‘57 Rocket 88

By Jessica Lake

It was fate that brought me to my mask. I saw her baby face, and it was love at first sight. Ever since, we’ve been inseparable. Most can’t remember the face underneath, which is okay by me.

Odd that a man should wear a beauty’s mask? They say the mask chooses the wearer. And she chose me.

Here is something singularly odd: overnight, I went from “Hey, Asshole!” to “Hello, Babe.”7You can’t just ignore stuff like that. So, I started to take better care of myself. Lost a few pounds. Grew out my hair.

The Raven mask had chosen Kirt. He was the leader of the Clan, as deadly as a honey badger. He was shy at first, but after a while, we were talking for hours—though he did all of the talking. I didn’t mind; I’d learned to like listening.

Our first kiss came out of nowhere.

It was a drive-by hit on the Red Clan. Kirt drove; I rode shotgun. Our ‘57 Oldsmobile screeched to a stop right in front of their digs. The greasy bastards were circled round the open hood of a jaunty Chrysler C-300 ‘55.

A pistol in each fist, I leaned out the passenger window. Each gun barked a burst of bullets. I saw three of the hoods crumple to the ground.

Kirt floored it before they could get a shot off. We were doing sixty when Kirt took a hard right. It had to be fate. I slid across the slick bench seat. Bam! My body pressed up hard against Kirt.

He pressed his plastic lips against mine, and we kissed. I stayed there, wanting the moment to last. Funny how a drive-by can get two men hot.

Love is like that.