I didn't even give them a chance to say anything. I booked the few yards between me and my nearest target, a short and wiry guy, my age, with a baseball bat. I threw a wide sideways swing at his head, and my hockey stick collided with a satisfying crack! A heavy bruise formed instantly, along with some thick, red blood. The guy crumpled like he was an accordion. I wasted no time turning to his friend, swiping down at him. This one, a heavier built man with a bald spot and a long handlebar mustache, threw his arms up to cover his head, and as my stick collided harmlessly with the fleshy parts of his forearms, I kicked out a sneakered shoe, right between his legs. He made a sound that just wasn't natural for someone his size, and his arms left their post above his head to cover his sensitive bits. I whacked down again, and his eyes crossed. He was out before he hit the ground.

I spun around, and started down the alley towards the other two. They looked to each other, then at me, then to each other again, and bolted in the opposite direction. One of them was in high heels, and the other had small legs, so it wasn't difficult to catch up. I sprang forward, tackling the tall woman in heels to the ground. She screamed, and as I drew back my fist to start slugging her, I froze.

She wasn't armed. Not even a bat, or mace. She had her arms up over her face, and she was stammering out pleas for mercy. The smaller person who had been with her was a teen, and while he held baseball bat in one hand, he had a baseball glove on the other. He was gawking at me, eyes wide. My face heated up. I looked at the woman, the kid, and then back at the two collapsed in the alley.

There wasn't a stitch of purple on any of them.

The older man with the mustache was dressed in a polo and shorts, the guy my age was in a matching uniform to the kid that was staring a hole through the back of my head. I began to stand, to get off of the woman, when a sharp blow struck me in the back of the head. The sound of metal on bone echoed into the alley, and as I fell face first to the concrete I knew that the teen had clubbed me with his bat. I saw, through blurry eyes, the woman scramble to her feet and grab the teen by the arm, running over to the other two. They dragged the older man to his feet, and he rubbed his head. The other guy didn't budge. The teen pulled out a cell phone and I cursed to myself groggily. He was calling the cops. I started up, trying to get my legs under me. I managed to get on all fours and crawl my way over to the wall of my apartment building. I used the piping running down the side of it to drag myself to a hunched over standing position.

There was a high pitched shout, and I watched the woman point at me, tugging the teen and the man by their arms. They all shot glances at the guy bleeding in the alley, but they were too scared of me to stay. They took off. It wasn't more than five minutes later that the squad cars pulled up, and a trio of officers pinned me to the hood of one. They read me my rights, and threw me, handcuffed and ashamed, into the back. It all happened too quickly for my dizzy head to really pick out any details, but as I looked out the window of the car, I could have sworn I saw Angel watching from our window.

I spent a few days in the nearest cell they could drop me in. My stubble got long, my hair filthy and plated by sweat. I was to be put on trial within the week. Most of the time I just slept, or stared at the cieling. I was furious with myself. How could I be so stupid? What was wrong with me? The entire day of the "attack" as guards and attorneys had begun referring to it as, was a blur. I had slept through it, or was too groggy about it to have paid any attention. One day, I started thinking: maybe Angel was right. I had been out every night for a month. I had hardly gotten any normal sleep, I'd gotten punched and tazed and beaten up more times than I could count. And for what? All I had to show for it was a rescued cat, a few retrieved purses, and a bad track record with the police. Thrown in two baggy eyes for the price of one, and a whole set of matching ugly bruises, and you had the Casey Jones Bad Idea Super Package.

Ironically, the day my roommate decided to visit was the day my trial was in session, me not in attendence.

I was laying on my back, eyes glazed over and pointed more or less at the cieling, when I heard the loud buzzer of somebody entering the cell block. I was the only resident; the rest of the human cages were empty. I guess I was the biggest idiot of the week. I turned my head towards the cell door without interest, assuming that it was just another officer checking to make sure I wasn't Shawshanking my way out, or a lawyer come to ask if I was sure I wasn't crazy. At this point, if they asked me that, I wasn't sure what I would say. However, neither cop nor D.A. entered my field of view. Instead, a head of bright blue hair atop a five foot nothing body stalked in front of my cell. My heart dropped into my stomach. Oh, she was going to kill me.

