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."