Scarlett's Story

Nobody knows where I came from, exactly. I was only a few months old when I was found in the smoldering remains of a burned-out house just outside of Atlanta, happily playing with a box of matches in my charred bassinet. They never located any next of kin. The state stuck me in an orphanage, and I was adopted by a couple of Bible-thumping, Pentecostal holy rollers. Before I could even walk, Pop decided I had demons in me, and it was his job to exorcise them. He would beat me with the Good Book every night while Ma recited Scripture. As I got older, the beatings got harder, but I never flinched. He said it was my demons that gave me the strength to stand the pain, he could see the hellfire in my eyes. I was stone-cold on the outside, raging fury inside. And he knew it.

I was always getting into trouble: setting fires, shoplifting from the five-and-dime, conning my classmates out of their lunch money. I never got caught (I was too clever for that), but Pop suspected what I was doing. He was biding his time. Late one night, I woke up to find myself being pulled from my bed and dragged across the room. I heard Pop snarl, “This time we’ll cleanse you or kill you trying!” He threw me down the stairs, then pulled me into the living room. A whole bunch of the fanatics from their church were standing there, and the entire room was lit by candles. They were singing “Amazing Grace.” The men held me down while Pop gave me the beating of a lifetime. He paused for a moment, and I saw him grab his hunting knife from the table. I felt myself lurch upwards with more force that I'd ever felt – then suddenly, flames exploded all around me.

I ran out of the house as the fire roared behind me, and I hauled ass down to the highway as fast as I could. It must have been my lucky night, because the first truck I flagged down pulled over for me. The man driving was covered with tattoos from top to tail; he grinned as opened the passenger door. “Need a lift?” he asked. I jumped in the cab and yelled, “Floor it!” The tires squealed as we sped away.

The tattooed man was named Spider, and he was on his way to meet up with the Santini Brothers carnival. His ostensible trade was doing a torture show, but his real passion was confidence games. He offered to let me come along, if I was willing to earn my keep; that was the beginning of my auspicious carnival career. I started out working in concessions, but after a mishap where I accidentally set the funnel cake stand on fire, I took over in the burlesque show. That went well until one night when I did an inadvertent flaming fan dance; I’m not sure what happened, but all of a sudden, my fans were burning, and the local vice squad chased us out of town on the grounds that I was an obscene spectacle. From that point, I kept my clothes on, and started working the sideshow as the Pain-Proof Girl. It was fun for awhile, but there’s only so much gratification a girl can get from sticking herself with skewers and taking five electrocutions a night. Spider suggested that I learn some new tricks for variety, and took me under his wing. He made me the greatest grifter this side of the Mississippi. I could do it all: shell games, phony palm readings, rigged bets. It was second nature. I even swiped a half-dozen ferrets from a pet store – they’re natural thieves, you know – and taught them how to steal stuff from the rubes’ pockets and purses when I was giving scam psychic readings.

One night Spider’s truck broke down, and we had to camp out for a night in West Texas while the carnival caravan went ahead without us. Around midnight, I woke up to a weird sound, sort of a metallic growl. I got out of the truck and walked across the dusty plains, following the sound. Eventually I came upon a barn, with the growling emanating from within. There was a buxom cowgirl standing inside, smeared with blood, surrounded by mutilated cattle carcasses. She held a buzzing chainsaw in one hand. “Howdy, Scarlett!” she said. “My name’s Katnip. I’ve been waitin’ fer you. We’ve all been waitin’ fer you.” She seemed familiar, like I might have met her long ago. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You’re gonna help me,” she replied. “See, I’ve been awful busy here on th’ ranch. Killin’ critters and resurrectin’ folks takes up a lotta time. I’m gonna be stayin’ here fer awhile to work on th’ army of the dead, so the girls need someone to travel with ‘em an’ help ‘em out.”

“Why me? And who are ‘the girls’?” I inquired. She laughed. “The big fella had his eye on you since you was a baby. He knew you’d mosey along this-a way tonight, so he wanted me to prop...uh...proper-sition you. He tole me to tell you that he’ll make it worth yer while. You kin meet ‘im out thattaway.” She gestured towards the barnyard, and fired up her chainsaw again, tearing into the dead steer with a vengeance. A fresh coating of blood splattered all over her.

I walked out into the barnyard. “Okay, ‘big fella’ ... hit me!” I called. Suddenly, there was a crash of lightning, and a lithe, dapper man appeared. “Greetings, Miss Scarlett. I’m Mr. Magwitch. I haven’t seen you since you were just a few days old. Think of me as ... a distant benefactor. I gave you gifts, you see. I’ve been watching to see that you used them wisely.” I stared him down. “I’ve had to take everything I’ve ever gotten. I’ve never been given any gifts in my entire life,” I sneered. “On the contrary,” he replied. “Didn’t you ever wonder why you don’t feel pain? Weren’t you ever curious about those fires that started so mysteriously? My dear, I gave you those gifts, so all I ask now is a small repayment. Give me your soul – it’s not as if you’re using it – and I’ll amplify your abilities a hundredfold. You can travel the globe with my elite squad of hell bound henchwomen, and join them in conquering the world. They need you, my dear, and you need them. They will help you refine and control the talents that I have given you.”

Now, I know a bargain when I hear one. I loved my life with the carnival, but I was always ready to trade up. “Let’s make a deal,” I told him. He held his palm up, showing that it was empty, and then covered my hand with his. I felt a burning sensation, and with a flourish, he whipped his hand around to show that he held the three of clubs between his fingers, smoke curling around it. He snapped his fingers, and it disappeared. “Thank you, my dear. Now . . . go forth.”

A wall of fire surged up between us, and a shiny hot rod appeared as the flames died down. Mr. Magwitch was gone. I took one look at the blasphemous beauties in that car and I knew that I was home at last. “Scarlett Fury, you’re one of us,” said the tiny blonde riding shotgun, her eyes glittering in the darkness. Without a second’s hesitation, I jumped into that hot rod and we roared off into the Texas night.