So, another foray into the NFS: MW blacklist. Not the last, too. Since I've replayed this game I've remembered just what a well of untapped potential some of the blacklist members had. I say some because there's the useless ones like Sonny and Ronnie who you just can't make cool, and then there's interesting, mysterious ones like Kaze, JV, and today's entrant, Jewels.

The story is of course set in 2005, just before the events of the game. Thus, Kaze is #4, Jewels is #5, and the story is obviously the blacklist battle between the two. There will be a few topical music references, told from the point of view from that era.

Hopefully you all at least don't hate this work.

Edit, and I mean EDIT, cause Jesus Christ I wrote this in like 2015! Anyway may as well get it out there. There's a little bit of HARSH language in it. Be warned.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, regret nothing, and let them forget nothing.

Here we go again.

It's my fourth attempt after you broke my heart three times, Number Four, and it feels like this is getting old already. I'm not good with losing, and I'm not about to do it again.

You meet me in the middle of our starting line in the middle of the French Quarter pathway. It's as barren as a winter night , nothing but silver tile and French flag banners, but a revving Mustang and a colossal Mercedes will clear out some space, and quick. You hand me the map, with that same businesswoman stride that you had the first time. I just want to get you to get the stick out of your behind and walk with a little pep in your step. You probably think you look cool and collected, but as nice as it is to have someone look me in the shades rather than gawk at the sporadic dried blood on my face, I can see through your gaze. We're beyond the point of no return, so you may as well live it up and let go.

You dress practically, red racing jacket and scarf around your closed mouth, making me look like a silly little girl in my tank top that's already gotten an autumn leaf in it. Still, at least I've maintained my youthful glow. You look exhausted, and the more I stare at you the less you change. I am somewhere between bored and interested all at once, until finally you say with not a shred of emotion "read it."

Oh, but of course. There's a race going on today.

I trace the path. Down Lennox, up to the 201, to Lyons, up to the 99, super simple race. I don't know why you're giving my baby all this time to show the speed it's capable of.

"If you wanted to lose, honey," I say, making the accent of my Southern heritage as sickeningly syrupy as possible, "you could have just sauntered those sweet little hips over here and given me some cash."

You don't respond to my playground teasing. Not a wrinkle on your eyebrow, not a flicker in your eye. Whatever takes the edge away, honey. I hand you the map back and smile. I wonder if my happiness just digs at you straight to the core. I hope it does. A little pain will put a spark on that precious porcelain face of yours.

"So," you tell me, "For 40k. Pink slips on the line. You win both races, you're the new number four. You lose one, and you stay."

Used to the routine, I nod, still smiling. You look like you're made of stone. I kind of want to whack you on the cheek to make sure. Just to see what you'd do. But no, you've given me no reason to do that, and I've learned the hard way to keep my hands to myself unless necessary.

"Let's go," you command. That's all you say. Darling, you're boring me to tears and I hope racing you will be more enjoyable. Most racers are adorably cocky, a bunch of ghetto pricks who think getting a tuner and a little cash makes them King of the Jungle. It's easy to take my little jewel here, run over their dreams, and blow them a kiss as I drive their precious car to the shop, take it apart, whitewash it, and sell it for chump change back to them. Maybe add a little something else to the tab if they're especially ballsy. I enjoy the cash, but I don't need the cars. I just want them to know who the queen is around here, and they're just feeding my empire.

You, you don't seem to care. You're a racing machine, a robot, no human flaws holding you down. Maybe that's why you're the wall I've hit that I can't seem to break down just yet. I go to enter my car, stepping on the footrest outside the door with my name on it, as if to say, yes ma'am, that's my car, and you ain't ever gonna drive it.

Maybe after I smoke you, I'll take you on a ride or two.

"Later, precious," I say, waving. Your expression doesn't change as I leave you, but I won't take no for an answer much longer.

