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.