FIVE.
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/CalypsoSmile.jpgt=1302294776"Everybody," he says.
Calypso's the father we've never had. All of our fathers looked down at us with distorted faces wrought in anger and terror. And disgust. And regret. But Calypso doesn't. He smiles instead, scarred face crinkling in that black, crispy crinkling way as he says, "Everybody, I know what you're feeling. I feel it too."
His face crinkles as he says, "That surging, heart-wrenching relief in your chest. That's what you can call the release of your true self."
He clutches the bundle of clothes on the dumpster, holds them close, spreading the pieces out, he tilts his smoldering gaze from our awestruck gaze to the ceiling.
His clean white teeth says, "Your true self, brutally chained down all those years, now scrubbed clean of its genuine essence during your incarceration. Everything comes back, and your clothes are only the first step."
He puts the clothes back into the dumpster, smiles that big beaming fatherly smile down at us again, and takes out the next pair of clothes. And we gasp at the clothes. The fire on the Sweet Tooth's head flares black. We stare at the clothes. Doll Face tilts her head, shakes it slowly, and mutters. We want to go up and rip the clothes to pieces, but we can't. Mr. Grimm crosses his scarred arms, scans everyone in the room. So we point at the clothes. Furiously.
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/STARING.jpgt=1302294890Calypso's smile, bright and cheery, melts instantly off his scarred face.
"Well, now," he sneers out. "Well, well, well!"
The rest of us move closer, his loyal congregation, except for one. His eyes burn like coals, beetled down into hard, squinting circles. He holds out the clothes and through all of us, like a single sharp wave through the sea, our breath is taken away, except for one.
The clothes of the enemy dangling from Calypso's grip fills our sight. The clothes are crisp, clean, painfully blue. In his hands hangs the blouse and slacks uniforms that plagued our memories, following us out of our homes, into the cells, then finally Blackfield. The uniform of the royal opposition.
The rusty badge pinned on the chest pocket shines magnificently in the sunlight, sagging slightly under its weight of authority. The nametag says ROBERTS.
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/ROBERTS.jpgt=1302294916We shuffle amongst ourselves. We look around, frantically, for the enemy in our midst. Searching for the person who looked like a cop. The person who looked like a ROBERTS. But we didn't have to look very long.
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/wheresthepiggy.jpgt=1302294976Outlaw
Officer Jamie Roberts
Sweet Tooth's the first to call out. He says, "Where are ya, pig?"
Sniffing around with deep whiffs, he laughs, "C'mon. Don't be shy! I'll find ya one way or another. I can smell fresh bacon a mile away."
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/Shesrighthere.jpgt=1302295086"Got a cold?" she says. "I'm right here." And there she is. She's the one.
We swivel our heads and glare across the room to get a better look. The pig. The enemy. This oppressor of ours. But she looks nothing like a cop. More like a wraith. Long unkempt black hair covers her face entirely, barely splits to show her steel, unblinking stare. Her straight-jacket hangs off her voluptuous form. Her face, graced with a permanent cold frown, would look absolutely stunning with a nonexistent smile.
Sweet Tooth's false face slowly revolves to regard her. "You're ROBERTS?"
He laughs. "For a pig, you're quite the looker."
Her gaze locks with the scariest inmate Blackfield Asylum has to offer, the most abnormal of us all dwelling in this dredge of normalcy. Without blinking, no quaver in her throat, she scoffs. Lowers her collar, reveals a sliver of that mean, nasty gash of a scar on her neck.
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/SCAR.jpgt=1302295107She speaks in grating, halting bursts. "Officer Jamie Roberts to you.
Officer on duty. Fucking stupid clown."
For a moment, the clown's hands clenches, his arms flexes, his legs primes, and Sweet Tooth looks like he'll rush her. We hold a breath for the first rift in the communion. The clown steals a look at Calypso. Just a small look. But it's enough. Calypso's bloodshot glare sends chills through us, though it's only aimed at Sweet Tooth.
