THERE ARE A thousand and one places to begin my story, but I feel as though I owe it to you to kick this off from one of the more fucked up notes, so things can only get better from there. My name is Angel Adams, and it’s my job to kill you all.

Okay, that sounds a bit harsh. I don’t really kill people. No, they all seem to manage that part just fine on their own. I merely guide Death’s marked pigeons into that great big birdcage in the sky, if you believe in that sort of thing. It’s beyond my clearance level to know what happens next. I just take the paychecks and walk them down the aisle. But as you might imagine, things tend to feel a bit like a shotgun wedding.

Let me paint you a nice little picture, for a minute. I am seventeen years old, five-foot-three, and one hundred and five pounds. So if my butter-blonde hair wasn’t enough incentive for society not to take me seriously enough already, I have the body of a claymated Christmas elf. So, when I tell someone to walk with me into the shadows of the valley of Death, you can imagine the response.

So, why me? Well, that’s a question I can answer with an opportune flashback.

Remember the fucked up part I was talking about?

Around a year ago—to this day actually, holy shit—I went shopping. I know what you’re thinking: Of fucking course you went shopping. You’re a teenage girl. Blah blah blah shoes.

Ahem, fuck off.

Yes, I was shopping. Let’s get it out of the way. I needed a dress to wear to my dad’s court hearing. Now, just so you don’t leave here thinking my dad is a cat burglar or an arsonist or some shit, I’ll elaborate. My dad is suing Diet Coke. Not Coca-Cola. Diet fucking Coke. He found what he claims to be a chicken beak at the bottom of a can he polished off three months ago on his lunch break. As a devout vegan-slash-pacifist-slash-environmental-enthusiast, he’s suing Diet Coke for mental anguish and ten thousand dollars’ worth of medical bills he owes for a series of “checkups” and “hospital visits” following the incident. I’ve agreed to testify as a witness—because, you know, he’s my goddamn dad.

On second thought…he’s an arsonist.

So anyway, I was looking for a dress. Something elegant that said “supportive”. Like something you’d wear to a debate at City Hall if your dad was running for Mayor, which is essentially what I expected the tone of the hearing to emulate. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t look everywhere. Resale shops, bargain marts, those weird strip-center outlets with the naked mannequin amputees paving the receiving line down the center of the store and waving at you with whichever hand survived the apparent hatchet attack as you ponder your life’s existential meaning. But I digress.

Finally, at the Dress Barn across from Penny’s, I found her. Black, elbow-cut sleeves and a collarbone neckline, with a nice lace pattern crossing from shoulder to shoulder. Elegant and supportive. I reached for the price tag, ready to drop two months’ babysitting money on Black Beauty, when reality slapped me like a disgruntled eight year old unhappy with the notion of ending the Uncle Grandpa marathon and going the hell to sleep.

One hundred and fifty dollars? Well…fuck.