Claribel sits stiffly in the front passenger seat of Lexia’s car, every muscle in her body locked up and tail jammed so hard against the floor mat it curls under her own feet.

  Random fast-food wrappers, receipts, and napkins litter the floor. The cup holders have old drinks in them. The dashboard is covered in a layer of dust, and a “Pole Dancer of the Month” bobblehead bunny shakes violently with every pothole they hit. The seats tremble and rattle, and heavy metal blares from the speakers, the obnoxious guitar riffs, drums, and screams rampaging inside Claribel’s skull.

  The lyrics are an indecipherable tangle of rage and dysfunction, tangled up with the howl of Lexia’s engine every time she smashes the throttle. Lexia headbangs as she drives, ears and hair whipping with every bang. How she can drive like that is beyond Claribel’s understanding, and Lexia glances at Claribel, meeting her anxious look with an unhinged grin.

  “ARE YOU HAVING FUN YET?” yells Lexia over the screaming music.

  Claribel shakes her head. “NO!”

  “BUMMER!”

  Lexia continues driving like a maniac, and Claribel’s fingers clamp the edge of her seat so hard her hands go numb. Each time the car hits a bump, the left panel rattles and the pole dancing bobblehead jiggles violently.

  “WHAT IS THIS?” screams Claribel, wincing as the guitar solo eviscerates her brain.

  “BLOOD WARRIORS OF ARMAGEDDON! I BOUGHT THIS CD WHEN I WENT TO THEIR CONCERT LAST YEAR!” yells Lexia back. She looks ahead and jumps in her seat. “OH CRAP! BUS!”

  A terrified scream escapes Claribel’s throat as Lexia yanks on the wheel and power-drifts past a stopped bus, missing it by a few feet. The driver blares his horn, but Lexia ignores this while Claribel twists her head to look out the back window, her orange and brown scales paling. Then she looks back at Lexia, wide eyed and tail rattling.

  “YOU’RE GOING WAY TOO FAST!” says Claribel.

  “I’M TEN MILES UNDER THE SPEED LIMIT!” says Lexia.

  “LIKE HELL YOU ARE! THAT THING’S BEEN AT THIRTY MILES PER HOUR THE ENTIRE TIME!”

  “I’LL GET IT FIXED ONE DAY!”

  A yellow light appears up ahead, and Lexia guns it. Claribel throws out her hands for the dashboard, screaming. Tires screech as Lexia fishtails around a turn and clips the curb hard enough to bounce Claribel’s teeth together. The bobblehead bunny bounces and twists on its stage. turning its wide eyed and open-mouthed smile to Claribel.

  “I’m gonna die,” gasps Claribel, clutching the seatbelt like a rosary. “I’m gonna die in a stinky, smelly car, next to my crazed fan that I tried to kill a few days ago and then my ghost is going to be stuck in this stupid spot reliving this stupid moment forever and ever and it’s all because I got into the car with my crazed fan after we spent weeks trying to kill each other and this has to be a sick joke-”

  Claribel continues rambling and Lexia continues banging her head to the music. She pounds the dash with her fist and the metal morphs into a jarring ballad of soft guitars, steady drums, and soothing vocals. Claribel’s scales sweat, her heart is racing, and her wide eyes look at the radio, relief washing over her.

  “Boring,” says Lexia.

  She hits the skip button, and ear stabbing, brain blending, heavy guitar riffs, drums, and screaming return. And Lexia grins and drums on her steering wheel again while Claribel screams in a mix of agony and rage.

  “HOW ARE YOU NOT DEAF!?” yells Claribel.

  “WHAT?” says Lexia.

  “NEVER MIND!”

  Lexia turns onto an unmaintained boulevard lined with barely functioning convenience stores, old laundromats, and sad, graffiti-soaked pizza places and apartments.

  After two more turns, the car pivots around a garbage truck, the tires losing traction on an oil-slicked stretch of pavement near a liquor store. Claribel closes her eyes and prays, and the vehicle stops with a violent lurch, and the engine idles with a throaty, gurgling death-rattle. Claribel blinks. Her vision is blurry, and she looks up, seeing a familiar place.

  The Bliss Town Post Office.

  “Why are we at the post office?” asks Claribel, barely hearing herself over the ringing in her ears and the residual heavy metal music lingering like a ghost.

  Lexia turns toward Claribel, face lit up with anticipation. “Now the fun part. Close your eyes.”

  “What?” says Claribel flatly.

  “Close your eyes and keep them closed. Don’t look until I say so.”

  Claribel’s mouth opens to protest, but Lexia is already restarting her car.

  “Eyes shut! C’mon! You can do it!” says Lexia.

  Claribel sighs, shuts her eyes, and braces for hell.

  “Good. Now keep them closed,” says Lexia.

  Claribel hisses, resisting the urge to peek anyway as feels the vehicle drive forward. She feels a turn, and then the vehicle dips, making her jump in her seat. She tries opening her eyes, but Lexia’s arm is already blocking her vision.

