59.

The fall of Rome is something we don't talk about. Historical details are sketchy, and Rome's been sacked often enough that it's almost totally irrelevant. The books simply say that Rome went down (metaphorically speaking) and proffer the almost embarrassingly underwhelming event to the romanticists for some kind of literary redemption.

"Good luck," says Santiago.

"Fuck you," says Rome.

60.

Even for a job listing “Belief in afterlife a plus,” having an applicant die during the application process looks pretty bad.

Naturally, it’s difficult to officially pin these things, particularly on cute little boys (particularly ones with their fingerprints burnt off), but it’s not like no one suspects.

Two weeks into second grade, Manchester starts wearing a Jurassic Park backpack.

61.

Vienna makes her living on the lam. She swears more often now since the Elizabeth job backfired, and has officially given up public decency, like any bad habit. She left Marion with Manhattan alive, of all things, and is ironically superior to her ex-roommate at giving up regret.

The second she sees Phoenix - alive of all things - her heart maybe explodes.

62.

Cairo’s apprentices, they have this habit of dying young. Very young.

“Next.”

Applicant #217 is a brunette, 4’7’’, violet dress, whose one redeeming feature is a Jurassic Park backpack. Cairo cringes at the little-sister-type scenario, but, as an assassin, figures that everyone hitting on her could be pretty funny.

Of course, this is just planning ahead. But Manchester’s been getting cheeky lately.

63.

Fascinatingly enough, this time it’s really over. Tonight she means it. And there’s no tomorrow.

It’s like the 800th time an actor plays the tragic hero. He still has to believe it – that tonight he won’t die. Only he will die, and it’s getting 799 times harder to believe.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

“I know,” says London.

(He never sees her again.)

64.

By the time the prince releases Rome – shiny new probational leash attached – Cairo’s already waiting, propped against the hood, looking bored, and incidentally not smoking (per local ordnance).

“You’re not arrested?” notes Rome.

“Technically I’m considered a victim.” Cairo looks disappointed. “Paris didn’t send you back to Hell?”

Rome points out an obnoxiously-colored billboard, which reads:

"WELCOME TO ALICIA: NON-EXTRADITION CAPITAL OF THE WORLD."

65.

He meets her sitting cross-legged on the bed, sipping something urine-colored from a beaker. Turns out to be apple juice and gin, which she politely offers him and which he less-than-politely declines. Her entire décor appears to be filched from a high school chem lab.

Brooklyn's problem is she knows too much, but she still lives with her parents, so he can't exactly kill her.

66.

MANHATTAN SYNDROME. A neuropsychological disorder wherein the patient feels a need, real or imagined, for all members of the opposite sex to be in love with him/her. Individuals within the patient's realm of familiarity are automatically considered subject to romantic interest, while individuals outside the patient's familiarity are treated as hypothetically attainable, subject to the patient's will. 9 in 10 cases non-fatal. See also: HEART DISEASE.

67.

Most people, they get stabbed in the shoulder, they say something like "ow" or "holymotherfuckingow." Athens just says: "You're getting sloppy."

"Doesn't matter," spits Manchester. "I've found something better... grenades."

Athens rolls her eyes and extracts the blade. "Look, it's not that you're not dangerous. You just lack precision. And it's not. all. about. blood."

"Murderer."

"Sticks and stones..."

"Rapist."

"Getting warmer..."

"Faker."

Athens winces, satisfied. "Attaboy."

68.

London sleeps like a rock. Literally. He's incapable of sleep.

Half the problem is Phoenix mumbling revenge schematics in his unconsciousness; the other half is the spin-off ideas this gives London. Blend with a dozen Hail Marys, cold, and you've got yourself a nice little mixed metaphor, complete with the twist of irony.

He climbs to the ramparts, to see everything. Tonight it's a ship, swiftly moving east.

69.

Bulletproofing the station wagon is maybe the smartest idea Dublin’s ever had.

All jobs thus far: scot-free. Still, says Venice, it doesn’t really count till they’ve done Colombia.

(You know the proverb about life screwing you over? By now, Dublin’s had so much proverbial fucking lemonade he could vomit.)

“Let’s rock’n’roll,” he announces, ignition hot, then spits on the rear view mirror for good luck. “Lot’s wife’s rules apply.”

