the point is clean of rust and slime before thrusting it back into its previous place, piercing his cheek. At that the punk swings the cell door open and steps out of his cage. His Mohawk stands so tall the blue hair brushes the top of the doorframe.
Swaggering down the row of cells, the blue-Mohawk punk peers into each cage Inside one lies an Egyptian pharaoh or somebody who went to Hell for praying to the wrong god, crumpled on the floor, gibbering and drooling, one arm sprawled so that the hand rests near the cage bars. A fat diamond ring glitters on one finger, the stone in the four-carat range, D-grade, not cubic zirconium like Babette's cheapo earrings. Next to that cage, the punk kid stops and stoops. Reaching through the bars, he slips the ring off the wasted finger. The kid pockets the diamond ring inside his motorcycle jacket. Standing, he catches me watching him and saunters toward my cell.
He wears black motorcycle boots—note: an excellent footwear choice for Hades—the ankle of one boot wrapped with a bicycle chain, his other ankle wrapped with a knotted, soiled red bandanna. Pimples swell into red points dotting his pale chin and forehead, in contrast to his bright green eyes. As the Mohawk punk struts closer, one hand slips into his jacket pocket and scoops out something. From a long toss away, still walking, he says, 'Catch,' and his hand swings, tossing the object, which flashes in a long, high arc, flying between my cage bars, falling to the point where my hands clap together to catch it.
Acting the part of a complete Miss Slutty Slutovitch, Babette continues to ignore Patterson and Leonard but holds her compact angled to spy on the punk kid, scrutinizing him so closely that when the thrown object flashes, the bright flash bounces off her mirror, reflected into her eyes.
'What's a nice girl like you,' the Mohawk kid asks me, 'doing in a place like this?' When he talks the safety pin in his cheek jerks around, flashing orange in the firelight. He struts up to the bars of my cell and winks one green eye at me, but looks at Babette without looking directly at her. He's clearly touched the dirty iron bars, then touched his face, his jeans, his boots, smearing the filth all over himself.
No, it's not fair, but dirt does manage to make some people look more sexy.
'My name is Madison,' I tell him, 'and I'm a hope-aholic.'
Yes, I know the word
Drawing the oversize safety pin from his cheek, the Mohawk kid pokes the sharp point into my keyhole and begins to pick the lock.
VI.
Spare me, please, your dime-store psychology, but I really do hope the devil will like me. Note, again, my lingering attachment to the H-word. My being here, locked in a slimy cage, it would seem a foregone conclusion that God isn't my biggest fan, and my parents, it now appears, are largely out of the picture, as are my favorite teachers, nutrition coaches, really all the authority figures I've tried to please for the past thirteen years. Therefore it's not surprising that I've transferred all my immature needs for attention and affection to the only parental adult available: Satan.
There they both are: the H-word and the G-word, proof of my tenacious addiction to all things upbeat and optimistic. To be honest, all my effort thus far to remain spotless, mind my posture, present myself as perky, affect a cheerful smile, is calculated to endear myself to Satan. In my best-case scenario I see myself assuming a kind of sidekick or comic-relief role, becoming a perky, chubby, sassy girl child who tags along with the Prince of Lies, cracking wise-ass jokes and propping up his flagging ego. So ingrained is my spunky nature that I can't even allow the Prince of Darkness to indulge in the doldrums. I truly am a sort of flesh-and-blood form of Zoloft. Perhaps that explains Satan's general absence: He's simply waiting for my verve to exhaust itself before he makes himself known.
Yes, I understand that much about pop psychology. I may be dead and vivacious, but I'm not in denial concerning the manic first impression I can make.
Even my own dad would tell you, 'She's a dervish.' Meaning: I tend to wear people out.
It's for that reason that when the blue-Mohawk punk unlocks my cell door and swings it open on creaky, rusted hinges I step back deeper into the cage rather than forward to gain my freedom. Despite the diamond ring the punk's just tossed me, which now resides on the middle finger of my right hand, I resist my wanderlust. I ask the kid his name.
'Me?' he says, stabbing the oversize safety pin through his cheek. He says, 'Just call me Archer.'
Still lingering in my cell, I ask, 'What are you in for?'
'Me?' the kid, Archer, says. 'I went and got my old man's AK-47 semi....' Dropping to one knee, he shoulders an invisible rifle, saying, 'And I blew away my old man and old lady. I slaughtered my kid brother and sister. After them, my granny. Then our collie dog, Lassie...' Punctuating each sentence, Archer pulls an invisible trigger, sighting down the barrel of his phantom rifle. With each trigger pull, his shoulder jerks back as if pushed by recoil, his tall blue hair fluttering. Still sighting through an invisible scope, Archer says, 'I flushed my Ritalin down the toilet and drove my folks' car to school and took out the varsity football team and three teachers... all of them, dead, dead, dead.' As he stands, he brings the bore of the imaginary rifle barrel to his mouth, purses his lips, and blows away invisible gun smoke.
'Bullshit,' shouts a voice, Patterson, the football player, fully restored to a teenage boy with red hair and gray eyes and the large number 54 on his jersey. In one hand, he carries a helmet. His feet scratch the stone floor, the soles of his shoes tapping and skittering with sharp steel cleats. 'That's total bullshit,' Paterson says, shaking his head. 'I saw your paperwork when you first got here. It said you're nothing but a lousy shoplifter.'
Leonard, the geek, laughs.
Archer snatches a rock-hard popcorn ball off the ground and wings it, line-drive fast, against the geek's ear.
Exploded popcorn and the pens from his pocket fly everywhere. Leonard falls silent.
'Get this,' Patterson says. 'According to his file Mr. Serial Killer, here, was trying to steal a loaf of bread and a batch of disposable diapers.'
At this Babette looks up from her mirror and says, 'Diapers?'
Archer strides over to the bars of Patterson's cell, thrusting his chin between the bars; snarling through clenched teeth, Archer says, 'Shut up, jockstrap!'
Babette says, 'You have a baby?'
Turning toward her, Archer shouts, 'Shut up!'
'Get back into your cell,' Leonard shouts, 'before you get us all in trouble.'
'What?' Archer shouts. He swaggers over, at the same time extracting the safety pin from his cheek, then begins to pick the lock of Leonard's cage door. 'You afraid this will go on your
Grabbing the door, yanking it shut, Leonard says, 'Don't.' Unlocked, the door won't stay shut and swings open. Holding it closed, Leonard says, 'Lock it, quick, before some demon comes along....'
Already, Archer's blue head is swaggering over to Babette's cell; pin in hand, he's saying, 'Hey, sweet thang, I know a scenic spot overlooking the west edge of the Sea of Insects that will take your breath away,' and he begins picking her lock.
Leonard continues to pull on the bars of his cell door, holding it shut.
My door hangs open. I close my hand into a fist around my new diamond ring.
Patterson shouts, 'You loser, you couldn't find your way across to the far side of Shit Lake.'
As he swings open Babette's door, Archer shouts, 'Then join us, jockstrap. Show me.'