After what felt like fourty five minutes of swearing, banging on the bars, and calling me a sociopath, Angel managed to take a few deep breaths. I remained silent. I didn't even leave my bed. I just looked at her. Some of my confusion and fear must have been in my eyes because when she met them she bit her lip, a few tears forming. When she spoke again, she was much softer.

"Listen, Jones," she said, quietly. She gestured for me to come closer. I stood up, wincing at the dull aches that covered my body, and leaned on the bars in front of her. She instantly plugged her nose. "Yikes, alright, back it up. Not that close." I rolled my eyes, and we shared a much needed half second of laughter before she continued.

"I have a question. A really important question, like we're talking potentially life and death," she said, her eyes suddenly locked onto the shoelaces of her dirty Converse All Stars. I creased my eyebrows, and reached through the bars to tilt her chin so she had to look at me. She pulled back and looked away.

"Angel, what's going on? Are you ok?" I asked. She was starting to worry me. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, scratching her head.

"I am fine, Casey. I am going to be fine. You, on the other hand," she blew air from her mouth, exhaling every last bit oxygen in her lungs in the process, and ran her hands through her hair several times. That's what she does when she's nervous. That made my stomach join my heart in my feet. "Casey. Casey, did you… Did you take any of my pain meds?"

"Oh, for the luvva-" I started.

"Oh, you did, ok, ooohh boy," she ran her hands through her bangs several times, pacing back and forth in front of the bars.

"What? Angel, cheese and rice, what is it? Are they drugs? Like not medicational ones?" I asked. She took several hyperventilating breaths.

"Yeah, um, so," she stopped in front of me, holding my hands through the cell bars. "You are either going to experience the worst Irritable Bowels Syndrome of all time, or uh," She awkwardly slid a thumb across her neck, stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth, and let her head fall limp before laughing nervously. I stared at her in shock for a minute, and then we both started pacing holes in the floor.

"What?! You had poison in your TYLENOL BOTTLE?" I shouted.

"Not poison, it's, well," her hair was becoming a birds nest, "it's sort of a warm up. It's the first drink when you go to a bar"

"What kind of whiskey shot kills you?!"

"It's not for sure yet, Case. When did you take it? Tuesday? Monday?"

"Saturday."

She stopped, looked at me, and her pupils practically didn't exist. All color drained from her caramel skin. She dropped to a squat, visciously assaulting her hair with her hands. She stared at the ground for a minute, ignoring my attempts to talk at her. After that, she stood, hands calmly at her sides, and let out a long breath.

"Casey, listen very carefully. When you get home, look in the medicine cabinet, behind the tampons,"

"Wha-?!"

"Oh, man up Jones it's just a freakin' tampon!" she shouted. I shut my mouth so fast my teeth knocked together. "Look behind the box, there should be a pill bottle labeled "stool softener". Don't make that face. How many painkillers did you take?" I held up two fingers. "Take two of them. And Casey you need to go straight. Home. Ok? You cannot stop if you want to live."

"Angel, what the hell is in the second pill?" I called to her. She was halfway down the hall towards the exit. "And how am I supposed to get out of here? My trial is happening right now!"

"Straight home, Casey. I mean it! Don't wait around." Was all I heard in response, and then she was out of my vision, and the door closed.

I don't know how long it was. Minutes, hours. But some amount of time later, the doors to my cell opened, and a guard was helping me out. Apparently, I had gotten off on a temporary insanity charge. The drugs I had taken from Angel were, according to her and the jury, substantial enough of a judgement clouder that while on them I was not held accountable for my actions. She had convinced them that the mask and hockey stick were high school varsity memorobilia. Despite the growing pain in my head and stomach, I couldn't help but smile ruefully. That girl. I didn't deserve her.

I was assigned a supervisor, Mrs. Something or another. At the time I met her my head was swimming in my own sweat, and it was ringing like a doorbell. She drove me home, talking about something I couldn't understand, since most mermen don't speak english. Only fish talk. I waved her off when we arrived at my apartment and I staggered up the stairs, swung the door open and nearly collapsed onto the couch before remembering Angel's instructions. Behind the tampons, as she had said, was a small orange pill bottle labeled "stool softener." I poured two large, purple pills from it into my hand and swallowed them in one go, so much saliva had built up in my mouth I didn't even need any water. After that, I swayed woozily into the bedroom, and my legs gave out, dropping me onto my bed and into pleasant dreams.