Even the brainiest femme fatale schemes are bound to collapse under the weight of a monstrous ego. The scent of defeat snatched from the jaws of success: a soft, satiny pink grapefruit punctured by a shiny metal drill bit.
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Increasingly common to North America as various decorative customs have been blown off-course by year-round Halloween revelry.
Pink grapefruit and black licorice.
“I know what I am, but I know I’m not what I am. Beauty lives inside me. But oh, when beauty is trapped, it gets ugly…”
A perfume worthy of a fading Tennessee Williams heroine wandering through a mirror-maze of memories, only slightly singed from too many Electro-Convulsive Therapy sessions: wafts of burning frankincense rising from a hot-seat occupied by duelling champaca orchids, white amber, Sicilian mandarin, and bergamot.
Gleaming metal, gear oil, sparking wires, shattered glass, and a blue flicker of arcane power.
“What a piece of work is a man!”
“What is this quintessence of dust?”
The passing: beeswax and smoke, yellowed paper and well-worn leather books, droplets of spilled ink, faded incense, blood-tinged salty tears, and the metal of the knife that skewers that illiterate zombie philistine’s portrait.