Love and the Show

The curtains part to reveal a slim woman dressed in an obsidian Georgette lace skirt embroidered with the blue and green plumage. Her black Helene leather high heel boots are perched firmly on the terracotta-tiled stage. Curly red hair flows down to the small of her back and to her sides, draping most of her visible body in a fiery blanket. In her left hand she holds a microphone bedazzled with white and green gems. She widens her carmine lips to a menacing, half-moon grin as she looks into the captivated faces of the audience and slowly raises the microphone.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Her voice flows through the speakers like a melodic lullaby, filling the room with an enchanting steam. She turns her palm to the audience to inspect her cuticle line and then stands from a wobbly black stool. “I’m sure most of you know me, but for the newcomers, I’m Lena, and I’ll be your performer tonight,” she says, to which a few cat calls and grunts emerge from the mouths of each of the few dozen men glaring at her like a cheetah would a wounded gazelle.

“Show us your tits!” One shouts.

“Bend over for us, baby!” Another exclaims.

Lena waves a finger at the obnoxious drunkards. “We’re going to do things a little different, boys! How about each of you, according to the seat you’re in, stand in a single-file line down the center here.” As she rotates to motion for the scene’s lights and music, she adds, “Oh, and that better not be bickering I hear. There’s no problem with finishing last in here.”

She only has her back turned for a few seconds, before she realizes the guys are doing exactly as they were told, without argument – except for a couple fat asses quietly trying to decide who gets to stand at the very back. Then suddenly, a small voice enters her head from an ear piece. “On your signal, babe.”

The enchantress steps deeper into the stage and pushes a gray button on a small remote hidden beside her breasts. Immediately, streams of pink gas and glitter flow into the theater from a set of pipes above the set, and the curtains are pulled together. The Sweet Escape by No Doubt blares through the speakers deafeningly. Rolling waves of bubblegum gas brush up and collide with the thick red curtain barrier separating Lena from the incapacitated audience, until she and a man each emerge donning gas masks.

The stage is now stocked with assorted weapons: knives of all sizes, a hoe, pitchfork, sledgehammer, and several axes line the back wall. Lena, still dressed in her black skirt, carries a Gyuto blade in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. She shrieks and cackles through her mask and falls to the ground in uncontrollable laughter as her counterpart wielding a sledgehammer begins to hack and slash at the gassed audience.

Lena then leaps forward and pounces on a downed, half-conscious man – it was the one who stood in the front of the line. He winked at her only moments earlier, causing her to remember countless nights she spent tied and used on his pubic hair covered bed. “Tell me you love me again, honey,” she whispers in his ear, which is nearly inaudible from the screams of terror and agony from the other drunk men. She nibbles his earlobe before facing him again. “Come on, baby. That’s no way to be!” She then squeals and repeatedly drives both knives into the man’s chest – as one knife exited another entered to the beat of the song. “Are you having fun, huh?” She screams. “Are you?” She shrieks once more and for a split second her lips turn to a frown as she realizes the man is dead.

The woman jumps up and latches onto the back of the man bashing a skull to a slimy mush. She then tears off the gas mask to kiss the man’s neck, which eventually leads the man to do the same. The two performers stand together savagely kissing and caressing until they are both drenched in the blood of several men and dizzy from the gas.

“I love you so fuckin’ much, Lena.”

Lena giggles and topples the guy to the floor, landing in a greasy mix of sweat, blood, and flesh. She slides his index finger in her mouth, tinging her tongue dark crimson. “I want you, right now.”

“But didn’t you want to take back the dress? They’ve got a strict return policy,” he mumbles jestingly.

With her face now level with his, she whispers into his ear, her hot breath making him tremble. “Fuck the dress. We just need to finish before the cops come.”

“Oh, so you did call them?”

“What’s the fun of making art if we’re the only ones who get to enjoy it?”

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