Foreword: I came to a dilemma in this chapter. I want my interpretations of the characters to reflect the era, which in this case involves a dose of casual racism. I'm not comfortable, however, with writing actual hateful terms in my story. I decided to go the "blank" route and put these in there: [ ]. Basically, just imagine something offensive going in the neat little box. Thanks as always for reading and enjoy.

Ballet studios are a good place to reflect on things, reflects Duck as she stretches out her thin arms in preparation for her usual weekday class. Could be all the mirrors, she thinks to herself, chuckling slightly. The truth is, the hardened ex-cowhand has never had so much on her mind at any given time. Life back in Population 465, Idaho was about as dull and simple as you could possibly get, and the sophistication of the fine arts is a boon to her; Not the cleverest of all girls but her particular combination of well-intentioned and underutilized provides her practically unlimited motivation in the face of hardship. In other words, for the first time in her 19 years, she's not bored as fuck.

As she grasps the barre and twists her torso around, eliciting a quiet pop pop pop, she witnesses a curious thing- all the dancers have converged in the studio's foyer, and the excited voices have drowned out the piano accompanist completely. What in the heck is going on here? Thinks the redhead, and after quickly stretching the other way- pop pop pop- she strides over to the throng. At first she can't make out the object of everyone's interest, but as she muscles her way through- all 90 pounds of her- it becomes clear that it's a person: a feminine form in a maroon leotard, untidy dark curls done up in a devil-may-care bun, irritatingly fortunate figure in a pose of confident faux-humility. But it's not until she sees the woman's eyes that she recognizes her. It's the actress, Lady Rue Corvo, the movie star! She's smiling broadly and acting just so pleased to meet everyone and brightening up the place like a 60-watt bulb. It takes Duck a second to shake the starstruckness out of her head, but embarrassment wins out over her giddiness and without greeting the newcomer she gathers herself and returns to her place on the barre.

Eventually the hubbub dissolves, leaving the star to prepare and find a spot. And lo and behold if it isn't right next to Duck! As the practice routine begins and the dancers all start their rudiments in time with the accompanist- in this case a cheerful Etudes-style rag some would consider too jazzy but hey, this is Steel Cable, not Bright Lights- The celebrity whispers to the younger girl "That's some hair you've got there, sweetie."

On pointed toe and cranking out sequenced maneuvers mostly by reflex, the redhead blushes and responds, "I, uh, I keep meaning to get it cut."

The brunette raises her lithe arms, bends sideways. "Oh, now don't do that. It's lovely! I didn't mean anything by it." Duck senses she's attempting to use slang she considers too lowbrow for her, or maybe it's her slight Italian accent, but there's a tinge of foreign-ness in her pronunciation. It comes off as sophisticated. "What's your name?"

"I'm Duck! Just Duck, like the animal." Replies Duck. "I've never met anyone famous before… Am I supposed to ask for your name too, even though I already know it?"

Rue chuckles. "Oh, I supposed we've been introduced via a camera somewhere. It's nice to meet you, Duck, I don't know too many people in Steel Cable City if you can believe it."

"Well now, I really can't! A famous actress not knowing people?" The two continue to perform their stretching routine, following the cues from the senior dancers.

"I live in Palm Tree City whenever I'm shooting a picture. Only I'm going to play a ballerina in the next one I'm doing, so my Director's got me on these lessons to learn the steps, even though they'll use a double for all the dance scenes."

"Wow! They really are red…" Replies the girl absently, gazing at the actress' eyes. She clearly has been too preoccupied looking at the woman to listen to anything she's been saying. Suddenly realizing what she just said, she stops dead and turns a bright crimson, slapping both hands over her mouth. "Ohmygod, I can't believe I just said that…"

Rue begins to chuckle, but before she can forgive the awkward teen for her faux pas, a voice behind her sounds.

