I'm here to tell you that hell isn't made up of brimstone and sulfur. The devil's dominion is water and wind. Lashing rain, wreaking floodwaters, bloated bodies made buoyant by their own trapped gases. Rising, invisible creatures waiting to fill you with poison or twist off an arm in a death roll. And savages. Folks who used to be waitresses or shoe salesman, waiting to blow your head off for the change in your pocket or the food in your backpack. New Orleans' underbelly had been exposed by the storm of the century and I doubted that the newer veneer, destined to follow when the rebuilding started, would ever fully cover it up again. As we floated silently through this Venice from Hades, we expected death to find us at any moment.

I upgraded the raft when I spotted an abandoned motorboat. It was small but fit the three of us, although if it had been up to me, I'd have made extra legroom by feeding the whore to the alligators. It started like a champ and it carried 2 filled gas cans. I decided to head for St. Martinville, further inland and higher up. When we ran out of waterways, I stole a car from a garage and we strapped the boat into a trailer. It was damn slow going. Houses were strewn around like Lincoln logs slapped down by a petulant 2-year-old and live electric wires sparked everywhere you turned. When we got to the Vermillion River, I decided to set out in the boat again and aimed for Bayou Teche and St Martinville. We arrived after dark. New Orleans and Roy-Boy were a twenty-four-hour, distant memory.

The town was littered with trash but fairly dry. A few homes had lights from generators but no one was out walking the streets. Shocked and bruised, they remained denned in the mildewing darkness of their four walls, unable to bear the sight of nature, even for a lungful of fresh air. We glided into the small harbor at the foot of The Evangeline Oak. I leaped thigh high into the Bayou and slowly waited to shore, towing the boat behind me. After I clambered onto dry land, I turned around and saw Lila pointing a gun at her mother.

"You fucking bitch. You sold me to that bastard in a New York minute."

"Baby...?"

"Shut up. If we hadn't run into good ol' Mason here, that fat pig woulda raped me and you woulda let it happen."

"Sweetie Pie?"

"I ain't your fucking Sweetie Pie. And you ain't ever dangling my cherry in front of another nasty perv you wanna scam."

The gunshot was more muted than I thought it would be. A hole appeared in the hooker's forehead and she fell backwards into the murky waters then Lila turned the thing on me.

I was pissed. "Why the hell didn't you do that New Orleans? I had to haul her ass all the way here for nothing?"

"That would have been out of character, wouldn't it Mason? Little old me leaving my Ma to rat out my big, bad hero?"

"I found it touching."

"Good, ain't I? When I'm through here I'm heading for LA. I got looks, talent and a mean streak to match any of those sharks out there. Throw that shit in your pockets over here."

I did as she said.

"Now turn around and start heading for that first house down there, the one all lit up. Don't turn around and I won't have to kill you."

I followed her orders and began to walk towards the lights. I felt the bullet hit my back before I heard it leave the chamber.

"You ugly son-of-a-bitch. You didn't really think I'd fuck you either, did you?"

I heard the motor start as darkness came crashing down.

                                                                ******

They believed my story of how the wife and I had traveled from Grand Isle, taking in the young hitchhiker along the way. How he had turned on us, robbed us blind, and left us for dead. They planted the hooker with the fake name I had given her and are nursing me back to health. The morons from FEMA have footed the bill and I have a nice little pocket full of emergency relocation dough saved up. I'm making plans for my future.

These are good people, the folks here in St. Martinville. I spend most of my recovery under The Evangeline Oak, on one of those quaint little benches used by the old men of the town; the dapper old gentlemen that wear vests and berets to the park and carry silver headed canes and speak with French-Canadian dialects. The sun has returned, and it soaks deep into my battered hands like warm lanolin. There is a serenity here that I was always looking for, my whole life. But it's not for me. Never has been, really.

I sit here listening to the gentle lapping of the Bayou Teche and I keep bringing Lila's pretty face to mind. I never want to forget it. I want it branded on my brain so that when I leave here and head for LA, I'll know just who I'm looking for. When we meet up again she's gonna wish she had it as good as Ol' Roy-Boy. I'll spend some quality time with her. I'll take what she stole from me back in trade, and when she's worn down and begging for me to end it, I'll just start right on in, all over again. I think I'll bring back some fun memories and hum Dream Baby while I'm doing her.

A lot of people were destroyed in August of 2005, but I was one of the few that was blessed with something to live for. Like I told ol' Roy-Boy, I've managed to learn a few lessons along the way. Now I'm taking a page out of Katrina's book. This time I'm through pulling punches.