Fatima   God exists. Instead we are a group of teenage girls, drunk at one of those awful carnivals in a field, out between the airport and the mall. It’s raining, and this has become a festival of mud, which is just fine with us. A man with hundreds of tattoos has taken a fancy to Heidi and is slipping her extra darts to lob at the balloons. There are sirens every time she misses, and she wins nothing. Why is there straw in the mud, why is it plastered now to the wet sleeves of our leather jackets? Something cruises into the air with its light bulbs zapping and when we turn around, the man has disappeared with Heidi. Am I wrong or…