"What makes you think they're not?," Genise answered skating towards Shannie.
"Real knives? Ha! You're afraid to butter toast. You're afraid of chipping your fingernail polish. God forbid, you might even break a fingernail."
Like everyone else, I glanced at Genise's fingernails - they were painted blood red.
"Is that right? Genise glared into Shannie's eyes.
"That's right," Shannie goaded the crowd. "You're too big a princess to play with real knives!"
Genise glanced at me before turning to the crowd. "A princess?" Genise bellowed. Genise spun on her skates and launched the knife towards me. Strands of light shimmered off the sheath as it darted towards me. I screamed. The knife imbedded itself in wall inches from my left ear. A second knife landed inches from my right ear. The crowd broke into laughter and applause; money poured into the buckets. "Give it up for Ginsu Gina." I heard Shannie cry before my world went black.
***
"I can't believe you passed out," Shannie teased.
"Fuck you!" I moaned.
"Awesome," Genise said. "We couldn't have scripted it any better. You're an improvisational genius."
"You're an asshole." I said.
The three of us sat around Genise's kitchen table counting the take. The Sister's of Fate put on three more acts. When we finished, I told them they needed to find another target. "I'm out," They didn't have to wait too long for a replacement. The next day I found their man.
"Hey Ellie," Jerome's called. Tail waging, Ellie pulled me in Jerome's direction.
"I caught the act last night." Jerome reached into his pants pocket.
"What did you think?"
"It was fly when you passed out." Jerome gave Ellie a treat.
"They're looking for someone."
"You think they'd let me?" Jerome asked. "That would be tits. I'd do it in a heart-beat." Jerome got his wish.
I didn't see Shannie much that summer, she spent it in Atlantic City. With the exception of July 4th and Labor Day I spent the summer doing the Fernwood thing. When I visited, I enjoyed their freak show. Jerome kicked ass.
Over Labor Day Jerome told me, "My mom says I can get a dog when I'm sixteen." I liked Jerome, he was a dreamer. He talked of being a rapper or an Air Force Pilot. He didn't live long enough to realize either, let alone have his own dog. Over Thanksgiving of 1994, Jerome's luck escaping death ran out, he was killed in a drive by three days prior to his sixteenth birthday. I didn't attend his memorial service. I had my own problems to deal with. It would be months before I could comprehend what happened. A brain injury is funny like that.