NB: ==> You fucked up.
You fucked up. You fucked up bad.Â
As you sit in the driver's seat of the Whoremobile, idling in front of the cabaret...well, at least what was left of it, you reflect on the events of the night, and how everything that had been going well for you had all gone straight to hell in a handbasket.Â
All because you couldn't be arsed to double-check the back door.Â
Life had been going so well, you think. You'd become such a great performer the cabaret owner had given you a raise, and then a promotion. While it was an honor for you to take on the responsibility of the venue's upkeep, it did take away from your blogging time, and as a result your online account and Pesterchum fell into disuse. The long hours you put in also kept you away from Dame for such a long time...you had barely any time to talk to her anymore. You focused everything you could, because this was the first time anyone had trusted skittish old you with anything of importance, and you didn't want to screw it up.Â
But you did.Â
You could have sworn you'd locked the back door that night. GPI be damned, you'd even had the keys in your hand as you walked away, you were certain of it. But it turned out it had been wide open, and some disgruntled customer had broken in that night and burned the whole building down. Nothing survived.Â
Not even your job.Â
The owner fired you shortly after the blaze was snuffed out, and any shred of confidence you'd had in you was erased when that pink slip touched your palm. You hadn't cried in front of him, but now, with the chilly air stinging your face, your eyes threatened to spill over as you parked the car in front of the apartment complex where you lived with Dame and her boyfriend, and as you pull the keys quietly from the ignition, you allow yourself to sit quietly as the car settled around you, unsure if you wanted to face your moirail you'd ignored for so long.Â
