Nothing muffles the tune of abuse that comes from her room. She consumes doubles of booze and struggles to move as she cakes on her makeup to cover the bruise. From her head stuck in the noose to the blood in her shoes, she's a bucket of blues, with contused knuckles, confused, she doesn't refuse taboos like she's got something to prove. Leaves up the creek with out paddle or fuckin' canoe, she's only doing this cos she's got nothing to lose. She hunches askew, spine dented with tire tread, substance abuse side-stepping this life's stress. Black-Hawk down for the count on the couch but that Landlord pounds on that damn door louder the further behind rent. From the very first second their eyes met she recognised that what she was looking at was as crooked as a dog's hind leg. Nullify debt or face eviction, frustrated vixen with her sanity hanging by a knife's edge. ...And she's out and down the fire escape to a cab that's adjacent, on to the nightly grind and the cash that awaits her. Mainly made in the booth, not earned on the stage, so she plays all the games, cos Honey's got to get paid up. Strangers pay to enslave her, insults no longer water off this duck's tail, she's washed up, on the rocks and off rails. On sight of the doors she craves to break into flame, like a Molotov cocktail. Raw razor racking up rails of attitude calibration on a mirror staring back in hatred. in truth she's chasing a dragon named validation gauged by the gallon of Cabaret Club patron salivation. Ain't no escaping. See, the addiction with stripping is if the shift didn't bring in the scratch she's back and upsizing the trick bag. Another night another five dollar tip dance. Grind on these white collar piss-ants. The more she fights, the more she's pulled in by this quicksand. She heads backstage to make the change from naked hatred to just naked. Shame, guilt and nameless patrons stay the same as her rage - only ebbs, never fades away. Day to day battles waged on paper, little risk-taking miss takes a break, mistaken, her tips taken, she's a straight-razor as she makes her way through the maze of strangers. Off the wall she's scraped. Angel wings are clipped. She wants to crawl away, evade and give the slip for that nicotine flavoured escapism fix, but it's short lived as Mr Big storms in and flips his lid. He grips her wrist and hisses "listen trick, your shit's been hit and miss, inconsistent, there's a pink slip in the mix." As his fingertips slither her skin he licks his lips and whispers "finish your shift Cinderella then we'll see whether we can make this slipper fit." Now, it's just her and this excited perspiring slimebag in the club and just to keep her job he thinks she's willing to fuck. But she's anything but as she wiggles her signature strut across the vacant bar picking up the liquids to get him drunk. She slips back, sits on his lap in the second act, scene one, she shivers with rage but acts to cover it up, she spins middle fingers up, she swings the twin bottles of liquor and detonates the crystal on his skull. Concussion fractured crown, he's left in shock, barely conscious constellations orbit around his head. He comes 'round dumb founded, drowning, doused and drenched in flammable over-proof where the hell hounds have found his scent. The digit flicking the Zippo demands a pound of flesh. He's not too proud to beg, he marks his territory down his trouser leg. Ignition source hits the floor, torched, Mr Big is scorched as she exit the doors of the strip club turned powder keg. Fire it up and watch it burn, nihilistic provocateur. Fire it up and watch it burn, the vilest of vipers hiss and spit with that toxic verb. Fire it up and watch it burn, nihilistic provocateur. Fire it up and watch it burn, the vilest of vipers hiss and spit with that toxic xic verb. There's fire in her eyes as the flame catches - her only living urge is to blacken the planet off it's axis. There's fire in her eyes as the flame catches - left for dead, scavengers sifting through the ashes.