  “Keep them closed,” orders Lexia, more firm this time.

  Claribel closes her eyes again, and feels a static tingle and sharp pokes covering her body, like getting static shocked from the atmosphere.

  “Lexia, what’s going on?” says Claribel, her tail rattling hard.

  “Relax. We’re almost there,” says Lexia.

  A few seconds later, the static and sharp pokes stop, followed by a heavy silence. Then Lexia shakes Claribel’s shoulder.

  “Alright, now you can look,” says Lexia.

  Claribel cracks open her eyes and finds that they are parked in a concrete garage. The two step out, and Lexia smells concrete dust, gun oil, and lemon-scent floor cleaner with notes of fur sweat and a faint trace of chamomile.

  Lexia’s car is parked on a big splash of oil, centered under a single blue-tinted fluorescent lamp. Homemade weapons, ammo canisters, at least six different pairs of shoes, and a row of glass jars full of pickled vegetables. Posters of pole dancers and movie icons alternate on the walls, some signed, some covered with lipstick marks.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  There is an industrial fridge labeled “PRIVATE. DON’T OPEN.” Next to that, a stash of neon-pink gym bags, all marked in messy block letters made from duct tape, spelling: LEXIA.

  Claribel blinks, and Lexia hops right in her face, grinning widely.

  “Surprise! Welcome to my abode!” says Lexia brightly.

  Claribel’s jaw hangs open, and Lexia grabs Claribel’s bags and steps into the next room. Claribel follows her, dumbstruck.

  “We are now mostly safe. The only time anyone has ever gotten in here were those people that tranquilized us in the forest, but our deal is done with them, so I won’t worry about it,” says Lexia.

  Claribel checks her heartbeat as she looks at the ugly yellow wallpaper, the low ceiling, the oddly dim lights, and the disturbing lack of windows. “I don’t… Are we underground?”

  “Sure. Why not? But I’m the only one who can get in and out of here, so since you’re crashing with me, you’re kind of my prisoner until you get back on your feet,” says Lexia.

  “That’s not funny,” says Claribel, frowning.

  “I know,” says Lexia lightly.

  Claribel scrunches her face, and Lexia walks on, swinging her hips. Every step is muffled by the gray-ish yellow carpet. The hall opens to a living room with two battered couches, a big beanbag chair, and a scratched-up coffee table. The crown jewel of the living room is a TV surrounded by towers of game consoles, a DVD player, and VCR, and stacks of DVDs and VHS tapes.

  Lexia swings the bags onto the couch, and sits down, peeling off and tossing her boots away.

  “Shoes off please. I just had the floors steam cleaned,” says Lexia.

  Claribel hesitates but obeys. She looks around the room and ends up setting her shoes by the hallway entrance. Then she sits down next to Lexia, stiff and awkward while Lexia slouches, with her feet on the coffee table. Claribel looks at them, noticing how one is brown and one is white, both with black claws, and now that she sees them, she is realizing just how big bunny feet are.

  Lexia wiggles her toes, grinning at Claribel. “You a feet gal?”

  Claribel looks away, arms folded and eyes forced to look at the ugly wallpaper. “No.”

  Lexia snickers. “Sure.” She stretches her arms and slides her feet off the coffee table. “C’mon. I gotta give you a tour.”

  Lexia launches upright, claps her hands, and barrels down the hall, forcing Claribel to scurry after her on socked feet.

  “This is the kitchen!” says Lexia.

  She gestures with both arms to the room of current importance. The kitchen is jammed with a battered white fridge crusted in magnets and faded stickers, a sink ringed with buildup, a stove with burn marks on every dial, a thin film of grease over everything, and a cracked plastic cover protecting the microwave. There is a pyramid of instant ramen cups on the counter and a collection of sauce packets filling a small wicker basket. On the other side of the fridge: two empty, upside-down five-gallon water jugs and a wall calendar featuring pole dancers in tasteless patriotic costumes.

  “August” is Lexia herself, posing in a tattered stars and stripes gown that clings to her curves. Glow sticks make a torch, casting a collection red, white, and blue glows that accentuates her mischievous grin and the playful sparkle in her eyes. The stars and stripes are exaggerated, with vibrant colors splashed across her outfit, while her hair, wild and untamed, cascades down her shoulders. She strikes a confident pose, one hand raised high with the glow stick torch, while the other rests on her hip, emphasizing her strong, athletic frame. The backdrop features a chaotic fireworks.

  Claribel looks around, nose wrinkling at lemon cleaner, sweat, and some underlying scent of battery acid and chili peppers. Lexia grins at her, elbow jabbing her ribs.

  “What you're smelling is my famous chili,” says Lexia, pointing at a crockpot shoved near the back of the largest counter.

  Claribel’s rattling tail flicks behind her. “Lovely.”

  Lexia grabs the handle of the fridge. “There’s snacks in the fridge, too.”

  She yanks open the fridge. The inside is a graveyard of plastic tubs, Tupperware warped by microwaves, unlabeled sauce jars, and strips of jerky.

