Mary of the Claw
A monster tale of desire and big trucks
Mary shoved her hand into the thin plastic bag she carried slung over her forearm and pulled out a sky blue t-shirt. The cotton was a little pilled and she noticed a faint orange stain on the hem on the back as she held it up to the sunlight outside the thrift store. On the front, in the center of a golden halo, the blissful torso of Immaculate Mary was dressed in a deep red tunic and pointing to her glowing heart. Mary didn’t know much about this other, t-shirt Mary, aside from her being a goddess or something. She’d mostly never gone to church when her drunk granny had ordered her there. Maybe the shirt would be good luck. There was some kind of name-unity, she figured that equalled to luck. Or power. She hoped it was power. Mary loved power, specifically a 1500 horsepower custom built V8 rumbling inside a 12,000 pound thirteen-foot tall monster truck.
With a quick glance around Mary shoved her new power tee back in the bag and dropped it to the ground. Crossing her arms and grabbing the hem of the Ramones shirt she was currently wearing (they were apparently a band, but she’d never listened to their music), she pulled the t-shirt off in a quick motion, catching a brief flash of her topless reflection in the thrift store window. Then she pulled on her new good luck shirt, the Mother Mary. She stood admiring herself in the glass. The shirt definitely had some kind of magic.
“Yep, kinda radiator,” she pulled her sunglasses down from the top of her head. Looking hot. She was going to get her way at the track today. One way or another.
“Mary!”
She turned, pulling her eyes away from her own reflection to the thrift store’s entrance.
“How many times have I told you not to change on the street in front of my shop?” The thrift shop’s owner stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable in the shade of the store’s tattered awning.
“A lot.”
“So stop!” The woman threw her arms up in exasperation, plastic bangles clattering in the quiet morning.
“No one cares.” Mary waved her arm in the direction of the strip mall’s mostly empty parking lot. “No one’s here but me and like three people.”
“Girl, I swear to God, I’m calling the cops next time.”
“Ok.” Mary picked up her green fanny pack and slung it over her shoulder, like a lipgloss and bubblegum bandolier. She picked her old shirt up off the sidewalk and chucked it in the plastic bag, which she tossed underhand to the thrift store owner, “I want to donate that. Don’t really like it.” She turned, not listening to the woman screaming behind her that that wasn’t how donations worked. Tara, the woman’s name was Tara, Mary remembered. Bet there weren’t any goddesses named Tara. Even if there were, they were probably lame. Tara, the goddess of pitching a fit over no fucking thing.