Sparkling Silver

The Snake in the Window

New Orleans is a fine place, with gumbo, swamps, and, most of all, black magic.

Unless you're homeless. Being homeless is less sucky when you're a very skilled thief.

Oh, where are my manners? My name is Stupid Ass. At least, that's what all the restaurant owners call me when they find me sneaking around back. I don't know my real name, but I go by Grabber. Also, Klepto, Sticky Fingers, and Pocketer. That's what all my friends call me.

My parents were killed by gang members, but not before hiding me neatly under the porch steps, where I was found by a band of lady thieves. They raised me until I was nine. And then they got arrested. Now, I walk the streets, pick pocketing strangers, stealing from restaurants, and breaking into Soup Kitchens. Yep. My life is that sad.

Well, was. All before I saw the ring.
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I was cruising down the street, stealing from a particularly rich lady, when I see a tiny sparkle from a window. I walk into the store to examine it. A snake ring. A shiny, silver, snake ring. It wrapped around your finger and looked really cool. I pulled down my green, purple, and yellow tie dye hoodie to reveal my shaggy blonde hair the color of sand. It's about 1,002 degrees--Fahrenheit--outside, but I can't take off my hoodie and jeans, because I could get in trouble for public nudity. "Livin' on the streets don't get ya much clothin'," my best buddy Clem likes to say. I only have the hoodie and tattered blue jeans, no underwear, boxers, socks, tighty-wighties, or even flip flops. At this point, I wouldn't care if I had a thong! Do you know how uncomfortable it is to wear blue jeans all day, every day for five years, without anything between your pants and your penis? What about wearing the same pair for that long of time? The streets keep you thin, that's true, but not getting out of the same clothes for years? That sucks. I mean, sometimes, at midnight, I go and bathe in a fountain or something, but it's still not really getting clean, because there are still people walking around, and I don't want random strangers to be looking at my junk. Anyway, back to the point.

"How much that ring cost?" I ask the only person working at the store.

"If it fits you perfectly," the shopkeeper says, "you can keep it for free. If it doesn't fit, it isn't yours, understand?"
I nod and try it on. It forms to my finger exactly, and as I tell the guy at the store, I feel a sharp pain on my right ring finger.

"AH! Son of a bitch! It bit me!" I scream, I try to tear it off, but it's stuck to my finger. It's clear eyes start to glow, and then turn blood red.

"Aren't you a little young to be using that kind of language?" the manager says. "My name is Charlie, but you can call me anything you want, like Charles or Chuck."

"I'm twelve, and can I call you DICK!" I scream at him.

"Why would you call me that?" Chuck asks.

"Because you told me to try on this damn ring, and probably knew it would hurt like shit!" I yell. I glance at the door, and notice the sign on the inside says "OPEN", which would mean the outside would say "CLOSED", which is kinda creepy 'cause neither Charlie, nor I have moved since I walked in, and we're the only two in this small store, but I could've sworn it said open on the outside a minute ago.

"I didn't tell you to put it on," he says calmly, "you put it on of your own free will."

The pain had subsided, but I still needed to calm down, so I shut my eyes, and breathe deeply, and when I open them, I'm in an empty store, with nothing except shelves built into the walls, and a small slip of paper in the center of the floor. I pick it up, and it says: "Meet here at 12:00 A.M. midnight."

Well, I guess I have nothing better to do. I'll go.