I get in the car, rev the big girl up, and prepare to take you on. I notice a loose string on my seatbelt, so I open the sun visor. There's a pocket knife strapped to it, scraped from experience. I unfold it, cut the strand, and fold it back into my pocket. Gotta keep my baby spiffy and flawless.

You enter your Mercedes and start it up without a hitch. I honk my horn. You finally rev your engine. That's the spirit. I pump the tunes, imagining how quiet your car must be in your draconian existence. I count to three, and we're off.

It doesn't take long for us to clear the French Quarter straight to Lennox, ambushing traffic. I avoid a taxi by a hair's breadth, nearly slamming into the wall of one of the many skyscrapers, but I manage to pull the turn just right so I only scrape it. Rough start, but I can recover. In my side mirror I see your Mercedes tear asphalt and head for me like a bat out of hell, scraping the tail end of my car before passing me up.

There you go, darlin'. Once you're behind the wheel you're an animal. A freak of nature, like all of us. You can try and hide it to my face but the way you're tearing through street lamps and civilian cars like they don't even exist shows me your true colors.

I step on the gas while Johnny Cash plays on the stereo. He's talking about how crazy things will be when "The Man Comes Around." I guess God's where people default to when shit hits the wall (shit, don't hit the wall, I swerve to match the curve by the park and dodge a news van you already ravaged) but as far as I'm concerned God can take his sweet time getting here. I'm pretty sure at this rate he's giving me the silent treatment anyways.

Still, anyone who turns Johnny Cash off is a person I don't trust, and I can barely trust most racers anyways. As I tear through the last stretch of Lennox before we veer north on the 201, I'm pretty sure I'm not earning the trust of any of the civilians who find themselves trapped in the streets of Rockport, street racing Mecca, where you risk life and limb for even a little old carton of milk. At this point, civvies are veering out of the way (not that there's anywhere to after we bust out of projects onto frontage roads. I'd feel bad for them, but they really should know better by now.

I notice you just ahead, taking the near exit off of Lennox. Have it your way, babe, but if you've seen the traffic of the 201 (which I know you must have, every blacklist racer knows this place more than they know the blood in their own veins) you would have seen that semi coming.

The crunch of metal resonates through my bones even from across the wayside as I shred the highway by the edge of the river. Hopefully your car isn't too beaten up. I wanna see the look on your face as you pull up after me. The easiest way to tell if you've got a heart is to break it.

Even though I catch a good lead in the short stint on the 201, I can already catch you in my rear view mirror. Not that I'm surprised. Most people I challenge show up in beyond arrogant ways. The incorrectly named tool known as Big Lou brought his whole damn entourage to face me, and I made sure to tell him how I felt about that. You showed up on the tail end of a pursuit, hit the line, and exited the car. You try and show up in mystery, but your name doesn't mean nothing. You know murder more than you know yourself. Crash a car, move on, keep driving.

I'm glad you're back in the game. It'd be no fun otherwise.

A minute or two later finds me bouncing on the 99 to some Jay- Z. I can't rap to save my life, but I'm still rocking out, because I know I could stand on the hood of my car and let it coast and I'd still win. You gave it a good fight but you let me right into my territory, and your brawn doesn't match my speed on the highways. I pass the finish line first, and a couple seconds later, you show up, pulling to a stop in the college parking lot next to me.

I exit the car. It's not over yet, there's still another race, The first one usually goes well, so I can't get too cocky. You throw your door open and step out, windswept as ever but still stoic. I notice you looking over your shoulder as you do characteristically.

"Ma'am, if you wanted to lose, you could have just given me a drag race." I'm not usually one to brag about a race I haven't done yet (that's reserved for lowlisters like Sonny and Vic) and I swore I just said something about getting cocky, but I'm still playing my little game of getting just a tiny reaction out of you.

Sadly, you don't respond, but you don't leave the side of your driver's door. I figure I may as well join you, so I sidle up to your side as you stare down the empty street.