"Mish Duck! I trost you are not heckling our shpecial guesht?" It's Mr. Katz, the bohemian wonder, and boy does he have a killer gleam in his dark eye. Six feet tall, thin as a whip, and weird as all get-out, Mr. Katz honestly tries Duck's willingness to overlook strangeness on a daily basis. Not just due to his extremely obvious lisp, or his bushy, prominent mustache, but mostly due to his complete obliviousness to social convention. A Russian by birth and with the accent (and facial hair) to prove it, he still stumbles over some words but if there's one phrase he never gets wrong, it's "I'll have you marry me!" which he bestows on at least one unlucky female every night. Miss a step? Proposal. Late for class? Proposal. Bungle an impromptu conversation with a beautiful scarlet-eyed starlet? Well…

"I undorshtand, and even accshept the fact that you haff trouble vith many off the shimple shteps off our beloved art. However I cannot overlook you causinck troble for a shtudent ash important ash Lady Rue Corvo!" A healthy amount of spit complements the expulsion of this phrase from his mustachioed mouth.

"Mr. Katz, I swear, I was-"

Rue's soothing, dark voice stops them both in their tracks. "Mr. Katz, I assure you, This young lady is absolutely not heckling me in the slightest. It's not the first time someone's reacted that way at my eye color. Someday they might be able to photograph me in color, but until then, people are just going to assume the posters are painted that way for effect… Even the painters don't believe they're real half the time."

Mr. Katz is already mesmerized by her words. "I shee. Very well them, I shupposhe I'll leafe you ladiesh to it, but if she irritatesh you in the shlightest- Ash she doesh me- let me know vithout delay. You hear me, girl? Bother our dear guesht and I'll have you marry me sho fast your head will shpin!"

As soon as he's out of earshot, Duck quips "Great guy once you get to know him." Rue laughs cheerfully at this. The rest of the evening passes merrily, and the two spend the whole time chatting and discussing films and the city. Rue explains she'll be attending class for the month then it's off to film another motion picture in Palm Tree. It's an adapted parable of some Grimm Fairy Tales and the ballet Swan Lake but Rue assures her it's not just kids stuff- it's going to be about as dark and violent and sexy as they can get away with. Duck learns her father owns a pharmaceuticals company in town and her husband is an officer in the company, so she lives here most of the year, but every few months she gets on a train (Private luxury car, assumes the younger girl) to the California coast, and develops a tan that takes weeks to dissipate from her ivory skin. As the evening draws to a close, they bid each other goodnight and leave the studio looking forward to see each other again. Duck is amazed at what a kind and caring person Lady Rue Corvo is underneath her celebrity persona. She's already looking forward to spending another evening with her new friend.

"It's called Piuma. We got some boys in the lab working on it now, but what we know so far is that the mix of uppers and downers in this little pill can seriously screw with your noodle. Hallucinogens and depressants, I'm talking opium-derived shit, stimulants such as cocaine-"

"Hell, I can go to any drug store and buy some cocaine! What's the big deal about that, Commander?"

The older man narrows his eyes through the square frames of his bifocals. He's standing at the front of a briefing room with a piece of chalk, dressed in shirt sleeves, carelessly rolled up. His grey hair and wrinkled face make him seem much older than his 45 years. He chuffs out "Cocaine prepared for medical use isn't harmful to the body. The method of preparation involved in creating this type of cocaine strengthens the drug considerably, like a refined version."

The cop who sounded off before asks, earnestly but not altogether devoid of humor, "So like wine compared to brandy?"

"More like wine compared to the sourest vinegar you've ever tasted, only there's a memory element to it, so you won't even remember drinking it."

Detective Fakir finally pipes in. "Hold on, Sir. So you're saying it alters your memory?"

"We don't know in which way or for how long, but yes, anyone who takes Piuma will suffer such mental effects."

"And what about the addictive nature?"

"So far it would appear the drug isn't addictive at all- it contains chemical countermeasures to stop cravings after a hit. But why would the goddamn Corvos make a drug like this that's not only not addictive, but not addictive on purpose?"

"...The only reason I can think of is to appeal to high-profile clients, but that's not the Italians' style. It bothers me what you said about mental effects."

"Oh? Fakir, have you got something, my boy?"

"Well, it's just that weird mind-altering things like this, especially opiates, are really the Chinese's cup of tea… If you'll pardon my expression. What are the Corvos doing with them?"

