GENA SHOWALTER

FIRSTLIFE 35
She just got here. How does she know what I’m called?
“Everyone calls me Nutter because of the size of my lady
balls. That, and I tend to smear my opponents across the
floor like peanut butter.”
She thinks for a moment, frowns. “If your lady balls are
so big, why don’t they call you Hairy Cherries? Or Furry
Meatballs?” She taps her chin. “Well, duh. Because neither
name describes your explosive temper. Oh! I know. I’ll call
you Sperm Bank! It covers the balls and the explosions.”
I snort-laugh. She’s brave, so gold star for that. In a place
like this, lack of fear is rare and precious. Of course, if she
threatens me in the slightest way, I won’t hesitate to end her.
Survival first, nothing else second.
“If anyone calls me Sperm Bank, my temper is going to
explode all over you,” I say. “Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to call
you Hatchet. The tool used to cut your hair, I’m guessing.”
She fluffs the ragged ends of her style. “I used a kitchen
knife, thank you very much. I’m confident the trim properly
highlights my beauty.”
Have to admire her positivity.
My internal clock suddenly goes off, the conversation forgotten.
“Breakfast!”
She sighs. “Mealtime. Yay.”
“Our cell will open in three…two…one.”
The double doors slide apart.
“We have thirty seconds to exit the room,” I explain. “If
the door closes while we’re still inside, we’ll miss the meal.”
The food sucks, nothing but slop, but that slop has enough
vitamins to keep us somewhat healthy. And really, anything
is better than starving.
“So we’re like dogs in a crate, taken out only at scheduled