"Penny for your thoughts, sugarplum?" I ask.

"Just making sure there's no heat after us," you explain.

So you're the paranoid type. "Chillax," I say. "Any cops passing us are just gonna see two hot chicks talking about their cars. They don't bother you unless you're going 120 on Hollis or something."

"Or you've just been in a Heat Five chase," she points out.

I bury my head in my hands. Bitch, you have to be kidding me. "Really now. How long before the race?"

"About an hour."

"Jesus, lover of my soul," I mutter. I didn't sign up to get my pretty ass busted, but you never do know what to expect with us Blacklisters, do you? "Baby bird, you don't give yourself any rest. You need to find some inner peace." Christ, now I sound like my father, right down to the never meaning what I say.

You just shrug, and that's the end of that. I can't believe I know more than you at how to avoid trouble, but you don't really strike me as someone who knows how to stay under the police radar.

"Well, let's not go off any bridges yet, Kamikaze," I tell you, brushing my hand across your shoulder blades as I head back to my door. I feel you shudder just a little bit, like you've just been poisoned. That's just delicious.

Pretend like you didn't, sugar. I know the truth.

"Race map?" I ask as I return to my door. You reach into your jacket pocket and toss it over to me. I read it, and turn so white that I damn near become invisible. I've completely fallen for your trap, and you made sure I never expected the sucker punch until it just about knocked my ribs out of my chest.

Hang left at Campus circle, down Chancellor, through Diamond Park, sharp acute right at Rosewood, left on Heritage, up Union, left Rockridge and back here in a two- lap circuit so I have to do this garbage twice.

"Good play," I admit to myself, preparing for a lot of sharp turns and suburban straightaways. I hop into my Mustang and pull out onto Rockridge, waiting for you. You pull up next to me, and the radio comes back on.

Three, two, one, and we're off again.

Campus Circle is an easy start . The college is all tucked within it. Plenty of room, fewer cars, no conspicuous walls to stop us dead. You cut through a parking lot and leave the campus behind, and I follow, beyond shame. If I had shame I would pretend I didn't know every lyric to this stupid Rihanna song, singing it despite wanting to take a vodka bottle to the stupid broad's head. A little danger can make even the dumbest little girl wisen up and see what matters.

We reach the edge of the hospital, and you're diving off the helipad, crashing down several stories to the end of the first switchback on Chancellor. Jesus, babydoll, you wanna win so badly. And that's why I wanna beat you.

I'm too stunned to follow, going through the motions before I can help myself. Then again, I don't exactly want to die today. Plus, the veer onto Diamond is too sharp for the second switchback. I'd miss it.

I pull around the switchback, nearly scraping a decal off my quarter panel against the stone wall. Damn this annoying switchback. Whoever designed half the roads in this town is someone I hope died in a car accident- and we ain't exactly lacking in them here.

Speaking of which, I hope that tree you crashed into tasted lovely.

You pull your torn-to-shit Mercedes away from it just in time to watch me pass you. Your car looks like it's gonna explode the way you drive it, but you're going for broke.

Maybe that's why they call you Kamikaze.

In my rear view mirror I see you pull back sharplike and zoom off the other side of the hospital. I'm so mesmerized I almost forget to turn. This time, it works. When I round the switchback you crash off the edge just in front of me as we approach Diamond.

Damn, you're good.

We sprint down Diamond. To catch an edge, I cut through the park diagonal to Diamond and meet you on the other side past the police station. You don't follow the curve left underneath the same Highway 99 I dusted you on. You ram your Mercedes straight into the side of my car. I crash into the wall under the highway, and you pin me there for just a second. Your windows are too dark for me to see through, but I don't have to see your face to know that the ice queen has melted. You're angry now, and I love it. You show emotions in the only way you know how: destruction. Destructive emotion is fun for every now and again. I've always considered it a good standby, but for you, it's all you know.

