ABIGAIL
The stretched limo winded it's way slowly through the thronged London streets. Hordes of merry makers pressed in close to the crawling vehicle and squashed their faces against the windows, intent on looking in through the tinted glass. They knocked on the windows and doors and jeered, attempting to provoke a reaction from the passenger within as one would do with a boring specimen in the zoo.
Inside the car Abigail had positioned herself squarely in the middle of the seat as far as possible from the windows, her eyes staring doggedly at her shoes, determined not to look at the grotesquely squished faces leering at her from all sides. She tried not to listen to what they were yelling but she couldn't help overhearing most of the cat-calls, vulgar jokes and laughing threats.
Towards the front of the limo the driver sat, staring impassively ahead while plowing on deliberately through the living mesh of people. He had not spoken a word to her since she had entered the car three hours before. He had not even so much as blinked when Abigail informed him she desperately needed the loo. He simply sat stoic in his driver's seat and performed his duty. (While Abigail wished she could perform hers.) At length he flicked on the T.V. set in the back seat and raised the volume until Abigail's requests and demands were drowned out.
"...All gathered here, eagerly awaiting the star cast of the new season of the Hunter Games," the anchor woman stood beside a huge mass of people and spoke with animated excitement. She had short cropped pink and green hair that clashed horribly with her finely waxed blue mustache. (Currently all the rage.) "Rumor has it that this years gathering are as feral and monstrous as has ever been procured. I daresay they are positively blood-thirsty, and that is something we all want to see, isn't it folks?" The crowd behind her cheered in appreciation. The news woman cupped her hand theatrically to her ear and made an exaggerated scowl . "I couldn't hear you lot that time! I say again, 'What do we want to see'?"
The crowd roared it's enthusiasm and Abigail distinctly caught a single word: 'BLOOD'.
"As you viewers at home can see, this lot is ready and rearing to go. Fun, fun, fun for the whole family. Don't forget to place bets on your favorites. Who knows? You may just clean up. To place your bets just call 555-2343 or text the contestant's name to KILLTHATMAGICIAN. Standard text messaging rates apply..."
Abigail felt herself becoming violently ill and that feeling only intensified when the driver turned the limo into a closed-off parking lot, stopped the car and said, "We're here."
He opened her door and gruffly pulled her out into the empty parking lot. Several yards away Abigail saw the mob pressing against the iron gates at the entrance and calling out in hysterics. She had the quickest impression of flashing recording cameras before a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder and led her firmly down a path. "Yer one o' the smaller ones, y'know," the Chauffeur whispered to her as he pushed her along. "Quieter too. Tryin' to remember all your evil incanterations and devil's jibe, aren'tche? I betcha are. Well, yer devil's tricks aint gonna do you no help here, you filfy creature." The sneer through which he spoke was obvious without having to look at him. His fingers began to squeeze painfully on her tiny shoulder and Abigail let out a light squeal. "Ruddy magicians. Think you're all so ruddy special. So high and mighty like you c'n treat us regular folk any which way you like. Like we're animals. Like we aint got human dignity! Yeh make me sick, the whole bunch o' you." He spat thickly and lowered his head until his liquor breath was steaming up her ear. "Know what I think, though?" he said, softer yet, "I think you're gonna be the first to die. Tha's whot I'm bettin' on. You're gonna go first. An' it's gonna be ugly."
Abigail bit her lower lip to hold back her cry and grasped her locket convulsively. She held onto it as though it were a rock in a stormy sea and she kept a firm hold on it as they marched into the white-washed sound stage.
"O...M...G! Is this all I have to work with?" The lanky stylist danced up to Abigail and gingerly clutched a lock of her dark straggly hair between two fingers, holing it at arms length. "This is dreadful! Utterly dreadful! I am an artist. I must have material with which to work. I must be able to express myself." His lanky fingers clutched at his bald head where tremendous bursting zits had been artistically grown to spell the words 'YOU SUCK' and 'ACDC'. "There is no theme here!" he whinged, "The only thing this creature says is, 'Oh, look at me! I'm a little girl! Gawd! And what are you looking at?" he spat nastily at Abigail who was positively fascinated by his fashionable acne.
"Nothing," she said, quickly averting her gaze.
"Oh, come now, Blightly," a young assistant with polka-dotted skin said. "We can always use the old standby theme."
"What? 'Sexy'?"
"Yes,"
"No! We can't do that! She's twelve, for crying out loud! They already did that last year!
"Oh, that's right. I forgot."
"Why can't I just go as I am?" Abigail asked.
"Don't be silly," the polka-dot lady giggled. "We wouldn't be cruel enough to let meet your public all boring and ugly, would we?"
