In Which We Learn of Beginnings and Awakenings
Birth-pains
Segment One: The Hanged Thief
I’ve always thought you could learn a lot given enough money and enough time, but seventeen hours of lying on a pile of cash hadn’t given me a whole lot of insight, other than the fact that I was going to die sooner than I had expected.
For what I had done, a lot of the big bosses would have shot me by now or even sliced me over to divine their futures, but not Double M. He likes to sweat you over your short future, keeping close to the edge until his fat cat-ass gets tired of playing and nail you to the floor with his pedicured nails. Especially young women like myself
The bottom of the large packing crate had been carpeted with my acquired sin-cash. I’d kept it all in small bills, so I couldn’t wiggle much without some portion of my bare flesh rubbing against the crumpled currency. They
had stripped and hog-tied me; then my former comrades shoved a bright orange gag-ball in my mouth and secured in firmly with 100-mile-an-hour tape.
I wasin the crate face down and a small trickle of light leaked in from the flickering florescent lighting of Double M’s basement. They weren’t worried much about my defiling the cash because anyone who got a buck from my boss
was getting pissed or shat upon anyway.
I could tell how slowly time passed as a large digital clock had been secured inches under my eyes, its amber numbers burning their way into my retina despite my frequently closed eyelids. After a tortuous amount of time had passed, I began to hear the chanting voices…metallic and unnatural.
The voices originated from within the box and I made an effort for a time to ignore them, sure that this was yet another of my boss’ terror tactics. But I couldn’t ignore them after hours of listening to the long series of numbers and letters spoken without a pause. Somehow, I instinctually knew
that these were the serial numbers of the bills under me and seconds later something clicked.
I thought the hallucinations had begun as the voice of my long-dead Uncle Phil whispered in my ear, “Power, girl. Cash is power. Use their true names.” True names? I’d had an old boyfriend named Jag who’d talked about things like that while he plucked the fur from dead cats and drank the blood if mice. Serial numbers were kinda like names. I felt me eyes role up in my head. I was so tired.
The voice whispered again. “I’ll free you, niece, but every favor has it’s price.”
Anything, I thought. To get out of this damn box, I’d make a deal with the devil himself.
“I’ll take you up on that,” said the voice and then the real trouble started.
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