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Rhage:

She’s afraid you’ve left me behind and she’s not going to get to see me.

Wrath:

Don’t make me stab another wall.

Rhage:

(grins again) At least her contractors are still around, and she could get it fixed easy enough. (Bites down on Tootsie Pop.)

Butch:

Wait, I know the answer. She’s afraid you’re going to tell her V’s got a brother she’s going to have to write about.

V:

Whatever, cop. I’m an only.

Butch:

Lucky her, considering you almost killed her—

Z:

I know why.

All heads, including mine, turn to Zsadist. As usual, when he’s in a meeting, he’s sitting perfectly still, but his yellow stare is shrewd as an animal’s, tracking the people around him. Under the lights that are mounted along the ceiling, his scar is standing out with special depth.

Wrath:

(to Z) So why does she jump?

Z:

Because when you’re around she’s not quite sure where reality is. (glances at me) Isn’t that right.

J.R.:

Yes.

At this moment, I recall that Z’s had the same problem a number of times—and it must have shown in my eyes, because he looks away quickly.

Wrath:

(nodding with a kind of huh-that-makes-sense) Okay, cool.

Butch:

I got a question. (grows serious . . . then channels that ass from Inside the Actors Studio) If you were a tree, what kind would you be?

Rhage:

(amid laughter from the Brothers) I know, a crab apple. She bears fruit, but she’s cranky.

V:

Nah, she’d be a telephone pole, not a tree. Trees have too much body.

Butch:

(glaring at his roommate) Chill, V.

V:

What? It’s true.

J.R.:

I like the crab apple.

Rhage:

(nodding at me with approval) I knew you’d agree with me over these steakheads.

Phury:

How about a Dutch elm? They’re long and willowy.

V:

And a dead species. At least I only insulted her figure. You gave her a disease that’s going to mottle her leaves.

J.R.:

Thank you, Phury, that’s lovely.

Wrath:

I vote for oak.

V:

Please, that’s a total arboreal projection. You’re an oak and you assume everyone else is.

Wrath:

Untrue. The rest of you asses are saplings.

Rhage:

Personally, I’m a shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag bark hickory. For obvious reasons.

Butch:

(laughs in Hollywood’s direction, then turns to me) I think she’s a Christmas tree. ’Cuz she’s into the bling. (pounds my knuckles)

Wrath:

Z? You got a tree?

Z:

Poplar.

Rhage:

Oh, I like those. Their leaves make a cool clapping sound when the wind goes through them.

Butch:

Nice. I remember those from when I was a kid.

Phury:

Those are friendly trees. Not snotty. I like that.

Wrath:

Poplar is up for a vote. All in agreement say aye. (The Brothers all “aye.”) Any dissent? (silence) Motion is carried. (looks at me) You are a poplar.

I’d like to point out that this is precisely how things go with the Brothers. They decide. I follow. And incidentally, the common, lowly poplar is probably one of my favorite trees of all time.

Wrath:

Next question. Favorite color?

Rhage:

(raises hand) I know! Rhaging red.

Butch:

Rhaging . . . (Busts out laughing.) You are such an assaholic, you know that? A real assaholic.

Rhage:

(nodding gravely) Thank you. I try to excel at everything I do.

V:

We need to get him into Asses Anonymous.

Rhage:

I’m not so sure about that . . . that Knitters Anonymous program didn’t do jack shit for you.

V:

That’s because I don’t knit!

Rhage:

(reaches over and grabs Butch’s shoulder) God, denial is sad, isn’t it.

V:

Listen—

Wrath:

Black’s my favorite color.

Phury:

I’m not sure black’s a color, my lord. Technically it’s the sum of all colors, so—

Wrath:

Black’s a color. End of.

Butch:

Phury, that ass-burning sensation you feel is because you just got booted with a royal decree.

Phury:

(wincing) I believe you are right.

V:

I like blue.

Rhage:

Of course you do. It’s the color of my eyes.

V:

Or a good facial bruise.

Butch:

I’m all about gold.