[sub][sub][i][h3] [b]Jezebel Wintergerald[/b][/h3][/i][/sub][/sub][hr]

When Jezebel was younger, she’d bought clothes from charity shops, and come up with fancy stories behind all the odd little features they’d accumulated before reaching her. What could the ‘M’ carved into her new bracelet mean? She wasn’t sure, but she did know that it made it that much more obvious that it wasn’t hers. Hopefully she wouldn’t run into a Melinda.M.Morgan out hunting for her missing jewelry
. 
It shouldn’t be too much of a problem; folks tended to keep to themselves in Justice. Look at someone the wrong way and you might end up shot, or at the very least with your teeth smashed in.

Jezzie caught a cab from the Diamond, and set off to the Block Party. The cabbie was a dark-skinned man who stank of cheap fags, and made no attempt to start a conversation, which suited Jezebel just fine. She paid him without tipping, because she wasn’t a fucking chump, and set off in the direction of barbeque smoke. The young woman grabbed a bottle of Captain Morgan from a corner store on her way over, and had a thoroughly engrossing conversation with a pimple-faced cashier, which went something like;

“Going anywhere nice?” 

“I’m here to buy booze, not make friends. Scan the bloody bottle, so I can fuck off and get on with my day.”

Jezabel rocked up at the green not much later, said booze clutched loosely in one sweaty hand. The southern heat was an acquired taste, in the same way that the bubonic plague was a slight annoyance. 

“Fuck this bloody yank weather...” She grumbled beneath her breath.