I bounce back just before the police station because I'm not down to go to jail yet, but before I can get a good sprint going, it's time for the sharp turn at Rosewood. I can barely see around the wall, so I hit the brakes before I get there and jam my steering wheel to the right.

I make the turn by a hair's breadth, but I run into a giant donut that's collapsed in the street.

"Excuse me!"

I should be used to seeing the eye catching giant donut usually (clumsily) placed on the roof of the shop rolling on the ground, but that will never fail to be a surreal sight. You may as well have spray painted your name on it. You're leaving a trail behind you, and even as I maneuver around it, I can see the smoke from your tailpipe in the air, and where there's smoke, there's fire.

Thankful for the one true straightaway in the track, I rev it into high gear on Rosewood, past the highway and through the dip under an overarching building. I've got about a mile of this, and I'm gonna make it count. I'm going 160 in fifth gear by the time we hit Heritage. I'm on your trail, and as I cut the corner before the planter, I scrape past you.

Course, it's only getting harder from here. Heritage Heights is about as bad as it gets for a speed junkie. Curvy road, two lanes, lots of cars, nothing but houses. Just add a few kiddos on tricycles and boy scouts helping their grandmother cross the road and it's practically a Kinkade painting. Reminds me of the streets back home, which is about goddamn enough for me to tear through it with no abandon, but I try and keep collateral damage to a minimum.

It would slow me down, after all.

That doesn't stop you, Miss Cost to State. You're tearing up the road like a bull in a steakhouse. I watch you in my peripherals through the side mirror I've got too many cars in front of me to avoid to give much care as to what you're doing as long as it doesn't affect me. I see you try and pull up behind me, so I swerve into your way just as we pull up to Union's roundabout-

- and ram head first into a pizza truck.

"Son of a fuckin' bitch!" I screech over the music, knocking it clear to the other side of the roundabout. I don't completely stop, but I accidentally miss the easy turn. Reluctantly, I take the long way, watching you pull at least a thousand feet ahead of me.

Damn it, not again. Not again.

I step on it as I start north on Union, damn the consequences. I pass the stadium and realize there's a risky shortcut coming up through a more open residential area. It requires another hard right, and I mean hard right, but if I get it right it's a clean alleyway straight diagonal past the curve. I just have to play it absolutely right.

I watch for the right time, creaming a bus stop and watching you crash into someone's yard on the edge of Union past the freeway interchange to your left. It slows me down, and when I get to the interchange, I veer right. I take down a stop sign, but I make it.

Now we're back in business.

I'm still not caught up to you by the time I exit the alleyway right before Rockridge, but you're not a speck on the horizon anymore. As I cross the finish line, lap one ends. I got my work cut out for me this time.

And guess what, honey? I've learned a thing or two from you.

I race on the trail you've paved, gaining precious inches on you. We cut through Campus Circle back to Chancellor. The Hospital is coming up, and you know what, to hell with it. If I lose again I may as well jump off the side of a building regardless.

You take the shortcut, and I step on the gas and follow.

The world spins around, and I scream in a mixture of terror and thrill. Everything is like a lava lamp of sight and sound, even though I'm not in a roll, just in a steep downward fall.

You crash over it, but my big girl has a little more grace than your crazy cab. You land on the halfway point of the Chancellor Switchback, missing the trees. I do the same, but I slam just on top of the hood of your car, nose- first.

Oh Lordy.

I hang onto the wheel as tight as I can, feeling your car force itself past me. I topple over, going straight upside down in front of you. I'm stuck; I can't move because I'm not on my wheels. I am completely at your mercy, and the blood is rushing to my head. If you leave me be, it's all good, I'm loving the way this feels. Like a fly caught in your spiderweb, I'm tied up in my seatbelt upside down, watching the world spin around me as it digs into my chest. I could die like this, no problem.

Luckily, I'm in your way. The only way you can finish the race is to shove me out of the way, and hopefully back onto my wheels. Looks like we need each other to destroy each other. Just how I like doing things.