70.

One night, the maiden finds her sister drunk, throwing stones at an upper window of the monastery. “Havana,” she says gently, “please stop.”

Postergirl of bloodshot heartbreak, Havana stumbles forward. “It’s too late. He’s already coming down. To forgive me.”

The maiden pulls back her sister’s hair, sopping with whiskey and bile. “I thought it was the end?”

“Nah.” Havana smiles, weak and wasted. “That’s the only lie he tells.”

71.

He removes his blue dress shirt, so she removes her blue jeans.

“He’s a child!”

“He’s old enough to commit arson, he’s old enough to have his heart broken.”

(Secretly, Cairo sanctions this logic.) “You could lose your job.”

“You’re thinking of alcohol.”

He removes black jeans. “Uno.”

She sheds a black stocking, so he puts his shirt back on. “I miss Go Fish,” she pouts.

“No, darling, you miss winning.”

72.

The way most people have only one good joke, London tells only one lie.

From the monastery ramparts he sees everything – countryside for miles around; ocean to the west; the past, present, future. And Havana. Occasionally as a vision and more frequently to the east, attempting a self-stoning ritual with the ricochets from his bedroom window. I repent, she screams.

…And the last shall be –

The first step to self-sacrifice is forgetfulness.

73.

Once there was a priest, a prince, and a sailor. It was their poetic misfortune to be in love with the same woman. The maiden gave to the man of God her friendship, to the man of State her kiss, and to the sailor… her heart. It was recompense for his, which she’d broken – quite by accident – before he left. (He left.) Hers is something he values, though he finds it very heavy.

74.

Cairo, who traded his capacity to shock for a speeding train incident, resurfaces, bleeding. “Miss me?”

“Not actively.”

Athens and Cairo aren’t so much in love as they are perfect for each other.

“Whore.”

“You want me to pine for you? You have the life expectancy of yogurt.”

“Boston’s been losing sleep.”

“Boston’s in love with you.”

“Whore!”

“Slut. You already used whore.”

“…Which is what whores are for.”

Athens smirks. “I missed you.”

75.

Reckless endangerment.

As opposed to all the more thoughtful, well-intentioned, responsible sorts of endangerment.

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes,” says Rome. “I would consider myself guilty of reckless endangerment.”

“We clocked you at 216.” Rome beams, can’t help it. It's news to her. “You were wearing a blindfold.”

“Wow,” says Rome.

“Why?”

She’s feeling honest all of a sudden. “Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“To impress a boy.”

These things, says Rome, they’re always to impress a boy.

76.

Cairo learns Portuguese in three weeks. No one is surprised.

The inner ring suspects it's a smokescreen tongue – that he's also clandestinely learning something relevant, Farsi or whatever – but there's no telling, so no one asks.

Recklessness is often ascribed as invincibility complex. Au contraire, it's staggeringly possible that it's the reverse – that faith in dying young is what inspires such casual discaution.

Cairo can subsist on cinnamon Certs and nicotine for a good long while.

77.

He appraises the sunset, incredulous. "You don't notice? Still?"

"Um, no? Go fish." He claims a card from the centre-table mess, frowns, removes his shirt. She proceeds. "Got any… fours?"

"I'm telling you, they're getting shorter. And no."

"You have to say 'go fish.'"

"…I miss poker."

"You miss metaphor."

He half-smirks concession. "Vá pescar."

Athens fishes unsuccessfully, loses a belt. "You miss your guns?"

"Metaphors, love. Got any… aces?"

Athens smiles, reaches up her sleeve.

"Smartass."

78.

The thing that saves Hell is the music. It also triples business for Athens, bronze mandolinist legendaire. One night (like all nights), no one's checking I.D.s...

"How old are you?" she asks, sweat-wet from stage lights, angel's voice alcohol-damp.

"Old enough," he says.

"To vote?"

"To drive."

"Hm," she says.

(The problem with having a Christ complex isn't the whole search-and-rescue bit. This instinct is good. The problem is, nine times out of ten, the savior's not Christ.)

79.

Rome escapes, and she does it alone.

Sort of.

"Hiya."

"Get off the car I'm about to steal."