"But-" Abigail stammered, her head swimming, "but I'm not boring or ugly-"
"It's talking..." Blightly muttered through clenched teeth. "How am I supposed to concentrate when it keeps talking? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE A BLOODY GENIUS WHILE EVERYBODY KEEPS JABBERING ON AND ON LIKE A BUNCH OF BLOODY-" He stopped suddenly and his eyes opened wide, staring vaguely off into the distance. "I have it," he said, quietly. "I have it. Inspiration!" He held out his hand as though to smooth out the vision he beheld before him. "I really am a genius. We'll go as 'Cute Native Cannibal Girl'."
"What?" Abigail nearly shrieked.
"Quiet!" the polka-dot girl hissed. "He's having his inspiration! You never interrupt him in middle of his inspiration!"
"I can see it all now!" Blightly went on in a wispy ethereal voice. "She will represent the wise old Shaman of the East. The Witch Doctors who conjured ancient, all natural, organic demons. We'll shave her head down the middle for the traditional inverted Mohawk. We'll pierce her nostrils and put a really big bone through it, elegantly decorated of course, and we'll file her teeth down into sharp little points and dress her in strands of shiny beads and we'll introduce her to the public while she performs an ancient war-dance and chanting, 'Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga." In his excited reverie the stylist clutched his bald head, splattering several of the zits. "It will be marvelous!" he sang. "My greatest masterpiece ev-ver! Quickly, my assistants! We must get to work!"
"I'll get the shaver,"
"I'll get the needle,"
"I'll get the file,"
"I'll get the bone,"
"NO!" Abigail yelled and flung herself atop a sterile metal table out of the reach of their surprised grasping hands. These people were all crazy, she said to herself as she slowly backed away from them. All of them, utterly mad.
They began to close in, circling her small metal table and making what they thought were soft calming noises. "Come now, sweetness," one of the assistants cooed gently, brandishing a wicked looking sharp metal object. "It won't hurt at all. My word of honor, it won't."
"You are not making me a Cannibal Girl!" Abigail said, keeping the quaver out of her voice.
"Outrageous!" Blightly bellowed. "Scandalous! Anarchist! Philistine! You cannot obstruct art! Genius must be expressed!"
"I won't let you!"
The stylist smiled, revealing pearly white round teeth and Abigail felt her hackles raise. "The thing is, sweetness," he said, his voice once again soft and ethereal, "art will always prevail and the human spirit will always rise to express itself. Not to mention you have no choice."
Two of the assistants lunged for her and grabbed her shoulders, pinning her tightly. Abigail felt their long nails sink in and she gasped. They dragged her forward towards the polka-dot lady who was sterilizing a large needle with a blowtorch. "Hold her nose steady then," she yelled.
In desperation, Abigail turned her head and sunk her teeth into one of the hands grasping her. The grip loosened accompanied by a harsh curse. Abigail quickly shrugged out of her sweater and dove between the forest of feet that surrounded her. There was total pandemonium in that small room as everyone collided and tripped over each other, Abigail managing to stay just out of reach.
She emerged from the fur ball and sprinted across the room to the exit. She laid a hand on the handle and turned.
It didn't move. She was locked in.
"That will be quite enough of that," Blightly said, dusting himself off. "You will cooperate now." He began to stride unhurriedly across the room.
Abigail, near overcome with panic, threw open a make-up cabinet that was placed against the wall. She reached inside and produced a stick of blue lipstick. Without pausing to think she immediately knelt down and began scrawling on the polished floor around her. Her hand shook but the marks took on a definite shape.
The stylist watched her curiously as she formed a rough five-pointed star surrounding herself and then he paled. "What are you doing?" he said, stepping forward urgently.
"Stop!" Abigail commanded in as authoritative a voice as she could muster. "Stop where you are or I will bring the demons down upon you." The entire room went completely still. Abigail could hardly believe they had fallen for her bluff. Her shaky little star didn't even resemble a proper pentagram. "I will not have my head shaven," she said, "I will not have my nostrils pierced and I will definitely not be impersonating any 'Native Cannibal Girl'."
Blightly sneered in disgust. "Alright. Tell me then, little miss know-it-all, little miss Oh-I'm-an-artist-all-of-a-sudden. How do you think you ought to be presented?"
Abigail was at a loss at that. She had not given the matter on ounce of thought. She had been firmly concentrating on not having her teeth filed. She looked around the room at all the gaudy, strewn objects. Bracelets and bangles, wigs, boots, gloves, capes, of all colors and sizes presented themselves. And then her eyes alighted upon a small broach. A small golden ornament shaped like a bird. A mockingjay. And she knew.
Once again, fear not. Bartimaeus himself will back... right after a word from our sponsors.
Special thank you to Nightfuries. Now go read his stuff.
