"Fan the flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship and pass the rosy wine,” Lafarge said. She was limited to about five quotes from Dickens—all about alcohol, although, laudably, the felon had been sober for twenty years--under disguise. Even her sponsor did not know her true identity. (more)
Brit flipped the safety off her gun. “Can it. We have never been friends.”
“Anything for the quick life,” the woman said. She dropped her two props, pulled off her gray wig, shook out her beautiful blonde hair, released the Velcro straps that held her faux back deformity, kicked aside her lift shoes, and zipped down her sack-like dress to reveal a spandex body suit. Barefoot, she smiled. “Bring in the bottled lightning […] and the corkscrew,” she crowed and dove, twisting her body mid-air, hands outstretched for Brit’s throat.
“Not very subtle.” Brit stepped aside. She sniffed appreciatively. A sensitive soul in the alley was smoking pot laced with lavender. Maybe later, at home, just one joint. Now she had work to do, slime to pick up off the street. Her adversary recovered quickly and dove again, this time for the newspaper hiding her Baretta 92fs. Just as Lafarge’s right hand closed around her weapon, Brita brought down the power of her cruel shoes. “Not so fast, cookie.” No Dickens, just Cagney.
The shyster screamed with pain, the back of her hand neatly sliced open by Brit’s razor-like heels. “I’ll need stiches. I’ll have a scar--you mother fff—“ Lafarge had promised her sponsor to curb her swearing and, in the hallowed hall of her twisted values, tried to honor her vows. “You mother!”
Brit smiled, her crow's feet barely visible. "No, not really." She sighed. "Better put pressure on that, Lafarge, then we'll talk." (less)
I don't remember this incident. I don't think
about it that much, how just another half inch
and the eye would be gone, and I know
there are worse things than losing an eye.
I've managed to collect a few more scars
since that time. There's the one at the corner
of my mouth, that smiles when I smile.
Glass shards of a mirror, I was an accident-prone
child. And there's the long thin scar
on my back from surgery:
you bet I remember that one. Scoliosis
and a month in the hospital.
Now there's the new one on my shoulder
that itches randomly, and I find myself
absently reaching a hand under my shirt
to scratch it and stopping sometimes
too late, my fellow bus riders have
already seen and pegged me for a wierdo.
My skin is a catalogue of old injuries, a history
of misadventure and genetic quirks.
My body is a survivor.
I am tough. Sometimes I feel like
I could walk through flames and not feel it
but why risk it.
They wrap their feet around power lines like such badasses.
Delicate, cruel toes flexing, stretching, settling. And then they open their beaks and give you what-for.
I think I really piss crows off. Did I get too close to a nest at some point, and the gossip has sprea(more)d across town? Everywhere I go, they caw and bitch at me like I'm the devil incarnate. Maybe I am. What a twist that would be! Imagine the blurb on the back of the paperback memoir:
"After being trapped inside the body of an unusually short woman for more than two decades, The Devil, yes THE Devil reveals, for the very first time, the trials and tribulations of growing up a poor, latchkey kid, high school and dating, finding his voice on a college debate team, experimenting with drugs, disturbing nighttime wanderings, and the shocking fetish that nearly destroyed his marriage to a well-known Portland musician. It's a story brimming with humor, insight, compassion, tips for shoe-shopping with cloven hooves, and ultimately, coming to terms with damnation."
I think it could be very successful. Celebrity memoirs are lucrative, and who, really, is a bigger celebrity than Lucifer? Well?
When the movie adaptation is filmed, I'd like Isla Fischer to play me, and Hugh Laurie to play The Morning Star.
I'll contact a publishing house right away. Before long, the advances and royalties will be rolling in. Satan and I will have a non-stop schedule of interviews and readings on our book tour. Top designers will clamor for us to wear their creations at the red carpet debut of the film. It'll be like Beatlemania! Except for us being, well, a little shorter, and eviller.
We will, however, have to avoid large numbers of crows. (less)