chocolat’. A logically indefensible claim, of course, but—”

      “Because of the definitional problem, right?” That’s what happens when you hang out with a philosopher.

      “No, that can be solved easily enough, by establishing some arbitrary definition of ‘best’.”

      “Or you could just appeal to God.”

      Jane squinted at Spike with suspicion. And concern.

      “What? Just sayin’. If there was a god, surely she’d know what ‘best’ means, as it applies to pain au chocolate.” She slowed down a bit to accommodate the increasing traffic.