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Morgana isn't born in the south because those cheekbones can't come from anywhere but New England. Morgana doesn't come from the East because she shed her irony somewhere in the Carolinas, and now does things just for the pleasure of it. Morgana doesn't come from anywhere you could pinpoint, but she is drawn, inexorably, to all of the places you've heard of far too much. (And never for the right reasons.)
Here's how it goes: somewhere in Ohio she picks up a microphone and croons into it until everyone is staring. Then, she takes it with her and makes everybody stare.
But also: somewhere in east Texas she picks up a gun and blows the smoke from the nuzzle, far from prying eyes. Then, she takes it with her. It doesn't matter what everyone else does.
It's a wild ride in buses with strangers, and it's awfully endearing the way they cast their eyes away, like scared deer. Morgana has no more hatred in her than anyone else, no anger or reasons, but Morgana has a gun and her sense of pleasure strays slightly towards revenge, the same way the I-70 curves just outside of Aurora. (Where she kills a man, yes, yes.)
She has a little black book where she keeps count of the places she's visited, her lipstick stock and every new pair of silk stockings. There is no black book for the ammunition and the tally, but she remembers.
Her career is built on: sharply manicured nails, the ability to hit a high F-sharp no problem right after a low C, and four marriage proposals. They all end up in blood and a quote from the tragic widow in the local newspaper, her pout a dark stain in the black-and-white photograph.
Later, when they ask her if she made it in Vegas, she says, oh, yes, darling, and that's where I met Frank Sinatra! Our voices together sounded like you wouldn't believe. But what she doesn't say is: there's a trail of shining lights that spread out of Las Vegas for miles, motels and bars and brothels. She drives until the trail dies away into the desert and then kills the man in her trunk.
She doesn't shy away from the word murder, because she doesn't shy away from anything.
And her murders are like her music, right down to the beat of the tambourine: there's always a pause between the first shot and the next two. Dum, duh-dum. She doesn't want any unpleasant surprises.
In Little Rock she deals with some old, old business. A man in a bar slips a hand under her skirt even after she says no, a man in a bar whispers yes, you whore even after she says let me go, and then a man in a bar doesn't say anything else even after she takes the knife out of his stomach.
I said Little Rock, but what I meant was: Little Rock, Columbia, Denver, Salt Lake, DC, every city in her little black book.
It all comes down to this: Morgana doesn't believe in debt. And she is owed.