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."

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.

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.

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.

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.