Cairo slides off and opens the driver's side door for her, chivalrous as hell. "You know," he says, "it's thirty hours to Alicia." The dogs are already barking, old-school-style. "You'll want a second." She looks uncertain. "Quick, love. Bloodhounds are fast."

"Jaguars are faster."

"Assuming you can handle it."

Her eyes flicker. "I could do this blindfolded."

Cairo grins. "Game on."

80.

Boston uncocks it again; loves the click. The potentiality. Cocks it.

Matte silhouette against the rail, she strains to see what'll wreck him. Horizontal green. Black. Anything. She craves it, innocently, the way one wants cars to crash at a race.

The Dark Horse lurches; Boston curses – unladylike, but this close to the edge of the world, she figures, who fucking cares.

She found the pistol under his pillow. This is the closest thing to in love she'll ever be.

81.

"Name?"

"Orpheus."

"Occupation?"

Cairo grins. "Rescuing people from Hell."

The desk attendant glares up, slow, practically sweating ennui. "Occupation?"

"…Singer."

"Perhaps you'd like Athens then?" she recommends, already knowing too much.

"Athens," Cairo levels acicularly, "fucked over my tyro."

Rome offers a receptionist smile. "Well – with due respect, that is her job."

"'Fucked over.'"

"Semantics."

"Tell your suitemate: 1)I'd like to see her, 2)it's for revenge, and 3)'revenge' is not a euphemism."

The lack of alcohol on his breath terrifies her.

82.

The unicorn greets the man who ruined her with a kiss. He, in turn, smiles like he doesn't remember he's the proverbial "stairs" she purportedly "fell down." It's a sweet thing they have.

Manhattan (the unicorn) says, "How's your day, sugarpie?"

Dallas (the unicorn-slayer) says, "Swell, honeymuffin."

The former, being a sucker for irony, sucks milk from a carton reading: Have YOU seen Phoenix Hazley? Dallas, unscrewing his sweetheart's own medicine, says:

"You'll never guess who I met today on the train."

83.

No one could remember when exactly, but at some point Vienna had adopted the Good Guy role, Manhattan the Bad. Both were legendarily civilized about it, in the same way one might imagine Jesus and Lucifer coolly rock-paper-scissorsing for the Kingdom.

No one was shocked when Paris pronounced Manhattan’s banishment, but all duly smiled at the whispers concerning her passionate efforts at bribery.

Vienna had been the last to learn – had always protected Phoenix – and opted for justice, meaning something other than revenge.

84.

Cairo works in Hell for a night, on a dare. His employment lasts just long enough for the eccentric merit badge. During confession, the 4.5 hour stint comes up, naturally. “I knew you wouldn’t last,” smirks Santiago.

“Lasting wasn’t part of the dare.” Cairo exhales, dragonlike. “And quitting Hell… that’s like working your own salvation.”

Santiago prescribes a batch of Hail Marys, bums a cigarette.

Cairo confesses, weakly: It wasn’t even the whole sex trade thing that turned him off; it was the lighting.

85.

Havana invented the backlash amendment.

I adored him casually.

I was eternally devoted for a while.

I loved him completely. More or less.

The sort of costless, spineless patch-up jobs comprising B-sides and careful journal entries to be read by people one wants to impress. Privately, Havana’s as heartwrecked as London (recently driven to monasticism), only medicating differently. Havana takes men like Tylenol, and stops by Hell for the proverbial prescription.

She happens to do so on the one night that Cairo is an employee.

86.

Dallas starts taking the train to control his blood pressure, otherwise exacerbated by those fuckin’-hickville-Jersey-pedestrians-who-can’t-
cross-a-godsdamned-street-to-save-their-life. One day, he meets a stranger, who tells him everything.

[Once upon a time, The Ghost’s life was ruined – debatably ended – by a legendary seductress, named Manhattan. The stranger vanished, leaving a slew of bewildered survivors to avenge him. He renounced love and committed, ambivalently, to either death or forgetfulness.]

The clattering monologue smoothes down. “Anyway... thanks.”

"Sure." Dallas grimaces, sympathetic. “What’s your name?”

The Ghost extends a thin hand.

“Phoenix.”

87.

The gumballs have been running low ever since Manchester ran out of ammo. Now the lawn looks like a quantum rainbow, sniper perched on the lawn chair, thirsty for blue jay blood.

