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muted clank, the punk wearing the leather jacket pries the tip
of his safety pin, twisting it sideways within the lock on his cell door to
trip the mechanism. He pulls the pin free, then wipes it against his blue jeans
until the point is clean of rust and slime before thrusting it back into its
previous place, piercing his cheek. At that the punk swings the cell door open
and steps out of his cage. His Mohawk stands so tall the blue hair brushes the
top of the doorframe.
    Swaggering down the row of cells, the blue-Mohawk punk peers into each
cage Inside one lies an Egyptian pharaoh or somebody who went to Hell for
praying to the wrong god, crumpled on the floor, gibbering and drooling, one
arm sprawled so that the hand rests near the cage bars. A fat diamond ring
glitters on one finger, the stone in the four-carat range, D-grade, not cubic
zirconium like Babette's cheapo earrings. Next to that cage, the punk kid stops
and stoops. Reaching through the bars, he slips the ring off the wasted finger.
The kid pockets the diamond ring inside his motorcycle jacket. Standing, he
catches me watching him and saunters toward my cell.
    He wears black motorcycle boots—note: an excellent footwear choice for
Hades—the ankle of one boot wrapped with a bicycle chain, his other ankle
wrapped with a knotted, soiled red bandanna. Pimples swell into red points
dotting his pale chin and forehead, in contrast to his bright green eyes. As
the Mohawk punk struts closer, one hand slips into his jacket pocket and scoops
out something. From a long toss away, still walking, he says,
"Catch," and his hand swings, tossing the object, which flashes in a
long, high arc, flying between my cage bars, falling to the point where my
hands clap together to catch it.
    Acting the part of a complete Miss Slutty Slutovitch, Babette continues
to ignore Patterson and Leonard but holds her compact angled to spy on the punk
kid, scrutinizing him so closely that when the thrown object flashes, the
bright flash bounces off her mirror, reflected into her eyes.
    "What's a nice girl like you," the Mohawk kid asks me,
"doing in a place like this?" When he talks the safety pin in his
cheek jerks around, flashing orange in the firelight. He struts up to the bars
of my cell and winks one green eye at me, but looks at Babette without looking
directly at her. He's clearly touched the dirty iron bars, then touched his
face, his jeans, his boots, smearing the filth all over himself.
    No, it's not fair, but dirt does manage to make some people look more
sexy.
    "My name is Madison," I tell him, "and I'm a hope-aholic."
    Yes, I know the word tool. I may be dead and jailbait and
boy-crazy, but I can still be used to make another girl jealous. Warm from the
punk's pocket, lying in the palm of my hand is the stolen diamond ring. My
first gift from a boy.
    Drawing the oversize safety pin from his cheek, the Mohawk kid pokes
the sharp point into my keyhole and begins to pick the lock.

VI.
    Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. I assume that membership in
Hell gives you access to a zillion-million A-list celebrities.... About the
only person I'm not excited to meet is my dead grandpa. My long-dead Papadaddy
Ben. Long Story. Please credit the impulse to my youthful curiosity, but I
can't resist the opportunity to get sprung and take a quick look-see ramble to
check out the lay of my new neighborhood.
     

     
    Spare me, please, your dime-store psychology, but I really do hope the
devil will like me. Note, again, my lingering attachment to the H-word. My
being here, locked in a slimy cage, it would seem a foregone conclusion that
God isn't my biggest fan, and my parents, it now appears, are largely out of
the picture, as are my favorite teachers, nutrition coaches, really all the
authority figures I've tried to please for the past thirteen years. Therefore
it's not surprising that I've transferred all my immature needs for attention
and affection to the only parental adult available: