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[hr][i][b]Nova City, Across the Street from Nova City Bank[/b][/i]

Georgia sat cross-legged on the table, slowly sipping on her drink after having devoured the chocolatine in only a few massive bites. As Aster came to stand beside her, Georgia looked at the woman out of the corner of her eye. When the veiled woman spoke, Georgia looked forwards again at the crowd with a tired, indifferent expression. She slowly set the drink down by her side. She sat motionless and breathless for the first portion of Aster’s commentary, until the word [i]‘Righteous’[/i] came from the woman’s mouth. Georgia’s expression slowly crumpled into a disgusted scowl, her nose wrinkling as one side of her mouth curled upwards towards it through the frown. She exhaled slowly, dramatically, and forcefully, the sound of the long exhalation ringing through her sinuses as every bit of breath sighed out from her nose.

Georgia began to nod slowly as Aster finished her thought, and then turned to look at her. Her expression shifted again, settling into a stern, disappointed, irritated look. As her nods sped up and became smaller and her red-eyes settled on the other woman’s veil, Georgia finally took another breath. She stopped nodding, and clicked her tongue. 

[color=#c4807a]“Righteous…”[/color] she drawled, [color=#c4807a]“‘at’s a funny word, ain’t it? Real funny word.”[/color]

She clicked her tongue again and offered a brief concessionary smile.

[color=#c4807a]“Real popular too. Lotta people talk about righteousness. What it means to be righteous. Who gets to be righteous. Why they’re so damned righteous and everyone else is so damned less righteous. Sound familiar? Every pastor does the same song and dance. Every rabbi. Every imam. Hell, there are plenty of people who call ‘emselves all sorts of things, who claim religion or science or mystical knowledge, and’ll sell you that word from the ankles up and from the neck down the very second you start lookin’. That word—[i]Righteous[/i]. It’s a word from the Old Testament—straight out of the Torah. All the way back in the Beginning, there was man, woman, apple, then righteous—right there with Sin, capital S. Noah, Abraham, Jacob, Moses, David, Solomon, Cyrus the Great—Jews and gentiles all the way through to the Christian book and then the Muslim one. Rulers—rulers of Empires, like Cyrus. Kings, like David. They get to be righteous, even in spite of the cuckholdry and the murders and the rivers of blood and sin. If they get to be righteous, why, sure as hell might as well call Reagan, Clinton, Churchill, Tojo, King James, and everyone else who once gave a couple coins to charity [i]righteous[/i]. Never mind the rapes and the bombings and the lies and the starving children and the bleeding adults and every other wrong under the sun that they might have seen fit to look into.

But y’all ain’t like that. I understand the idea. Y’all are [i]actually[/i] righteous. More righteous than all the others. After all, you said it yourself. Y’all are just like super-powered Robin Hoods, giving the big guy what fo’ and showing that some folks c’n punch back damn hard. Takin’ blood money outta bloody hands, sendin’ a message, all ‘at [i]bull[/i]crap. ‘Cause whether y’know it or not, tha’s what it is. Some’in’ nice to tell y’allselves to help get a good night’s sleep. Righteous is a word—gets its power from what y’all decide it means. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. You think the rich are sufferin’ from this? They’re makin’ a shitload off the news coverage. Scared people tune in ‘n’ send all the views and the ad revenue ‘n’ all ‘at crap, all ‘at ghost money ‘at they can then go an’ make into real, cold hard cash. An’ the bankers ‘emselves? Sweetie, the Feds insure the banks. So the banks get all their money back—all the principle, that lil’ chunk of their worths that they’re required by law to have on hand, ‘n’ all they gotta deal with is the inconvenience of fixin’ their damn wall. 

And the kicker? The real kicker? Guess who’s givin’ the Feds all their money. [i]Us[/i]. The general us, that is, not the specific us. I worked my whole life for a tax evadin’ nonprofit called a church, now I’m a criminal. But us as in normal folks? Normal folks are where the Feds get the money to give that insurance payout. All y’all’re really doin’ is costin’ the taxpayer money for the purpose of supposedly inflictin’ righteous wrath upon the rich, who will, thanks to their—or, it’ll piss you off to know, really [i]our[/i] as I’m includin’ myself in this group—[i]our[/i] inconvenient habit of coverin’ our asses with so much chicanery that you’ll sooner hit yourself in the face than do more’n a lick of trouble for ‘em, [i]will[/i] at worst find themselves ever so [i]minorly[/i] inconvenienced, if that.

They’re bathin’ in the glory of righteousness because they turned on the damn faucet, honey. With all the bastards of hist’ry gettin’ to be righteous, y’all can be as righteous as y’all damn please, nevermind whatever what you’re really doin’ [i]really[/i] means. Take a bath, take a [i]swim[/i], long as you can justify it to y’self. So if you’re sendin’ a message with this, have at it. But don’t tell me the rich’re sufferin’ when they ain’t, ‘cause they sure as hell won’t from this.”[/color]

Georgia pulled her pocket knife from her bag and began to fiddle with it, pulling it open as she continued.

[color=#c4807a]“I don’t wanna do messages. I’ve preached a lifetime already, and I don’t know how to stop, but that don’ mean I like it.”[/color]

She slashed her left right finger and pinkie, and began to draw a small circle, perhaps a bit bigger around than her hand, on the table, without pausing.

[color=#c4807a]“Fuckin’—rrgh—don’t try ‘n’ sell me on this crock a’ shit. I ain’t a hero. Never gonna be one again. And I don’t plan on convincin’ myself that I still am, could be, or should be, no. You ain’t talkin’ to Hostess. You wanna tell yourself this, be my guest.”[/color]

She took the napkin she’d eaten the chocolatine from and incinerated it in the circle, cauterizing her wounds in the process. The circle became a rift.

[color=#c4807a]“But don’t you tell [i]me[/i] if you think a job’s a mitzvah or ‘at the guy has it comin’.”[/color]

She pulled out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes, snapped her finger to close the rift, and then pulled one out. She hopped off the table and turned to face Aster head-on.

[color=#c4807a]“I’ll join the ass-whoopin’ party. Tell Solaris my price is he gives me his spare bedroom while we’re workin’ together, or you do—whatever—an’ he gets me a [i]nice[/i]—nicest this city’s got—steak dinner, ‘n’ [i]you[/i]?”[/color] Georgia gestured at Aster with the cigarette, [color=#c4807a]“You knock it off with the righteous talk as far as my shit goes. That’s not my business.”[/color]

Georgia popped the cigarette in her mouth, lighting it with her fingers as she did. She took a quick draw, and then added, [color=#c4807a]“Oh, and I want, fuckin’, whatever you pay the goons.”[/color]

Georgia waved her hand dismissively at her last requirement, as if it was an afterthought. She took another drag on the cigarette, and held it, as if how she blew it depended on what Aster had to say next. 

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