You hear rustling in the undergrowth and prepare yourself for the punks you know you'll inevitably have to deal a harsh lesson to. No one emerges. Instead, they start humming a tune. You are familiar with the song, but can't place it.
"Gonna fly now!" sings a young girl, accompanying the hummer.
Before you can start rooting through the foliage, a familiar face jumps out at you, all smiles. You manage to stop yourself from dealing it a punch.
"Turk!" you say, surprised. It's your former cellmate, a gentleman with the unlikely name of Rickert Deloit. But his yard name was Turk, and that's how you best remember him. He had been pulling a stretch for torturing his relatives in a very specific way, and had been the one to suggest a fitting course of action for Chelsey and company. In a vague sense, he was your mentor. Turk's still as ginger and willowy as he was last year. And reserved. It's hard to believe he tracked you down and hummed a tune, given his trademark timidity.
"Beelzebubba!" Turk greets you, guiding his hand into yours for a diffident shake. "I went before the parole board not two weeks after you processed out. I wonder... that business we talked over, all those nights... are you still going ahead?"
"You see how I spend my evenings, Turk? Those brats will have a reckoning with me! The score must be settled."
"Oh, I did hope you'd say just that!" says Turk, lifting his arms in triumph and running in place. "I've even brought that secret weapon I promised. Tasha, come along!"
A young girl darts out of cover and stands near Turk. Her brown hair is in tails with black ribbons, and she wears a matching black choker and wristbands. Her blue skirt and blouse look like castoffs from a child's production of "The Lass That Loved A Sailor," and you'd thought that particular material for stockings had gone out before World War II. Her shoes look contemporary, and might even be trendy for all you know.
"This is the one?" you ask, curious. Turk had always claimed he had a hypoplastic fantastic 'assistant' back home, but it had seemed a tall tale. The woman in the body of a girl, without the slightest ticklishness. Turk claimed they were a perfect team.
"Natasha Belisle," says the small person, offering her hand. "Though I prefer 'Miss E. Führer,' out on the street. If he gets to be 'Turk.'"
"Belial?" you boggle, navigating through the pleasantry of a handshake. "Missy Furor?"
"Close enough," she says, and there is a hardness to her tone that is not like any young girl you have ever known. "Rick told me all about you. The revenge you had in mind, after your release? I can get next to Sofia and Mathew. There's no question of it. We took care of school enrollment today. Tomorrow, I'll work out a schedule to be with one or both of them in every class."
"But what is your interest in this?" you ask Missy. You deal with her as an adult, knowing that she is.
"To help Rick, of course," she says, like an innocent child. And then, with a nasty smirk, "Or maybe also... because I enjoy watching people get tickled. Since I'm certifiably unticklish, I feel better when I see others squirm with a vulnerability I don't share."
"I'm fascinated," you tell Missy, which is about all you can say.
"Trouble is, Bub, we've got no place to stay in this town," Turk tells you. He states it as fact, without sounding as though an importunate oboe should play behind his words.
You make a quick decision.
"Of course you may both stay with me," you tell Turk and Missy, "though the accommodations may prove not to your liking. There is a problem with insects."
"Then we must squash them," Missy says at once, smirking nastily once more so that you take her meaning.
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