You power through, your Mercedes giving a shrill battle cry as you shove me off the wall. I'm still screaming loud enough to break the windows, free falling off the Hospital and into the parking lot. I bounce off the roof, bashing my head on the steering wheel and drawing blood from my scalp, but I land on my wheels. I stop screaming, my breaths shallow and rapid as I step on the gas.

I peel out of the parking lot and find my way to Diamond street, back on your tail. You cut through the park, and I can only follow. Looks like you've caught onto my tricks, too.

The blood from my head runs down my cheek and into my mouth. It tastes as metallic as the clutch of my car, and I like it. If there's anything I learned from my momma, it's that you don't become a woman until you've drawn blood. That's when you understand what life is, and how quickly it can drain away.

The song changes. Thank God, because I need something to get me through this lest I die - or worse, lose. It's Green Day now. Some American Idiot thing, all the rage. I can take it or leave it usually, but rock music is a lot better than whatever was on before, and honestly anything that makes the people who worry about me squirm is music to my ears.

The corner for Diamond comes up, and this time I don't play precocious, cause you sure as hell don't. You bash through the donut you left there, and one of the cars that surrounds it. You just have no class, do you? At least you've left me a path I can drive through with not a scratch to my car. Hit the nitrous and play catch-up. By the end of the mile on Rosewood to Heritage, I'm level with you again.

I roll down my window as I drive, taking the turn so sharp I miss the buildings. You don't give me the same courtesy. You probably ain't even looking at me. That's okay, I want to leave the option open. For you to see the look on my face when I win. If you even notice I'm here, that is.

Heritage has been all but cleared out after your reign of carnage, so it's an easier to drive. Thanks for being my killing machine, Miss Kaze. This is a drag race if ever there was one. You and I breeze through the ghost town once known as Heritage Heights, never giving each other even a millimeter. We're synchronized to every little detail, except my window is still open and yours isn't.

It's all good. The smell of burning rubber and the taste of blood is my aphrodisiac. As I turn back onto Union, I hear my tires squeal for mercy, and the breeze slaps me in the face, chilling the blood that runs down my cheek. I see you pull up just ahead of me, and I know my time to strike is coming up soon.

I catch your draft as we pass Hickley Field and the interchange again. The road that opens up to our left is the carnage that remains from your stint in the Heights. Fences are destroyed, lawn ornaments scattered to the winds, parked cars demolished all in a line. That's a mighty fine grave you left yourself, missy.

I sense my time is here, so just as we go to turn, I sideline your Mercedes straight into the wall. PIT Maneuver that bitch. As soon as it connects, the impact throws me back, but I keep my foot grounded on the gas pedal like I nailed it there. The seatbelt sticks to my breast , oh that's gonna leave a hell of a rash. You go to pull away, but it's too late . I've pinned you to a metal beam, and you're down to zero.

It was a good time for me. I hope you enjoyed yourself too! Cause it's gonna stop being fun in just a little bit.

Satisfied, I rejoin the road, throwing all my nitrous into it as I make it to Rockridge. I sense you pulling up behind me, and the rear view mirror backs this up, but it's far too late I made it here first, and the crown is mine.

I pull into the college parking lot we started in, braking ferociously and cheering, dancing to the music. You pull up next to me, and in my peripherals I see you open your door. I keep dancing in my seat to the Marilyn Manson song (which I scare my relatives by singing, I just know it), because the hell with it, I'm happy. This was a hard earned victory, and I'm high off adrenaline.

This is my moment. You're just a visitor.

I let the song play out, and then I get to business. Taking the pocket knife, I cut myself out of the seatbelt, slicing it in half and peeling it off. I realize I've slit a hole right in my tank top (thank God I didn't wear my favorite one with the face on it ) so I yank it off and wad it into a ball, leaving a black training bra. I trace the rash, a thin red line across my collarbone. I run my finger across it, and it stings, but in a strangely enjoyable way.

