Sick Transit, Gloria Monday

Gloria Monday poured the bottle of nail varnish over the head of the woman standing behind the counter. The woman said nothing and didn't move. The nail polish – Rotten Plum, Gloria thought – pooled on her scalp and slowly coated strands of her long, unwashed brown hair.
"Get out, please," said Gloria. Her voice was pleasant, low, and she'd been told by many people, lots of them members of her extended family, that she should get a job on the phone sex lines. She told them she preferred working as a travel agent, that it was respectable and something her someday-children could tell their teacher about, and she didn't tell them that she did the phone-sex telephone work in the evenings. Or that she'd recognised several of them when they called.
"But I want a holiday," said the woman, still not doing anything about the nail polish. "Johnny said that you give out holidays here. He said I just had to put out."
There was a moment of clarity between them as Gloria realised that her boss probably did accept such an arrangement, and the woman realised that someone as neatly dressed as Gloria probably didn't accept sex for holidays.
"I want my holiday," whined the woman, clearly too stubborn to give up just yet. A grubby hand with bitten fingernails scrabbled at the collar of her raincoat and Gloria had a prescient moment, realising that the woman was probably naked underneath it. She looked around the counter wondering what else she could use as a deterrent and spotted the stapler. She snatched it up and leaned forward, grabbing the woman's raincoat and pulling her in to the counter. The woman gasped, a little "Oooh!", and then looked slightly shocked as Gloria stapled her raincoat down its length, just below each button.
"Get out," said Gloria, letting go. "No holidays, no sex, no nothing."
"Now there's a shame," said a deep voice with a broad, southern accent, and both women looked towards the door. It was held open by a tanned hand attached to a tanned, muscular arm, which is turn belonged to a broad shouldered man with blonde hair and an insolent grin. "Isn't this the right place to come to pick me up a little something to take on holiday with me?"
"Not you, sweetheart," he continued as the raincoated-woman opened her mouth. "I have standards."
Gloria half-smiled but shook her head anyway. "No," she said. "We sell holidays here, nothing else."
"Well now," drawled the man, "that might be mostly what I want anyways. See, I have a busload of ill children I'd like to take down to Mexico for a few weeks. Get them some sun, sand, and kiddie-tequila, make 'em all feel a little bit better about knowing how they're going to be dead this time next year."
"Do you have a licence?" Gloria's hands were already moving over the keyboard, inputting Mexico and selecting for the cheapest available flights.
"For what, little lady?"
"For the children," she said. "They're ill, and terminally so, by the sounds of it. Technically you'll need a licence covering the transport of biologically hazardous material."
"Y'all think the custom's guys'll accept that?"
"It'll confuse them for long enough for you to get the kids through. Try to cover up any that have suppurating wounds or open lesions."
"You know, y'all, I like your attitude! You're a can-do little lady, aren't you?" The man's smile was infectious, and Gloria found herself smiling back.
"My name's Gloria Monday, not little lady," she said, but without rancour.
"Mine's–" said the other woman who was trying to unpick the staples from her coat, but the man cut her off.
"Gloria Monday it is," he said. "And thank-you very much for your help. Most other people don't seem to care about these poor children."
"Or they care too much about the Mexicans you'll be infecting?" She raised an eyebrow, but he just burst into laughter.
"I like y'all, y'all know," he said. "And in your honour, I shall be naming this little trip after you."
Gloria raised her other eyebrow, unaware that this made her look like a well-dressed but rather startled chihuahua.
"Sick transit Gloria Monday!" he said.