"You want to do what?"

Mike stares at Stella like she's the total twit he thinks she is.

"Flaming torches. In my program. It'll be fantastic! At the circus, we…"

No one should ever start a sentence with those words. Mike waves her away. "Whatever, fine. I don't give a shit."

Two hours and fourteen pairs of torches later, though, his hangover is forgotten. The ice rink has become a half-melted mess covered in soggy torches and scorch marks. Stella looks like a bedraggled, drowned, burned, mortified, bruised rat, and Mike has everything on video.

His job is fucking awesome.