I open the door to my car. I snag the keys, put them in my pocket, and saunter across the lot to you, hips swaying very deliberately in the strut of a winner. I look at you; surely I've gotten just the barest of reaction out of you. I've dethroned you back to Number Five, I've gotten forty grand from your pocket, and for all you know I'm taking your car home with me tonight. I don't need you to cry, doll. I just wanna see a little something on you, just to make sure you're human.

But nope. Blank as ever, finishing a phone call and putting the phone into your pocket.

"Calling a ride, I should hope," I taunt.

You ignore me until you finish, and you say "I've transferred the cash to your account. Congratulations."

I put on a porcelain smile, hand on my hip. "Thank you, kitten."

You notice the rash through my chest. "I see you still wear your seatbelt," you comment. Why am I not surprised you don't. I'm surprised you're not dead yet.

"Keep your eyes where they belong!" I cry out in mock scandal, as if I care. You look back to your cellphone, but you're blushing the tiniest bit. Hey, a little blood in your cheeks and you're a real cutie.

You put your cellphone in your pocket. "Pink slips," you address absently. "How do you go about it?"

"You're asking me?" I shrug.

You throw me your keys, like your car is nothing and you'll just get another one. "I don't take slips."

"Well, that's stupid."

You don't betray any emotions. "Unlike others, I don't race to build an empire or destroy others. Therefore, I don't need their slip. Now, pick a process so I can get to calling a taxi."

"Then why do you race?"

Finally, you're silent. Still as stone faced as ever, but you don't have a reply for me. I seem to have stumped you, babygirl.

"Okay then," I say, and I take my shades off and into my pocket. Time to get down to business. "Here's how this works. You tell me why you race, you keep your car. If you can't swallow your pride, you go ahead and call that taxi."

I surprise myself from time to time.

I've been more than happy to flip a coin and drive off in these simpering dipshits' stupid little tuners, like I've done almost everyone else on my road to number four. Leaving my mark is how I make my way to the top. You, you're different. Your pride is different. Like me, you're just too far above it all, but you're in a trance. It's just you against the world. One little Kamikaze pilot against all of Rockport. You're senseless, emotionless, lifeless. Goddamn, do I want to put a fire in your belly, just to see how you'd react.

I stare you down, right in those cold brown eyes of yours that look like coffee no one bothered to drink. I'm waiting, sweetheart. I'm offering you a lifeboat.

"I race because..." you stop as fast as you start. I tut, and go to put my shades back on, despite knowing full well I'm not going anywhere. I'm all about getting reactions, honey. Making heads turn is my specialty.

You see me prepare to go, and the closest thing to panic is on your face. I see it over my shoulder; your mouth cracks open and your eyebrow raises. You're trying to play it cool, but I bet your skin is as hot as a branding iron. I spin around on my heel and turn back to you.

"You gonna answer or are you just gonna wait for the cops?" I ask, feigning impatience.

"I honestly don't know," is your answer, barely uttered and spoken with hesitance and shame. It's good enough for me. You poor soul, ambling around the city, causing destruction to see if you can fill in that missing space in your heart.

I clear the distance and take you into my arms. You act like I slapped you with a fish, stunned into place and barely accepting. "Relax," I order, one hand on your shoulder and the other around your waist. "You passed the test."

You bristle up at my words. "The test, huh?"

I break apart, holding onto you and looking you in the eye. Now you've got a spark in your eye. Wait, no, not a spark (I was hopeful) but a glint, and it's one of hatred. You hate that I broke that Crazy Kaze look of nothing, that I made you open yourself up, toyed with you like a cat with a mousetail in her hand, watching you try and run away from my grasp until you recoil back in my paw. And that look in your eye and the strength of how you position yourself in my grasp shows you want to tear me apart limb from limb.