Manchester gets bored, spreads his rock collection on the tarp out back. He stands appraisingly, the passive judge, thin arms folded. Cairo’s been in the basement, sharpening his words; emerges, inevitably, and cocks his head at the assortment of stones. “What’re they all for?”

“Casting.”

Manchester is cute, and can destroy all kinds of housing.

88.

Boston is not suicidal, just fatalistic. Fatalistic plus reckless and people automatically assume suicidal. This logic is compelling, but flawed.

Boston lies on the deck, lets the sky rain all over her. Memphis is holding out for the end of the world; but Boston has seen the end of the world, and it is not that great. No drop, no monsters; the map only starts over again, reincarnated blue. Boston isn’t here for the end of the world; she’s here for him, unjaded and spry – unspoiled by cartography.

89.

The Little Boy sits politely, hands in lap, molesting the shiny knife rows with his eyes. Cairo smiles, hands him one. “They’re made to be touched,” he says. “And don’t be excessively careful.”

He gulps. “What are they all for?”

“Hurting people.” Cairo twirls a blade in a curt spin, sheaths it, watches.

The apprentice copies – hums a riddle: “Sticks and stones may break my bones…” – fumbles; looks, fascinated, as a ribbon of blood winds down his finger.

Cairo half-smiles, weak. “You made up a name yet?”

“Manchester?”

“Alright.”

90.

Every third residence the end-all event, a slow walk from 60th to 61st sounds like the radio driving through Iowa. Having left Vienna’s for the euphemistic fresh air, Cairo pauses at what could be 97.1, offers her a cigarette. She smiles, hands in pockets, says “no thank you.”

“You think it’s happened yet?” he says.

“What?”

“The end. The beginning. Happy-go-crazy-time.”

Vienna listens. “Not yet,” she judges. “Phoenix…”

“No. Eh... pray. Actually, I’m fairly surprised you haven’t murdered –

Manhattan, two blocks away, yells “ten,” meaning the champagne won’t drink itself.

91.

Memphis has three hundred on The Dark Horse, which is why Boston has chosen to back The East. Saltwater sky bleeding onto the deck, she bolts awake.

“Monsters again?” Memphis is waxing rails.

“No,” says Boston, wanting the blood to drain from her eardrums, back to her ribcage, bludgeoning for it. Her head is all white walls, spattered with AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL signs, geometric courtyards that only lock from the inside. “Are we there yet?”

Everything is liquid, eternal.

“Back to sleep, milady,” Memphis advises with a wink. “You’ll feel the drop.”

92.

Havana kills another Red Rabbit, to give her metabolism something to do. Dedicates the ensuing batch of 80-proof truth serum as follows: “It’s over.”

London’s already shopping. Blonde, 34-28-34, corner pocket. “Sorry?”

“I said, ‘It’s over.’”

“Oh.” He indicates the obvious: “And, by Tuesday…?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. Cross.”

“Freud.”

“Fuck.” She grins. Strokes his hand, docile. “You’ll live?”

“Sorry?” London’s inking a bar napkin with numbers, x’s, o’s.

“Don’t you have a nunnery to be getting to?” she spits.

“Monastery. They gave me the afternoon off.”

93.

“You feel the days getting shorter?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Athens traces a serpentine blueprint along her customer’s spine, proposes something vis-à-vis the equinox. “Ah-ha-ha! What’s this one from?”

“You know what it’s from. You know all my scars.”

Cairo rolls onto his back. She closes her eyes, easy like salvation.

“Weren’t you pissed? The back! Passé.”

“I love you,” he says, prickly.

“Did you know,” she informs, “that you can get stabbed in the heart through the back?”

“Duh.”

Something thuds next door, and Cairo wonders if Rome is looking for an escape.

94.

After the Dallas incident, the novice is smoking like mad. “Lung cancer doesn’t happen overnight,” admonishes London, whose monastic wisdom comes in the after-school special packaging, for sure. “Try traffic.”

“Not funny,” says Santiago.

Lazy, the benediction reeks of 4/4 signature conducting. The Ghost hums, bubblegum requiem, between smoke rings.

“Tell me everything,” coos the stranger on the train.

The Ghost buys his rock-like sleep with a full confession. Strangers are easy, like priests, but not to be trusted.

