The Punchline to the Joke Is Asking

People rushed around me on all sides, pushing past, dodging around me, walking through me. One pickpocket went disappointed by my empty pockets, and almost lost a tooth for his troubles when I kicked him into a wall.
It was a rough, busy city, just like home. I could fit in here, were it not for my hoodie. Damn the desert heat, all the bodies crushing in on me.
I couldn’t stay in Nevada, I needed to go north. Maybe Montana, North Dakota. Somewhere that got nice and cold.
Just no more deserts.
How long do I give them before I find a ride? Two weeks? Two hours? Should I just go and let my life happen without them in it?
I threaded through the crowd, practically invisible between the harlequins and prostitutes, the pimps and druggees. It really was like home.
When I found a huge, dark building, it was like a blessing. I broke inside, picking the lock with my hoodie’s zipper, and finding a small, dark room to curl up in.

-X-

“What are you doing here?” Barked a harsh voice, a bright light cutting through the darkness.
I hissed slightly, raising a hand to shield my eyes as I squinted up at the figure silhouetted by the bare overhead bulb.
“Sleeping.” I snarled, standing up, my guitar case shifting as it settled comfortably on my back, the strap twisted slightly over my shoulder. I’d ignore that for a moment, until I was out of here.
“Well get out. There’s a concert here tonight.” The man barked, coming into focus as my eyes adjusted to the light. It took longer than it used to because I hadn’t been eating. My senses were failing. Who knows, maybe my whole body was.
“Fine.” I spat, then skirted around the man, who turned out to be wizened and old, wearing a janitor’s uniform. He glared at me until I was backing down the hall, towards the exit. When the case brushed the door, I whipped around, shoving through it and taking off again.

I swung into a casino, checking the date quick before security glared at me and I cleared out. I’d been asleep for two days- maybe I should start eating again before I die. Then again, everybody’s gotta go, right?

I wandered aimlessly, not sure if I was going deeper into the Strip or away from it until I wound up in a park. I’d made it clear through the Strip, apparently.
So I sat underneath the ‘Drive Safely’ sign outside of Vegas, playing my guitar as I waited for a ride.
Sure enough, a car slowed to a stop and the engine cut, a pair of boots crunching through the gritty, gravelly sand to stand next to me.
“You’re good with that guitar, kid, I’ll give ya that.” A gruff voice admitted. “But I’m gonna have to take ya in- hitchhiking’s not allowed.”