Grouped altogether, there's enough of our cramped numbers to fill a church, a cathedral, the kind that inmate Preacher likes. And we're the congregation of the Word of Calypso, split in the middle. We spread out to give the former police officer Jamie Roberts a wide berth. Every one of our baleful eyes takes her in, all of her, from head to toe. Head to toe because we want to remember her, to mark her, make her the first kill. This sacrificial pig, she stands alone in our seething midst.
Traitor.
Enemy.
In all her former glory.
Officer Roberts doesn't even spare us a single glance. The cop's eyes are only for Calypso, and what eyes they are. Blazing emerald green polished down to a piercing, emasculating glare and leveled straight at our savior.
Steel shining in her irises, she glares at him but speaks to us, "I know you all wanna do me. So painfully obvious. Me, the cop. Piggy piggy piggy. All of you, escaped convicts. Soon as this goes down, gonna make me sacrificial lamb. Tactically, in the battlefield, I have no chance."
She looks at her feet. Her long hair shades her eyes from our leering. She slumps forward a little bit, as if the weight of her realization, the weight of our pure unbridled hatred, presses down on her shoulders.
Then she strips bare in front of us. Her straitjacket hits the floor. She kicks off her black slacks. Our eyes scour every inch of that bruised peach skin of the PIG, our gaze running free over her scarred, self-punished, but still-luscious body. She puts on the clothes, stripping our gaze of each part, one by one, replaced with startling cop blue.
The wraith is gone from her body. She stops stooping and shuffling around. She stands up straight and tall. She changes. She becomes. On goes the utility belt. Up goes her hair in a frizzy ponytail. Spic-and-span are the shoes. And the badge, grim-filled and rusty, still shows her scorching golden authority. She's the pig. The enemy. This oppressor of ours.
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/OfficerOnDuty.jpgt=1302295123"Don't make me laugh," the cop stands proud, smirks at us. She's ghastly and we hate her, but she's so beautiful, we can't help but hate loving her a little. "Even if you assholes get along? Just for little old me? Won't be enough. Not even nearly."
"Wanna know why?" She preens, sneers. Her hands straddle her nightstick and pistol by her side. She plays her fingers along the empty gun. She gets unbelievably cocky in our seething midst.
"Because fuck the rules. Still a cop, but not one of them." The cop takes out her empty pistol, chortles in a croaky whisper. She cocks back the slide, classic Weaver stance, points the gun at each of us.
Click goes the trigger. The brisk snap of the hammer echoes through the parking garage.
Click. Click. Click!"My jurisdiction."
Click."Not theirs."
Click, click, click!"I'll do things you won't believe. And killing you? All of you? Easy.”
Click.“So easy.”
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/HERJURISDICTION.jpgt=1302295204"Why?" It's hard to hear but we catch it. We turn around and dainty little Dollface tilts her head at the cop. "Why's it so easy? Tell me."
"You wanna know?" she roars, holsters her gun. "Wanna know what makes me tick? Wanna story time? Not me. I'm done telling. You ask him."
She stabs a thumb at Calypso. He just smiles, nods at her.
She says, "He knows everything. Probably made it all happen. No surprise, really. Ask him."
Calypso tsks-tsks again, sadly shakes his head. "My sincerest apologies, my dear. I can't possibly divulge upon your good nature. However, you are completely free to tell your own story. After all, it's your tale of woe, and we're all here for you."
She never stops glaring at him. "Don't want to. Waste of time. No one cares. No one listens. Nobody believes me."
Dollface says, "We will. Nobody believes us either."
She turns her eagle-eyed gaze over us; two emerald steel orbs of simmering with pure hate. She points specifically at Dollface.
She says, "After everyone fails at killing me... Gonna smear you off the road. Plug you up a few times to make sure."
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/Gonnamakesure.jpgt=1302307161Dollface just stares. As do all of us.
The cop says, "Fine. Shut up. Listen. His name is
Carl."