And to our left is displayed the punch line of a graveyard joke, no literally folks, a punch line of polka-dot blood and behold, a broken mirror once full length and now rendered shattered by a demon who didn't like its reflection. The corpse of it had been left to rot out in the open. The glimpse of their reflective eye-pieces followed the duo into the dwelling that at length became alight, once the swerve or swivel of stiff geisha hips rounded their mournful way into the alcove of an equally as despondent kitchen. There was nothing in this apartment but two boxes, blood, broken things and a futon. The futon wasn't even out-poured into a bed, as she preferred sleeping in it as a couch. There was no shame in him seeing how she lived, maybe she even thought of it as an explanation.
A Hello Kitty blanket lay discarded on the floor -- the scene of a kidnap? With the familiar pink carnation bundle of the fateful flower of her waitressing outfit.
What was he going to do to fix this thing? She wondered, spike-knuckles akimbo on the candy flannel hips and pinning her lips between her teeth. The bottle of rice wine was set on the shrine-kitchen counter top for the deities to address later, not far from where the raptor perched and watched him. Oh, right, she lifted one of her bladerunner hands and swished it around in the gloom. Welcome to my Hell.