  Lexia slams the fridge shut, grinning wider. “Help yourself to anything but the jerky. That’s mine entirely.”

  Claribel’s brow arches but she keeps her mouth shut, following as Lexia gestures her onward towards the dining room.

  The walls have the same ugly, yellow wallpaper. It’s hard to look directly at them; Claribel’s brain keeps insisting the wallpaper is moving. The table is old, and its edges are scarred and the top full of gouges. Three chairs (none matching) huddle around it. At the center is a napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, and a stack of losing lottery tickets.

  Overseeing the table is a cat clock, the plastic feline’s eyes and tail twitching with every click.

  Lexia leans over the table, arms stretching out as she hugs the edges. “This is where the magic happens! Dinner, breakfast, emotional confrontations, all that junk.”

  Claribel’s face scrunches, her eyes back on the wallpaper. “Did you decorate this place yourself?”

  Lexia shakes her head. “Nope. It was like that when I got here. I don’t feel like changing it, though. It has a nice character.”

  Claribel glances at the cat clock. Its gaze follows her. The tick-tock is loud, unsteady, relentless. She shudders and steps away, slinking to the next doorway. Lexia hops after her.

  “Oh, you want to see the bathroom, now?” says Lexia.

  She passes Claribel and opens a foggy gray door, and she steps aside so Claribel can peek in, which leads to an immediate grimace from the snake.

  The tile floor is yellow, and the sink is basin-shaped but ringed with build-up and old toothpaste. Mounted above the toilet is a rack overflowing with toilet paper rolls, none of which match in pattern or thickness. The industrial-grade plunger beside the toilet is oddly, and suspiciously, clean. The bathtub and shower are covered by a pink curtain with yellow stars, there are two rows of heart tiles in the shower, and there is a wide variety of grooming and body care products lined up in baskets screwed to the wall.

  “I got some spare towels you can use. Pink towels are off limits. Those are mine,” says Lexia. Then she gives Claribel a nudge away from the bathroom. “Onward to my room!”

  Lexia leads Claribel down the hallway, and they stop a battered, pink door. Lexia flings this door wide, and marches in, arms spread wide.

  “Tada!” says Lexia.

  Claribel staggers in, and mouths, ‘What the frick…?’

  The walls are bubblegum pink, every inch plastered with posters: pole dancers, wrestlers, music bands, movies, TV shows, and there is even a framed print of Claribel's Ms. Fritz Bee mouse character holding a flaming pickaxe to fend off a horde of spiders. Small Christmas lights snake along the walls, adding red and green and white to the yellow tint from the ceiling fan lamp above.

  Lexia’s bed is massive and round, covered in a mass of pillows shaped like rockets, hearts, and stars, and there are a couple of body pillows, and an eggplant shaped pillow. The bookshelf has various books and trophies, and the bedside table is crowded with pill bottles, bandage rolls, and waterproof lube, and on the floor, pressed against the table, is a locked box labeled “After Dark Fun.” But the centerpiece of the room is a gleaming chrome pole bolted from floor to ceiling, smack in the center of the pink shag rug.

  Claribel’s wide eyes drift around Lexia’s room, her mind blank, and Lexia steps inside, whirls, and immediately grabs the pole, spinning in a single fluid motion and landing in a perfect squat, looking at Claribel with a proud smirk.

  “Welcome to my sanctuary,” says Lexia. “This is where all the important stuff happens. Mental health, physical therapy, destressing, you name it.”

  Claribel stares at the pole for a few seconds, then at the eggplant pillow, then at Lexia, then at the mystery box again.

  “Does the pole have to be in the middle of the room?” asks Claribel.

  “If it wasn’t, I’d be hitting the wall. You want to try it?” says Lexia.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Lexia shrugs, still smirking. “By the way, I saw you looking at my box. I knew you were a freak deep down.”

  Claribel’s face sours. “I want to see the room I’ll be using.”

  Lexia grins and sashays into the next room, beckoning Claribel with two fingers. “No problemo. Follow me, Clairy.”

  Claribel rolls her eyes and follows Lexia to a blue door with white, hand painted letters, spelling “Dixie’s Space.”

  Lexia opens the door and stands aside. Claribel enters, her muscles wound tight, cautious with every step.

  The room is smaller but has higher ceilings, which gives it a weird cave-like feeling. The walls are blank, but one corner of the room is dominated by a multi-tiered “popsicle stick monument” of a fake downtown.

  The bed is a twin, protected by a plaid comforter and two basic pillows. There is a dresser, but the drawers are open, showing them to be empty.

  “For as long as you’re here, this will be your room,” says Lexia, her voice now mellow. “There’s plugs around here and a jack for the ethernet cable. I’ll help you get your stuff set up. But that basically concludes the tour.”

  Claribel nods and follows Lexia out of the room.

  “How do you think Mortimer and Jayson are doing?” asks Claribel.

  Lexia shrugs. “Eh. I’m sure they’re fine. What could possibly go wrong in looking for a hat?”