The Chick Is In The Mail

Darrow sneered. 'So damn me to Hell, then.'

God was silent. After all, what could He say? It's the ultimate problem in penal science, when you think about it. How do you punish a lifer who's already dead?

In the end, of course, Darrow caught it from the Devil after God left. Satan was purely furious about the whole affair.

'You're promoted,' snarled the Prince of Darkness, and he gave Darrow the premier spot in Hell, on the ninth level. Satan even added a fourth mouth to his clone (which, contrary to Dante, isn't actually the Devil himself) so that Clarence Darrow could join Cassius, Brutus and Judas Iscariot as a chewee.

But Darrow wasn't fazed. Right away he introduced himself to his neighbors.

'Boy, am I glad to see you,' said Judas.

'It was temporary insanity!' cried Cassius. 'Caused by eating junk food. Shakespeare's my witness. He said himself I had `a lean and hungry look.''

'I had a warped childhood,' whined Brutus. 'Too much privilege.'

* * *

As for the thief, he had ten years to think over the course of his life. Ten long years, because Purgatory is a doctor's waiting room. And he never got any time off for good behavior because he screwed up. (Tried to steal a six-year-old copy of Sports Illustrated. Wasn't even the swimsuit issue.)

But eventually, he served the time, and was materialized back in Loretta's cellar.

And found that the cellar was now the TV room of a very large and muscular truck driver who immediately beat him to a pulp. Partly for trespassing, but mostly because he materialized in front of the TV set in the last ten seconds of the Super Bowl with the go-ahead field goal on its way. The truck driver had four friends with him, too. Raiders fans.

A few days later, when the thief got out of the hospital, he went looking for Loretta. It took him weeks, but eventually he tracked her down to a very fancy house in a very nice part of town.

His tongue was practically hanging out as he rang the doorbell. Ten years' abstinence, you understand.

Loretta was there, all right. She even opened the door wearing her roller derby queen gear, all the way down to the knee and elbow pads. That had him salivating immediately. He'd always loved that outfit! I've got to tell the truth, now that we're getting to the end of the story. That thief was a warped, depraved, degenerate, kinky sicko. The only books he ever bought had covers just like this one.

Alas. She wasn't Loretta Minisci, stripper, would-be witch, anymore. She was still a roller derby queen-the roller derby queen, in fact-but she was also Mrs. Loretta White, Ph.D. (Harvard-summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, the whole shot). It turns out that a week after she got back from Hell she met a chemist at the supermarket and while they were chatting in the cashier's line he explained to her that brimstone was just another word for sulfur, which, (hey, what do you know?) he happened to have a lot of in his laboratory and before they even got there she'd fallen in love with the mousy little guy and one thing led to another and ten years later she'd not only earned her Ph.D. in chemistry but had been able to apply her talent for witchcraft to revolutionize the entire science, and, no, she'd love to talk (How have you been, anyway? Still stealing?) but she had to catch a plane for the Olympics where she was going to win the gold medal-she'd gotten the sport internationally recognized just last year, isn't that great?-before she had to catch another plane to Stockholm to accept the Nobel Prize. Bye.

The thief went berserk at that point and tried to force his affections upon her (as they say). But that's really not the best seduction technique to use on a roller derby queen. A few knees and elbows later, Loretta was off to catch her plane and the thief went back into the hospital for a few more days.

* * *

Things went downhill from there.

He started thieving again, but the truth is that it's a young man's game and he was over the hill. Ten years out of practice, too. So he got caught. Hubcaps, believe it or not. He tried to steal them off a slow-moving car in the inaugural parade-yeah; Limo One. Sent up for three years. (Would have been way more- assassination attempts get twenty, easy-except the psychiatrist informed the court that the thief didn't know the names of any presidents since Abraham Lincoln led the war of independence against George Washington III.)

After he got out, he lasted on the streets for six weeks before he was sent back to prison. Stealing hubcaps, again. In the pits, at the Daytona 500. Five years. No time off for good behavior because they caught him trying to steal-never mind. You wouldn't believe it.

