Mrs. Díaz is mad. Fighting mad. And Worm loves it. Soaks it up. Literally.

She follows the Colonel, his arms filled with a wild collection of clothing, up the stairs. The pile is so high he can barely see where he's going. The whole time, she's yelling: a steady stream of shrill, rapid Spanish.

"Oh Mary, Mother of God, I knew I should never have said yes to this. Look at you, look at your clothes! What are you, a trick? You better not be selling yourself out of this apartment. Oh Blessed Mary, I implore you. Save me! Watch where you are going CW," she spits out his 'name' as if it tastes like shit. Both disgusted and spiteful. "If you fall down these stairs, don't even think of suing me. Ay! That son of mine! The idiot! The fool! But what am I? Twice the fool! For letting myself be talked into this. For inviting such a...'man' into my home! Lord, take pity on me!"

Worm's reached the landing. He stops and looks back at Mrs. Díaz, a few steps below him. The stairs climb the exterior of the garage connected to her little, ramshackle house, leading to the apartment above said garage. A bedroom, an 'office,' a cramped living room-kitchen combo, and a bathroom with a leaky shower. Perfect.

His new landlord returns his look, radiating 75 years of unquenchable rage. She is only 5'2'', portly, her head is a wild halo of grey hair, and she's in her flowery house robe (yellow hibiscuses on a blue ground) . She looks like she might kill him. Her eyes are clear and filled with a compressed hatred. Her mouth is screwed into a frown of such intensity it threatens to break her face.

"My dear Mrs. Díaz, you are a great beauty," Worm responds in his sweetest Spanish. "I believe we are going to be the best of friends."

This is not what Mrs. Díaz wants to hear. Not at all. And she explodes again as Worm steps through the door and into the living room, trundling over to a threadbare, yellow couch where he deposits this portion of his wardrobe. He picks up a pair of choice ass-less chaps to examine what appears to be a fraying seam.

"Oh sweet Jesus, what are those!?" She shrieks, throwing up her hands, her gaze a death ray of righteous anger. "You...you...you... Prostitute!"

"Sure."

"Drug addict!"

"Oh, most definitely."

"Criminal!"

"I prefer Man of Illicit Means, but..."

"I told Miguel when he brought by your money last week. I told him: no drugs! Nothing illegal! No fornication! I should have known! That stupid..."

Worm drops the chaps and strides back toward the door. Mrs. Díaz leaps to the side, as if he might bite her. Or, worse, give her a kiss. He pauses in the doorway, flashing her a winning smile.

"Yeah, he told me. Unfortunately, though, I love drugs, crime, and fucking." Mrs. Díaz crosses herself with a dramatic flourish that only deepens Worm's affection for her. "But let me ask you something: do you still have that cash?"

For a moment, Mrs. Díaz simply stares at him, mouth agape. She's missing some teeth and the rest look a touch lonely.

"That's what I thought. You see, dearest landlord: my money still spends. Even if I suck the occasional cock to get it," he adds with a wink.

That's a lie. Worm sucks dick for free.

"I think, as long as the fliff comes your way, you'll let me stay. Am I right or am I right?"

With that, the Goblin slips out the door and shimmies down the stairs, his ass looking mighty fine in the ultra-short cut-offs he's chosen to wear for his official move-in day. No shirt, no shoes, full service.

Behind him Mrs. Díaz sputters her indignation. Reduced to a senseless chain of apoplectic syllables.

When he reappears at the bottom of the stairs, returning from his truck, Worm's carrying a very large, very unique bong.

Mrs. Díaz howls.