The bass line was tremendous. A certain frequency distortion ran behind simple lyrics that rang all too true for the scantily clad frame glistening with alcoholic moisture. Rich brats held their parties here in West End. Granted, they would never risk living here for more than a night. The comfort of upscale mansions and penthouses padded with designer sofas and personal trainers was too strong a call for even the most hedonistic of the bunch.

For the girl it was different.

No matter what gifts dear friends offered she still felt the need to remain a working girl. So, in the flickering light of tiki torches and neon bulbs, the music drove the dancing. A studded belt and a netted line held rows and wads of twenties. A pool of vodka splashed as stripper shoes shifted, skinny arms reaching for the support of an iron pipe that lined the top of the bar. Tattered gauze barely covered pale swells that supported wicked jewels atop a kiss of pinkish flesh. Catty tufts of copper and blackish hair were skewed in all directions, blue eyes were shaded with a drug-induced haze.

The billionaire playboys carried on with their entertainments. Fat wads of generally undeserved cash had procured a herd of eight working girls who came in costumes and make-up, ready to earn their keep to the beat of dark and heavy music. What some of them had not anticipated were the bruises. In the crooks of thin arms, tan or pale, the needle had left its bite.

This girl danced with such a branding.

Daddy was gone. It was said he was merely a dream. She would have to deal with this. As the toxins entered her bloodstream and line between fantasy and reality began to fade those true blue eyes stared into vacant space. Hands reached for her, dirty with years of handling blood money, dirty with dark deeds they performed in the shadows of dark alleys. And as the music grew louder the tragically thin girl felt so very small. A perverse touch along her hips, her thighs, brought her reeling from silent inspection. Pina colada glossed lips smiled to cover the pain inside.

The grim reaper watched from afar. Soon enough he too would be able to wield such a touch against her.... how delicious.

The lights rose. Rows of pulsating red against bodies barely covered with straps and circlets of ebony. Pale flesh looked so lively in this lighting. A man in almost impossibly tight leather pants was grinding in the center of the stage with a microphone in his hand. Around him were six poles in a row with beautiful women climbing up and then inching down in true exotic style. A live band was behind them all with the silhouette of a city backdrop. The first pole to the man's right was being skillfully straddled by a particularly thin girl currently in the throws of her first spice-induced high. Spirits were lifted and she sang with ease as the metal beneath her palm anchored her dance.

The dress rehearsal had gone swimmingly. After a brief shower and splash of powder the skinny minnie had headed out with a purse full of money. Liquid courage was something the girl could use more than anything else at the moment. Surely enough her favorite predator was found there at the Inn commons and thirty pieces of gold were shelled out in exchange for the little black bag containing a glass vial that would be her safety net for the following evening.

Hours before daylight were spent drinking and dancing with the other girls involved in this coming weekend's stage show at the popular West End club. The rest of the night that all too thin frame was wrapped in the comfortable cotton sheets of the djinn's bed. Warmth was slung over her shoulders and kisses pressed her into sweet dreaming. At some point he rose to prepare for the day and retreat from the den. Samilee woke so briefly then, stealing glances at him in various stages of undress and then letting her sore eyes close once more. Lips pressed against her forehead before he left to tend to his duties as Tara's assistant.

Later that day, between noon and sunset, chaotically arranged hair finally left the cradle of goose-down pillows. Waves of water revived her and a little blue sailor's dress was retrieved from her wardrobe. The black bag was stuffed into her shoulder purse.

The sun had been gone for nearly three hours whenever the spice was guzzled and fingers tugged at the thigh-high toppings of criss cross stockings. The band had begun and the girls assembled to each don their adorable garter-belt holsters and tiny silver guns. There was a cloud of hushed giggling from behind red curtains before the lights went dim.

A voice, gravely and deep, sang to a packed house of drinkers, smokers, and connoisseurs of flesh. It was the thin one with her mind on another plane who began to dance onto the stage as that gorgeous young man sang.

She's not a girl who misses much. As he vocalized that barely clad silhouette lined itself up against a singular brass pole. She's well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand like a lizard on a window pane. The man in the crowd with the multicolored mirrors on his hobnail boots lyin' with eyes while his hands are busy workin' overtime. A soap impression of his wife which he ate and donated to the National Trust.

The remaining five girls began to slink through the darkness as black and white melted into the heated fire of crimson and ruby. Each moved to their respective places on the stage while the show continued.

I need a fix 'cause I'm going down. Down to the bits that I left uptown
I need a fix cause I'm going down. Mother Superior jump the gun.

The girls echoed the line back to him in rapid succession.

Happiness is a warm gun. (Girls: Bang Shoot Shoot) Happiness is a warm gun, momma. (Girls: Bang Bang Shoot Shoot) When I hold you in my arms. (Girls: Ooooooooohhh, oh yeah!) And when I feel my finger on your trigger I know nobody can do me no harm. Because... happiness is a warm gun, momma.

The lights made her head swirl all the more, but the sensation seemed to give the derby dame the immunity she needed to perform flawlessly. As the young man continued the girls began to climb their poles to the very top and prepare for the climax of this number. One by one they would descend and fire their garter guns, loaded with blanks, at the singer before falling to the ground at the base of their pole.

Happiness is a warm, yes it is... The singer let a pregnant moment hang in the air before his hands signaled to the band to continue. GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU--- Off went the shots. One, two, three, four, five, six. The sixth shot was from the smoking gun in the skinny minnie's hands. No sooner had the girl hit the base of her post that she felt the warm spatter of blood and heard the scream from a waitress in the audience. True blues shifted to see Derrick, the singer, collapsed on the stage with a gushing blanket of red where his young and beautiful face had previously been.

Coat tails brushed against her cheek as the grim reaper approached.

Lucky duck... it was you he was waiting for.