Santiago always knows a guy, who died or something, who makes these things not funny.

95.

The Little Boy tromps through the ring of ashes he’s made; smiles, satisfied, tries to think what this reminds him of. He only meant to burn his room, but that’s not how fires work, he now understands. His backpack is heavy, but he’ll manage; slough all but
the especially unusual rocks he’s collected, if he eventually must.

“How old are you?” she’ll ask someday, sweat-wet from stage lights, hair in eyes, angel’s voice alcohol-damp.

“Old enough,” he’ll say.

“To vote?”

“…To drive.”

“Hm,” she’ll say.

Tonight he’s innocent, and needs only to find a train.

96.

When Phoenix and Cairo were children, they found a duck caught in the curbside gutter grate. Like any respectable small animal in a childhood story, this duck was an object lesson.

The elder – eight, new to addiction, August bronze and already letting Cool and Vitamin D fight for his adolescence-scheduled cancer – flicked his cigarette with a virginal finesse to the curb. Scorched feathers, a shriek from the littler boy:

“You hurt him!”

“We wouldn’ta found ’im otherwise.”

Phoenix watched his idol, up-and-coming sage, wrest the object lesson free.

Phoenix grows up with a lot of scars.

97.

The Prince – named Paris, for the noble-if-doomed literary reference, and incidentally without his permission – does not know everything. He does know some things. Right and Wrong among them.

Right and Wrong, using pseudonyms today, flip a pen and look at the floor, respectively. Verdict-jaded, they wait the tame and merciful, rehab-lovin’ Paris to disclose their fortunes. Cookie lips. Lotto-number sentences. Fucking monarchs, thinks Wrong. Right agrees, silently.

The courtroom aches of 49% polyester, yellow recycled paper and clockwork.

Everyone’s bored, and besides, Right has a date to get hit by traffic.

The jester wants his venue back.

98.

Santiago, stained glass silhouette, knows everything.

This is better than ordinary omniscience. This, gutted and stripped to the dirty, the pithy, the ten o'clock highlights reel. He tends bar, Bloody Hail Marys, and, unlike God, remembers everything.

You tell him your past, he’ll tell you your future.

(In the name of the Father, naturally.)

“Tell me I’m saved.”

“Tell me your sins.”

“This will give you nightmares.”

(…and of the Son.)

“It’s been about an hour since my last confession.”

(…and of the Holy Ghost.)

“I’m dead, you know.”

“I know.”

The Ghost smiles.

“Of course you do.”

99.

Cairo lights a cigarette, is aware he looks strange without one.

Anyone will tell you, Manhattan tastes like guilt and envy. Triumph is not much sweeter.

Cairo smokes his cigarette, and waits.

The pavement outside Hell is all silver and broken glass, “good intentions” sprayed by some wanker on the asphalt.

Cairo never intended to fall for Rome. (Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for $50/hr.) Cairo never intends to fall period, and might not've had he known he possessed the capacity.

(Triumph is a drug, and that is why sometimes Cairo kills for free.)

100.

Athens and Rome are close. There’s a history of warfare.

Rat-a-tat-tat ticks the wall dividing their respective cells. They talk frequently. Security is lax in Hell.

“I’m in love with him,” taps Athens.

Athens is a girl’s name.

Rome, the deceptively unplain girl next door, is shopping for an escape route. Athens – who believes in love but not salvation – sleeps, in uniform, fence-net stockings and neon blue. There are no clocks.

It is unclear whether they are slaves or employees.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Rome. “You’re in Hell.”

“Do you mind?”

Rome does not mind. Rome doesn’t believe in anything.

101.

Manhattan doesn't know any better. Lit up like Christmas, if Christmas was also the day America shafted G.B. in 1776. Armageddon bright. Brilliant, shining like virgin artillery. Resplendent. (City on a hill and all that.) The light of the godforsaken world.

Today is the 7th of March. Manhattan doesn't know any better.

She speaks:

"I'm going to be dead in something like an hour."

He licks his lips.

"Metaphorically?"

She plucks a lullaby, trigger, stringed instrument in the air. "In the same way that I'm alive metaphorically, sure."

"Am I going to help?"

Manhattan grins.

"I expect it'll be your idea."