I was loaded into the back of an undercover cop car and carted off to a small jail, just outside the city limits, where the sheriff locked me up in some cell that looked like it belonged in Bonanza! or something. He let me keep my guitar though, and I strummed away, playing out all the best rock ‘n roll songs I knew as the officer put his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his chair, hat over his face as he dozed, his deputy out on patrol.
“Stan, wake up.” A few hours later the deputy returned, hauling someone along with him.
“What’d he do, Bill?” Asked the sheriff, sitting up alertly. He might be grey and wrinkled from the sun, but he was a force to be reckoned with.
“Just caused some trouble at the hotel. Pulled a rockstar thing and threw something out a window.”
“It’s not like I hit anybody!” Protested an unfamiliar voice, andStan the sheriff sighed.
“Just put him away with the kid, Bill.”
Bill obliged, leading the handcuffed, heavily tattooed man over to my cell and opening the door. “Play nice, and no picking on the kid.”
I glanced up at the stocky man, in all his black leather and pierced glory, then looked back at my guitar. If I was strong enough after starving for so long, I could take him, easy. He looked tough enough, but I doubted he’d had a brawl outside a bar, with a sober opponent who didn’t show mercy.
“What’re you in for, jailbait?” He asked, dropping onto the bunk across from mine as soon as he was unhandcuffed, without so much as a glare at the retreating deputy.
“Nothing as badass as littering.” I snickered.
“FYI, it was TV I threw out the window.” He seemed offended.
“’FYI’? What are you, a 16 year old girl?”
“What’s that make you?” He shot back, though he wasn’t too annoyed. He had thicker skin than I’d thought.
“A 17 year old girl.”
“Who got tossed in the slammer for…?” He left it open ended, but I just smirked, shaking my head.
“She’s a runaway, tried hitchhiking on the interstate. She won’t tell us where her family is.” Bill offered up from his paperwork, next to the dozing Stan.
“I told you, I’m on my own.” I glared at him.
“And I told you to prove it.” Bill sighed, as if he was used to pointless arguments. Well, let’s shake up his life a little bit.
“My dad’s a Nazi in Oklahoma, and he and my stepmom threw me out when I was 10. I hitchhiked to New York, and lived there ‘til I was 16. Then I got taken away by a bunch of guys with big plans for me, until my real mom took me back to live with my her and my brothers in Indiana. One of my brothers died, and I started getting abused, so I left again and wound up here.” I stood up, letting my guitar sit on the bunk as I shed my hoodie. “Here’s your proof.”
I glared defiantly at the cops, both of whom were staring at me, at the patchwork of scar tissue my arms were, quilted together by scars that may very well have been the stitches holding me together. They could see just how horrifically thin I was after going so long without food, and the way I stood, unafraid before them, spoke volumes of how I knew how to fight and I would if I had to.
Stan let out a low whistle after a beat of silence. “It’s been a long time since I seen someone so tough.”
“Ever been shot?” The man in the cell asked, his eyes tracing my scars in awe.
“A couple times.” I admitted.
“Last week?” Stan inquired shrewdly, and I grinned crookedly at him.
“Most recently, yeah.” I nodded.
“So you shot back in self defense?”
“Only time I ever do.” I nodded honestly.
“Alright, that case’s closed.” Stan mumbled, shifting through a drawer of manila folders.
“And I thought we were badass.” My cellmate mumbled to himself.
“Trashing your hotel room doesn’t make you badass, it makes you a dumbass.” Bill snorted as the man scowled at him.
“So jailbait, got a name?” he turned his attention to me as I dropped back onto my bunk, picking up my hoodie and considering it before tossing it aside.
“Yeah, do you?” I asked, coking an eyebrow.
He grinned at that, laughing under his breath. “I like you, jailbait.”
“Good to know.” I nodded, picking out a couple chords on my guitar before settling into ‘Open Arms’ by Journey.
“I go by M. Shadows, but my friends call me Matt.”
I looked up at him, considering that. I’d heard that name before, but I wasn’t placing it. My fingers kept moving over the strings, plucking out a song I recognized after a moment.
“Sounds like you figured it out.” Matt grinned at me as I realized I was playing ‘Dear God’ by Avenged Sevenfold.
I nodded a bit. “It’s a good song.” I looked down at my hands, comfortable in the silence. “I’m Cyn.”
“Are you stealing Brian’s name?” Matt teased, and it only took an instant for me to realize that Brian’s stage name was Synyster Gates; or Syn.
“Mine’s got a ‘c’.” I shook my head.
The two of us wound up singing classic rock songs, fooling around with my guitar, our voices occasionally joined by the sheriff and deputy.