The Commander taps his knobby chin with a finger, eyes gazing absently at the ceiling. "Yes… Some of these parts had to come through the chinese-controlled shipping lanes… Detective, take 2 officers, go to Chinatown, and get whatever info you can on this drug." He turns to the crowd of cops. "The rest of you, tap your usual sources for any info on where this shit is being manufactured. Don't bother coming back before 3- and you'd better have some dirt, or I'm gonna kick your asses right out again. Get to work!"

The other waiter's expression goes from incredulous to shocked even as he is lunged upon by the Venetian. With quickness almost impossible to track with the eye, he pins the poor man, and showers his poor victim with blows, bloodying his face and bruising his ribcage. He doesn't stop until well after the poor man is unconscious.

His head whips around to stare Mytho directly in his pale gold eye.

He is Mytho.

With an audible "Aaah!" Mytho lunges forward, the dark restaurant disappearing between one blink and the next and becoming the huge sun-streaked bedroom, all decorated in cream, ivory and mother-of-pearl. The heavy sheets cling to his bare legs, soaked with sweat, and his pajama shirt as well. Beside him, Rue is stirring, negligee straps falling about her blushing shoulders, dotted with freckles.

"Whazzamater?" she mumbles, rubbing an eye with her fist Her dark hair falls around her beautiful pale face, eyes half-lidded with sleep and blinking. The effect is shattering, but for once Mytho's not paying attention.

He doesn't know weather to tell her about his dream or not, but for her sake he decides it would be a bad idea. Denying everything, though, would be harder- the evidence was undeniable. "Oh my dear, I woke you up, I'm sorry." He leans towards her and kisses her forehead, then rolls out of bed. "I must have had a nightmare- it's been some time sine I had one of those. I can't even remember the last!" and with that, he vanishes into the bathroom.

Rue gazes at the Swiss cuckoo clock she brought home from the Alps, which clashes horribly with the decorations in the rooms but she insisted on keeping in place. She sits up in bed, knowing that trying to go back to sleep would be pointless, but not quite ready to get up. She begins to stretch out, her muscles complaining about last night's overuse, both in and out of the studio.

Meanwhile, in the large tiled bathroom, Mytho goes over the dream in his head over and over. What does it mean? The logical conclusion to draw from this is he imagines he's the one taking Piuma. But that's impossible- for one thing, if he were addicted to Piuma, he would either have been on it last night (in which case he wouldn't remember), or have been compelled to take it when he saw the symbol on the Don's cigarette case, and neither case was true. Second, even though obviously he wouldn't remember what he did, there were no glaring gaps in his memory- if he'd been taking the stuff, there'd be blocks missing. Then again, how did he know that? Maybe the drug gives you fake ones, or there's no gap at all and you just remember falling asleep or something, He thinks to himself.

One thing is for sure. There are too many questions and not enough answers here. And there's only one place to go for answers on mind-altering drugs in Steel Cable City. Chinatown.

One of the young officers wrinkles his nose at a red object suspended from a thin metal hook behind the window of a butcher's shop. At one point the reddened hoof was part of a pig; now it's something else entirely, barely discernible from a desktop ornament like the ones in the last 3 shops the 2 officers and 1 detective passed. "What the hell? How do these [ ]s eat this kind of shit?" He blurts, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "They don't even cut the heads off the ducks before they roast 'em!"

At the mention of slaughtering waterfowl, Fakir stiffens reflexively, but just for a moment. The whole ducks hanging in the window near the various pork parts actually would match Duck's hair pretty well in color… but thoughts like these are a distraction. There's no time to be thinking about her long, smooth legs or cute little belly button when a lunatic is on the loose. Or her softly sloping shoulders, when her arms are held in forfeiture above her head on the bedsheets…

"Say, Detective, you got any leads or are we just window shopping?" Asks Autor earnestly. He's dressed in his black patrolman's uniform, checkered hat and all, holding a string-bound brown paper package in one hand and standing in a nonchalant pose, glasses almost visibly slipping down his nose. He adjusts them.

"Well, now that you mention it, no. No I don't, and I'm sorry to say I don't even know where to start… What's in that package, anyway?"

"Oh, it's uh, nyu rou- that's beef in Chinese. I really like the stuff they sell here."

