He tiptoes down the alley's darkened stairs and knocks delicately on the door. A small window slides open. Steely green eyes glare at him through unwashed lenses.

"You the new act?"

Yes, he whispers, and the window slams shut. Creaking with rust and boozy age the door opens to reveal a stocky fellow with Vulcan eyebrows and a shock of white hair styled carefully into the remnants of a pompadour. His suit reeks of sweat, of stale cologne and desperation.

--gray suit and smelly skin... what sort of place is this I'm in? I do not quite want to begin, but a good show I must give.--

"What did you say?"

Oh, nothing, nothing. Thank you.

He steps into the gloom and smoke, walks past the good-time girls in their tight dresses and the bad boys in their stringy suits. On the stage a young woman is writhing in an overstuffed armchair, tearing pieces out of her shirt while crying about her father. She doesn't skip a wail when the door slams shut and shakes another year's layer of dust onto the raptly-bored audience.

--candles here and liquor there, child crying in her chair, something falling in my hair, but a good show I must give.--

"Who the hell are you talking to, sugar?"

She's young, this strange creature who has placed herself at his side. Young and listless. If it weren't for her breathing she'd be just another doll on the shelf. Red lips, blue eyes, talons of a dragon on her tiny hands. A good strong breeze would knock her right off her stilettos and out of her dress. He's nervous now, can't look at her for fear of being lost in her affected femininity. She knows he's nervous. She smiles a wolfish smile.