Chapter 1 – Proactive Problem-Solving / A Flamboyance of Flamingos

The wad of cash in Stevie's right front pocket had her walking funny, too casual to be casual and slightly off-balance. She couldn't decide whether it would be more suspicious or less to shove her hands in both pockets, so said hands kept freezing halfway to doing so, giving her an odd gorilla-like gait that probably looked even odder on a skinny eight-year-old. Although she'd never been to this area of town before, she made sure to keep her head up and her shoulders back and to pretend like she knew exactly where she was going. She did know, just not exactly—more like she'd pieced together overheard snippets and would hopefully end up in the right place. And she had only a short window left to find her destination so that she could do what she needed to do and then be back to the park and to her anxious, barely cooperative little sister before their mama showed to pick them up.

There, Stevie finally determined, spotting the weather-beaten double-wide with exactly seven pink flamingos on the lawn, all arranged in a circle like they were having a séance or possibly getting ready to ritually sacrifice the next critter or person to pass through said circle. With a bounce in her step as her strawberry blond hair fluttered around her chin, the girl skipped up the two little steps and knocked sharply on the narrow door, which was the color of dehydrated urine.

Within just a few moments, a shirtless man answered, squinting down at her in churlish confusion through smudged wire-frame glasses. His combover was too greasy to flutter, but the slight breeze somehow managed to catch his sour body odor and waft it into Stevie's poor freckled nose. "Whacha want?" the man demanded, scratching his pale, hollow, tattooed belly and peering up and down the lane of trailers for some sign of an accompanying parent or maybe an ambush.

Offering her most brilliant smile, Stevie barely remembered to keep her voice down as she replied, "Hello. I'd like some drugs, please."

The man stared at her, his expression disbelieving and his dark eyes shifty. "Fuck off, kid," he finally declared.

Pouting, Stevie promised, "I have money. How much for enough drugs to send an asshole to prison for at least ten years? Preferably twenty to life?"

There was another lingering pause, during which the man continued to alternate between staring at her and glancing up and down the street, probably for signs that he was about to be punked or busted. "Ya tryna frame somebody?" he hesitantly murmured. "Weird question if ya ain't."

"Yep," confirmed Stevie, popping the P. "Do you wanna know why? I don't mind telling you. It's not like I'm gonna be able to brag about it to anyone else."

There was a ghost of a smile on the man's gaunt face, a hint of decaying teeth between his cracked lips. "Sure," he drawled.

"The bloated brute who dares to call himself my father beat my mama so hard she lost her baby," Stevie explained, voice calm with years of helpless rage that had coalesced into her long-overdue plan of action. "And the bastard barely waited until she was out of the hospital to hit her again. It's been like that for as long as I can remember, and I'm done sitting back and letting it happen."

The nod of understanding and sympathy from the strange man felt entirely genuine, but he advised, "Shit, girl. Ya ain't gotta plant nothin on him. Just tell yer teacher he's been touchin yer cooch."

Stevie sighed, "Yeah, I know, but that story gets me molested by medical professionals and stuck with years of therapy. Plus, it'd break what's left of my mama's heart. She'd blame herself." The girl had a lot of unresolved anger toward her mother and the woman's doormat behavior and refusal to leave the abusive pig she'd married, but Stevie still loved her, far too much to put that kind of tragedy on her already overburdened shoulders.

(And deep down, the girl was terrified that her mama's doormat behavior and refusal to leave the abusive pig she'd married wouldn't be affected at all, that Mama would pull some "stand by your man" bullshit and let Stevie and her sister go to foster care rather than grow a spine, thus proving that the woman loved the abusive pig she'd married more than her daughters.)

The tattooed man nodded again and then scanned the lane again. Finally, he gestured the girl inside.

Her grin was devious enough to warrant membership in the flamingos' ritual sacrifice circle.

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Did you like this very random beginning? Any theories about where the hell I'm going with this? Feel free to let me know :)