When the front door banged open, we all turned towards it, staring at the man standing there, silhouetted by the headlights of his car.
Stand and Bill sat up straight at the desk, acting serious, and Matt and I watched him, my gaze wary, Matt’s simply curious.
The man stepped inside, shaking his head in amusement when he spotted us in the slammer. “You idiot. I told you not to litter.”
Matt growled as I snickered. “Shut up, jailbait.” He shot at me.
“Are we busting him out?” Asked another man, following the first inside. His messy, reddish brown hair marked him as Synyster Gates, even though his face was still indistinct because of the backlighting. “Jimmy’s even getting on Christ’s nerves.”
“Good question.” Matt cut in, then grinned at the police. “Can I leave?”
“If they post your bail, you can go.” Stan waved off his question unconcernedly, focusing on his paperwork again.
“Yes!” matt shouted, jumping up as Syn went to the desk and Bill and the first man approached the cell door.
I just leaned back into the corner of the cement walls, tuning my guitar to perfectioninstead of just close to it.
“Aren’t you gonna ask when you’re breaking out? Even though you could probably do it any time you wanted.” Bill rolled his eyes, and Matt paused in the cell door to look back at me.
“I’m here ‘til you kick me out. I’ve got a fucking roof right now, and I hate the desert, the sun, the heat, and everything else about this state.” I shrugged, then grinned crookedly up at him. “So no, I don’t want to know when I’m hitting the road again.”
“They put you in the kiddie cell?” Snickered Syn, and Matt glared at him.
“Jailbait’s badass, man. Look at her!” Matt protested, and Syn did as he was told, his eyes roving from my face down, taking in the scars. Because of my guitar, he couldn’t see just how skinny I was, but he still got the point.
“Who’d she kill?” Syn asked.
“I was hitchhiking.” I sniffed indignantly, and Syn burst out laughing.
“She shot the dude who shot her!” Matt said excitedly to Syn, as well as Stan and the other man who’d come over to the cell. I realized for the first time that he was Zacky Vengeance.
Zacky and Syn were giving me those shocked, disbelieving looks I was long used to, so I just rolled my eyes and started playing ‘Famous Last Words’ by My Chemical Romance.
“Jailbait’s badass.” Zacky agreed.
Matt gave him a look, and Zacky started shaking his head.
“Please? …But she’s badass.” Matt whined as Zacky continued to shake his head.
“Need a ride home?” Syn asked kindly, and I snorted.
“Need a home, first.” I scoffed.
“Please?” Matt kept hounding Zacky, who sighed.
“I feel like we’re adopting a puppy. This is why you’re not allowed in pet stores, Matt.”
“Please?”
“Ugh. Go get Christ and Jimmy, make sure they can handle it.” Zacky relented, and I cocked my head, watching him through wary, slightly narrowed eyes.
“Got a name, jailbait?” He asked me, and I wondered how many times I’d have to give the same answer tonight.
“Cyn.”
“But-!” Syn automatically protested.
“With a ‘c’. It’s slang for Cyan, back home.” I rolled my eyes. I’d never liked that name, no matter how unique it was.
“I thought you didn’t have a home.” Zacky narrowed his own eyes at me, as if he were looking for a reason not to trust me.
“After spending seven years on the streets of New York, it’s close enough.” I shrugged.

“Jimmy, Christ, meet Jailbait.” Matt said happily as he returned with the two men in tow, using the term like my name.At least he wasn’t calling me ‘kid’.
“’Sup?” I nodded at them, barely glancing up from my guitar.
“That’s it?” Christ asked skeptically. “I dunno if we can do that. We don’t know how to take care of a kid!”
I glanced up, giving him a look like, ‘WTF?’.
“I don’t need anybody ‘taking care’ of me.” I tossed my head defiantly, unconsciously shaking my hair off the scar over my eye. “I’m perfectly self-sufficient.”
“I like her!” Jimmy declared, and I stared at him in openmouthed, disbelieving confusion.
“You’re mental, the lot of you.” I nodded, completely convinced.
“Keeper.” Christ sang smugly.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demanded.
“Language.” Stand reminded me, and I had to choke back a snarky ‘bite me’, scowling.
“Matt thinks we should take you with us, at least as far as you want to go.” Zacky explained. Him, I liked; he was honest, he didn’t want anything to mess up his plans, and, best of all, he didn’t trust me.
I cocked an eyebrow at the men. “And why would you do that?”
“Any number of reasons; we’re nice, we rock, we’re awesome…” Jimmy ticked the reasons off on his fingers, until I cut in.
“I get it.” He didn’t seem like he was going to stop anytime soon.
Matt just turned top me, grinning. “So are you coming?”