The next time he got caught he was a three-time loser and so they sent him up for life in the toughest prison in the state. He survived six, count `em, six hours. After finding himself with two cellmates wearing 'Aryan Nation' tattoos and reading weird books about women in armor, he got into a religious discussion in which he explained that he had met Satan personally and could assure them that the Devil was a white man.

* * *

So there he was, back again, a thief in Hell.

'I want Darrow!' he cried.

But the Devil just laughed at him. 'Not this time, chump. You've already been convicted. No trial. No rights. No appeals. And I've been waiting for this day to come.'

Satan rubbed his hands together with glee. It sounded like a rattlesnake. 'Boy,' snickered the Lord of Flies, 'have I got plans for you.'

And he did, too. Grotesque plans. Horrible plans. Indescribable plans. The worst thing you could imagine.

He made the thief listen to one performance of Wagner's Parsifal (which, of course, lasts for eternity).

It all goes to show the importance in the modern world of getting a formal education.

Although, now that I think about it, maybe it wouldn't have made much difference in the thief's case. Ignorance can be fixed. Stupid is forever.

The Right Bitch by Doranna Durgin

Sabre whooped with enthusiasm, barreling through the woods' thick undergrowth, his nose full of magicsmell and his ears full of Taliya's distant encouragement, with his brain too hot on trail to think. So hot he almost missed the answering trail cry to the south, a slightly clearer voice than his own and closing in fast. It made no sense; he didn't care. Not with the quarry so close, his sweaty, unwashed humansmell strong with forbidden magic.

But suddenly the trail doubled, adding more humansmell to the magicsmell, and Sabre understood. Two smugglers, joining forces, both being trailed.

Sabre called out, wild and strong. Confident.

The second dog sounded again, nearly in his ear, and charged onto his trail, cutting him off. He got a glimpse of flying black ears, smelled the blood of bramble-torn skin, and then saw nothing but dog butt, right in his face.

Bitch-butt.

Shiba, he realized instantly, checking his speed so he wouldn't plow right into her. Shiba, whom his linewoman mentioned far too often, and with far too much attention to the discriminating nature of her nose. And when would everyone forget about that vaunted critter episode?

She might have a nose, but she couldn't match his speed. 'Oowh! Oowh!' he bellowed, demanding and impatient, finally-and rudely-shoving her aside to fly by at top speed.

Show-off speed.

The kind of speed to run him straight into trouble. Into-

Sabre yelped as a whip lashed across his head, popping a welt on one sensitive ear; he flung himself aside, yipping like a pup as the lash landed again. 'Git on, you cur!' the man jeered, and Sabre tumbled down, rolling aside, hearing Shiba gone wise and silent-in retreat-leaving him to-

'Watch out!' the other human cried, too late for his partner to respond to the black and silver blur heading his way. Shiba uttered not a sound as the lash fell across her back, but leapt up to grab the stout leather whip handle, as intent on it as on any trail-prey. Beyond her, the other human took flight again.

'Shiba-call!' commanded her lineman-not so far away, now-and Shiba barked treed for him, dropping the whip.

'Sabre! Call!' Taliya shouted as Sabre climbed to his feet and shook off, sending bits of leaves and dirt and grit flying. He managed a half-hearted bark and ruefully pawed his stinging ear.

Shiba made enough noise for both of them. He got his first good look at her, then, as the linemen approached from their separate directions. Beautiful, she was-well-muscled, long-limbed, a graceful neck and lovely arch to her tail. Where Sabre was heavily marked with black-his blueing so thick it looked mottled instead of ticked, his head and chest heavy and masculine-Shiba stood a sturdy but clean-lined bitch, her back and head glossy black, her ticking so perfectly distributed that it appeared silver-blue from even a short distance.

Sabre felt an immediate and intense dislike.

And she was the one standing on tree, backing the man against a stout oak, while Sabre stood spraddle-legged and dazed as the linemen arrived, more or less simultaneously. She wore bramble-guard, a leather chest plate and canvas body jacket. She probably hadn't