"Cal . . . look at her!"

"Yes, boys, look at me. Because darlings, I was MADE to be looked at. You have the remarkable pleasure of gazing upon the divine features of Sister MaryMae Himm, Deputy Mother of the Sisters of Peace and Freedom, Downtown Cleanup Task Force. God save us all from Sin and Synthetics!"

"Get out of here, Sister, and no one gets hurt," Cal grunted.

"You silly, silly man," Sister MaryMae giggled. "That's my line!"

"I mean it Sister."

"Let's see," the bearded nun lilted, hands planted firmly on his - uh, her - hips. "He called you Cal. And you called him Billy. Cal and Billy. How sweet. Weren't they characters in that old sitcom, 'Aunt Ella's Kitchen'? The one with the funny sheriff and the talking pig?"

"We need help," Billy said. "We need to get away."

Cal bristled. MaryMae took her first good look at Billy.

"Oh my God . . . Oh my God! Christ on a cupcake, what is this blood on the side of your head, child?"

"It hurts," Billy said.

MaryMae whirled on Cal. "OK, Mr. Hunky, Dangerous-Looking and Probably Psychopathic Big Blonde Boy, you got some 'splainin' to do. Carjacking? Assault? A poor helpless wisp of a child with caked up blood where his blush oughta be?

"Do you know where you are, Butch? This here is Little Calcutta, where the streets crawl with vermin and ooze with human suffering. Since you are OBVIOUSLY from out-of-town, I'll let you in on a little bit of local color. Things are so BAD here, sugar, that the CITY pulled out. They were tired of sending good cops in here to get killed. So the police force is now PRIVATIZED. You hear that? PRIVATIZED. The city pays them to keep the nasty in here so it don't leak out to bother the legitimate taxpayers. And no one cares one damn bit how they achieve that goal.

"So you get arrested here, brother, you don't go to jail. You don't get due process. The only Miranda around here is the one with a fruit basket on her head, 'cause you don't have the right to remain silent, honey. You don't even have the right to remain alive. The goons get their hands on you, you end up as dog food.

"But, you know, to be honest, a pretty boy like you might be able to do better. Decent caucasian skin, all those big muscles. I bet you'd have a good run in the back room of the station house. Handcuffed to a radiator, you'd learn about things they don't even print in hardcore torture porn magazines.

"Yes, Butch, it's all fun and games until someone gets ass-raped by the cops. So before I have to blow my disco whistle and bring the Unholy Host down upon your dishwater head, you better tell me in thirty words or less why you deserve better than permanent lockjaw and a chapped asshole."

"Look, Sister. I gotta get this kid out of here. Fast. He's in trouble."

"Is this true child?"

"Yes. They're . . . they're after me."

"Are you sure, honey? It's OK to tell MaryMae the truth. Is this big man . . . hurting you? Because if he is, I promise, I'll stick a broom handle up his ass myself, quicker than you can say 'Saint Cecelia on a Stick.' And he won't hurt you any more."

"No, Sister. No. He's helping me. Really. We're in trouble."

MaryMae sighed. "I see we've got a situation on our hands. OK, Blondie. I'm on your side. For now. Keep your hands to yourself, and don't try any more of that tacky ghetto-brawl shit. You . . ." she said, pointing to the man still sitting on the ground. "Get up."

She grabbed the car keys from Cal's hand and tossed them to the man in the blue blazer.

"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to get in your car and drive straight home. Tomorrow, you're going to go out and buy your wife some really nice jewelry. And then you are going to forget that this whole episode ever happened. No police report, no eyewitness account, no drunken cocktail party anecdote, nothing.

"Because what you don't know, Mister, is that for their own protection, the fine folks who run the establishment you visited this evening always keep a permanent record of each customer . . . enjoying the services for which he has paid. So unless you want your lovely spouse to see digital video of your cock in the mouth of a twelve-year-old Filipino boy, I suggest you take me seriously."

The man stumbled to his car door, and nervously fit the key into the lock.

"Believe me, Mister," Mary Mae continued, "I have eyes EVERYWHERE. You cannot escape me. Not a word to anyone. Ever. Or I will know. And one more thing. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

The man turned like a scared squirrel.

"Don't you EVER wear that blue blazer with those tan slacks again. It's offensive. Now say five Hail Marys, thank God for small favors, and get the fuck out of here."

The man was in his car and down the street faster than a greased dachshund at a sausage sale.

"You two, follow me. It's been MONTHS since the Sisters have been caught up in an old-fashioned high drama like this. Fugitives! What a nice change! Usually its just plain old rape and murder around here. The girls are just going to LOVE me for bringing you two home!"