Outside the window sits an old neon sign shaped like an arrow, it buzzes and clicks as it flickers, pointing to a hazily lit vulva. The window only opens halfway. Old curtains obscure most of the scene inside. If we look inside, there hides a full grown woman with a hatchet, twirling an arm of her handlebar mustache, menacingly.

She's got six this week. They reach in a hand and pull back a lesson, and screams that wake the senses.

She's tried to move on. She's been a an accountant, a real estate agent, she even got her pilot's license and flew around the east coast for a while. There's something satisfying in those screams though, and she can't get the craving out of her hungry soul.

So she stands. She waits. She tends the vulva that brings her justice. The mustache, well, the mustache keeps her busy on nights that can get deeply boring. Between moments of feeling alive beyond measure, she twirls.

And waits to live again