Chance Card: Get Out of Jail Free. Do Not Pass Go - Collect Your Redemption Here.
"I was your Watcher, Faith. And if you kill me, there's just one thing I want you to remember."
"What's that, love?"
"You are a piece of sh-"
"You're one to talk! Guess we'll just have to try a little harder."
Smashing the glass out of picture frame nearby, I study the jagged shard closely.
"We'll switch to sharp for a while."
"Get up, LeHane. Time to face the music."
Jolting outta my dream, I squint over at the guard. "Face what? What're you talkin' about?"
"Your appeal date's been moved up. Get dressed. I'll be back in five minutes; be ready."
I sling my legs over the bunk and stretch; the dream still lingering. Why the fuck do I keep having the dream? It's really starting to piss me off. Pulling on my standard issue blue, I shake myself awake. Guard bitch taps on the bars, and once my shackles are attached, I'm taken off to a room.
"Have a seat, Faith. We have things to discuss," says a Suit with a fake ass smile on his face.
I remain standing. "Who are you?"
"I'm here to get your signature. The Courts have agreed to grant your appeal early, and as long as you stay on the straight and narrow, you're free to go."
"My parole isn't up for another 15 years, dude. I think you've got the wrong gal."
"I have your paperwork right here. It's all there. If you'd like, you can read over it." He scoots the papers over to me, and I grab them, scanning through the B.S. until I reach the bottom section. "I'm being released on good behavior? You've got to be kidding me."
No way am I trusting Mr. NoName Suit Guy. I haven't heard shit about this. What the hell is going on?
"You did your time. Sign, and you're free to go. No strings attached. But...if you want to stay-"
I think about the Bertha bitches on my block. Hope things are better out there than they are here.
"No. No, I'll sign.” Picking up a pen, I scrawl my name.
With fake smile firmly in place, Suit tucks the contract into his briefcase and says, “Congratulations. You’re a free woman.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Things are kinda a blur after I’m released. I wore the same shit from three years ago; but, hey, no more funky ass blue get-up, so I’m not complaining. Besides, I can always get my leather later.
So with my duffel in tow, I hop a bus and head for Hell A.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The building that Angel used for his HQ has been blown all to hell. Out of some strange stroke of luck, I find this flyer decorated with a weird-looking angel, and a cheesy slogan, declaring, “We help the helpless”. I ask around and find the hotel where he’s set up shop again.
I talk to some skinny chic with a guy’s name and a hunky, muscular dude; they must be new additions to Team Angel. Didn’t see The Cheerleader around anywhere, so I ask for Angel. They get all secretive of me and say he’s not available. Then I ask about Wes, and they tell me he’s not available either. Whatever, yo. So I’m like, 'forget this...I’ll find Wes on my own'. Looked up his name in the phone book, got his address and shit, and then walked to the apartment complex.
Damn. This is it. I’m about to see the guy I nearly tortured to death. I glance at the number on the door and, nervously, I raise my hand to knock. Hope he’s home cuz he and I need to have a wicked long convo. That is, if he doesn't throw me out on my ass. Maybe he’ll know what’s goin’ on with Soul Boy and Cor.
"What's that, love?"
"You are a piece of sh-"
"You're one to talk! Guess we'll just have to try a little harder."
Smashing the glass out of picture frame nearby, I study the jagged shard closely.
"We'll switch to sharp for a while."
"Get up, LeHane. Time to face the music."
Jolting outta my dream, I squint over at the guard. "Face what? What're you talkin' about?"
"Your appeal date's been moved up. Get dressed. I'll be back in five minutes; be ready."
I sling my legs over the bunk and stretch; the dream still lingering. Why the fuck do I keep having the dream? It's really starting to piss me off. Pulling on my standard issue blue, I shake myself awake. Guard bitch taps on the bars, and once my shackles are attached, I'm taken off to a room.
"Have a seat, Faith. We have things to discuss," says a Suit with a fake ass smile on his face.
I remain standing. "Who are you?"
"I'm here to get your signature. The Courts have agreed to grant your appeal early, and as long as you stay on the straight and narrow, you're free to go."
"My parole isn't up for another 15 years, dude. I think you've got the wrong gal."
"I have your paperwork right here. It's all there. If you'd like, you can read over it." He scoots the papers over to me, and I grab them, scanning through the B.S. until I reach the bottom section. "I'm being released on good behavior? You've got to be kidding me."
No way am I trusting Mr. NoName Suit Guy. I haven't heard shit about this. What the hell is going on?
"You did your time. Sign, and you're free to go. No strings attached. But...if you want to stay-"
I think about the Bertha bitches on my block. Hope things are better out there than they are here.
"No. No, I'll sign.” Picking up a pen, I scrawl my name.
With fake smile firmly in place, Suit tucks the contract into his briefcase and says, “Congratulations. You’re a free woman.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Things are kinda a blur after I’m released. I wore the same shit from three years ago; but, hey, no more funky ass blue get-up, so I’m not complaining. Besides, I can always get my leather later.
So with my duffel in tow, I hop a bus and head for Hell A.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The building that Angel used for his HQ has been blown all to hell. Out of some strange stroke of luck, I find this flyer decorated with a weird-looking angel, and a cheesy slogan, declaring, “We help the helpless”. I ask around and find the hotel where he’s set up shop again.
I talk to some skinny chic with a guy’s name and a hunky, muscular dude; they must be new additions to Team Angel. Didn’t see The Cheerleader around anywhere, so I ask for Angel. They get all secretive of me and say he’s not available. Then I ask about Wes, and they tell me he’s not available either. Whatever, yo. So I’m like, 'forget this...I’ll find Wes on my own'. Looked up his name in the phone book, got his address and shit, and then walked to the apartment complex.
Damn. This is it. I’m about to see the guy I nearly tortured to death. I glance at the number on the door and, nervously, I raise my hand to knock. Hope he’s home cuz he and I need to have a wicked long convo. That is, if he doesn't throw me out on my ass. Maybe he’ll know what’s goin’ on with Soul Boy and Cor.