He’s a pig,” whispers May, her frail body wavering in the firelight. “An ugly pink pig. And I think the pig needs to be butchered.

And the wolf said, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and find your money, you shit-faced fucker…

The image of May shoving the gun down her lace panty butt crack and drawing it like an old west cowboy is too much. Who are we? Who the fuck are we? Supergirls for real, that’s who.

The truth,” Mrs. Hodgkins says, standing back up and turning to her cold marble pupils, “is imagination without boundaries is like a gun, it can be dangerous and kill.” She turns slightly and points to the back of her head to demonstrate. Her brains spill over the left crevice of her skull, clinging like hardened jelly. “Or imagination can save lives.

Demons? No problem. Just find your local stalker psycho and ask the whistling dear head hanging above his fireplace how many licks on a toostie pop does it take to make a demon go away.

And then, standing there in my Godzilla t-shirt, her blonde hair combed to the side, she says, “Supergirls stand together.” I had to say the rest, “Supergirls stay together.

The old folks say there is only black and white. That may do for their tidy lives, but it doesn’t apply to all of us. We, Supergirls for real and the wretched creature at my feet, live in the gray and the mist. We may never see the stars, but we believe in the dream of them.

We were going to save the world, because no one ever saved us.

Love is always worth the risks, even when, especially when, it scares you.

Hell is behind a black door.