Well you ain't the first, and you sure won't be the last. At some point, you gotta learn to stop resisting, and just let it happen. You want to tear me apart? I'm way ahead of you.

"Why the long face?" I ask, as sickeningly sweet as I can manage.

"I wasn't aware I had one," you say so stiff I haven't room to call that anything but a lie. "Sorry to break it to you."

I sigh, disappointed, as you walk away. "You almost were a someone."

You look back at me. "Funny, I would say the same about you."

Now I stand still. "You would?"

You shrug. "I mean, you trying to annoy me. You trying to get my attention. It's a cute trick, but ultimately that's all it is, a party trick."

I raise my eyebrow, my smile turning into a glass replica of the real deal. "Oh, is it now, sugar?"

You nod, looking straight at me, finally joining the second slot of the game I was playing alone. In the deadest, plainest, least emphasized tone you can manage, you say "I mean, you can race, so I give you credit for that. And you have a nice car that you can thank daddy for, I'm sure. But you're a really stupid carwash bimbo, you know that? To think that anything that you do matters? I may never think of you again until our next race."

You nod at your car. "Now that I've passed your test, I would like my keys back."

Honey dear, sweetie pie, apple of my eye, you know I can't do that right away. You've upset me. Not with your words- carwash bimbo is nicer than half the compliments people give me. But by the fact that you honestly seem to think that I am forgettable, I am no one, that you haven't honestly been tweaked by what I do just a little.

You underestimate me, doll, and I simply cannot have that.

I hold out the key in my right hand with a downturned smirk, so you can think that you've won. You walk over, the happiest I've ever seen you- that is to say, not very. With your peak being a victorious smirk that promises yourself a little peace and quiet, you're a storm cloud that can't rain, can't do any useful thing.

Time for me to poke a hole in it.

I reach into my left pocket and pull out my knife. Before you can even register the 0- to- 100 shift, I stab you directly in your thigh.

Try forgetting me now, cunt.

You release me, doubled over, gasping for breath. Pain is nothing new to you, is it? At least, as I drag my knife down your leg and you scream from the agonizing tear, that look on your vacant face actually has a spark on it. That little bit of hatred you had, you sure aren't hiding now. Looks like you just got a new enemy.

Let's see if that translates to a fire in your belly.

I retract my weapon of choice. What a shame; it could have gone so differently, buttercup. I would gladly have volunteered myself for you any day of the week, but you showed your true colors. Therefore I'm more than happy to leave you with the little bit extra I always leave the people who need a lesson or two.

I left you your car, though. As I hop into mine, I relish the day you crawl back into yours and give chase. If I wanted your car I'd have taken it no matter how many pieces of your empty husk of a soul you offer. No, I want to see your face again. Playing hard to get is just more fun.

I turn on the radio, listening to some of the newest, latest hits. I pull out of Campus Circle, damn the lack of seatbelt, and head back to my safe house by the boardwalk, keeping my knife in hand by the steering wheel. I'm freely and shamelessly singing to Hollaback Girl while I book it in the hundreds down the empty highlands of Forest Green. You can think I'm pathetic all you want, sugar, but I know you'll be back. A woman with revenge on her mind will find her way.

I can't wait to see you again.

I take the knife, and wipe it across my forehead, letting your blood seep into my skin. They call me Jewels. Crimson has always been my choice favorite. It's an acquired taste; my momma got me into it after daddy spent a lifetime spoiling her with riches. You can see why it's my trade of choice; money can't buy everything, but blood means everything.

Honey, you're my crown jewel, and I look forward to trading with you in the future. Let's just hope you've learned how to speak to your queen.

A/N and there finishes that questionable addition to my catalog. I definitely felt that Jewels had a little something creepy behind those shades, because you can't be a sweetheart in that world without having some cracks in your visage. I just hope I haven't made all none of Jewels' fans angry at me.

I enjoy giving these thin stock characters some life. Hopefully it was worth reading.