Association Safe House

       It is the future, I am white haired and old. I run some sort of suburban shelter, nestled on the border of suburbia and a high fenced light industrial area the pretty people in the shiny houses would just as soon not admit existed. Their side of the fence is all murals and wisteria, honeysuckle and bougenvilla. My side is dried ivy, blood and spray painted slogans that no one really wants to read, even the people who put them there. The govenment has completely given up on taking care of the needy, allowing us to do it ourselves. I make my way through the streets, walking with T-Rex's third successor, perhaps he is a clone, but I don't think so, his personality is so different. People address me as Santa, "That's Santa Firefly and his cat Gunpowder." I hear women telling their small children, and "If there's trouble, go to Santa, he will help you."
       I pass by a window. There are no broken windows in this part of town. We are taking care of ourselves, and it is working, and hard work. I'm wearing my work clothing, red and black trench coat with light beige cuffs. For some reason I am carrying an Old Fashioned Tattoo Needle, it isn't really a weapon, but it sends the signal that I am working and not to be disturbed except for emergencies. Even before I get to my warehouse kitchen and "rooming house" I know there is some sort of emergency. Gunpowder is edgy and races ahead of me.
       I enter the kitchen, the sprayer from the sink has been pulled out under the elevated counters and crouched over the drain, under the counter the Redhead, in Public, is taking what can only be called a 'Rape Shower.' I have to shoo the onlookers away. She isn't badly beaten up save for a nasty jagged cut on her scalp just off of the part in her hair. I notice that she is a natural red head, who had died her hair a less natural shade of red. She has startlingly blue eyes, pale and glittering like sapphires. The sort of bright eyes no one would ever expect to see in a place like this. I call for my medical bag, Gunpowder has already started to drag it to me when one of the kitchen girls picks it and him up and brings them to me. "Get us a robe, too. Thanks, Carita."
       She needs stitches, but "Don't cut my hair!" So I part hair and suture, part and suture, for nearly thirty stitches.