"Wait, you speak Chinese? Why was I not informed of this?" The Detective's tone is forceful but not angry. "Can you get along with the locals?"

"Hold your horses, boss. I never said I could speak Chinese, I just know a few words here and there- When I was a kid my Ma and I would come shopping here. I still come from time to time for the groceries."

"Great, so you only know food?"

"I might be able to ask a few things. But I don't-"

"Go ask the owner of this shop if there's been any adjustment in his protection fee lately."

"Boss, I don't- Well, OK, I think I can do that. Gimme a sec."

The young man enters the shop and slides up to the counter. Fakir is watching with interest.

"Qingwen, xiansheng. Zuijin, nimen de… uh, 'protection money', uh, fang xianjin gen shang ge yue de chabudo yiyang ma? Duoshao qian?"

The Chinese man behind the counter gawks incredulously, then he points to a poster on the wall, an angry expression on his face. The poster is a lithographed print of a map of Hong Kong. Autor droops as he looks at it.

"Boss, this guy's from Hong Kong, not mainland China."

"Gimme one reason why I give a shit."

"Well, they speak Cantonese in Xianggang- I mean Hong Kong- And I only know Mandarin."

"Well, then, you take Lysander and go track down some Mainlanders. I'm going to do some digging of my own. We'll meet up here at one thirty for lunch, and then bullshit a report for the commander so we don't get fired. I'd go with you but listening to your Chinese gives me a headache. Good luck."

"This is usually where one says something like 'I'm going to ask you one more time.' But I'm not going to ask you one more time. I asked you once and that should have been enough. Joe?"

A shaving razor unfurls from within the massive hand of the driver and sets in motion. As it arcs towards the bound man, it catches a beam of sunlight that shines through a crack in the poorly-tiled celling. For the briefest of instants, it glistens.

"However!" The cool voice sounds again, stopping the blade a hair's width from the man's throat. "However, on consideration- I could have been a bit more clear on my terms. It would be an awful shame to for you to die satisfied in your bravery. Therefore, let me paint you a little picture in words. When I said 'tell me where the Piuma comes from or you die,' I didn't mean just you- I meant you and your entire family. But, since to be honest- and I admit this with reluctance- I can't tell you fucking people apart, I'll have to just start burning down city blocks, one by one. Who knows how many people will die? Probably hundreds." The razor hovers unwavering before the man's neck. Dust floats through the sunbeam.

A whimper escapes the man's lips. He understands little of the short, pale-haired man's English, but certain words are unmistakable; Die, Kill.

Family.

"Naturally we'll board the doors first- wouldn't want anyone escaping. You know, the children will probably survive the longest, seeing as smoke rises and it's the smoke that does the job- suffocates them, you know. Yes, their last conscious actions will be begging their mothers, begging them to wake up…"

"Stop! Please. Just stop." The thickly-accented Chinaman man barks, a trickle of blood escaping as soon as he opens his mouth. The effort causes a new whip of pain to slash across his face, a mass of bruises and cuts. "I'll tell you, and then just kill me fast!"

"Well then! I'm glad you've come around. I wouldn't want this to have gotten difficult." A genuinely warm smile adorns the young man's face. Joe's razor is withdrawn and vanishes within his coat sleeve.

"They bring the opium for the drug in through the Peaceful Ocean Fish Market- I'm a worker there." He explains the timing and the operation as Mytho listens, ghastly expression unchanging. When all is said and done, He's got more than enough information to get what he needs. When the man is finished, he slumps in his binding, ready for death. He closes his eyes. He is surprised, however- Instead of his jugular vein, the razor finds the ropes holding him and in moments he's free.

"I hear Gold Mountain City is nice this time of year. Lots of your kind there too. Go disappear." The short man hands him a paper bag and turns to leave. "Joe? I feel like a cup of tea. Bring the car around to get me in half an hour- Whatever you like 'till then." And with that, they're gone. As the old room's only door opens, everything within comes into view- boxes, crates, hay. He's stunned to be alive. He wipes the sweat off his brow. He looks into the bag.

It's more money then he's ever seen in his life- must be hundreds of dollars. The man told him "Disappear." the door swings shut and darkness closes around him as the impact of the word sinks in. The last time anyone in Steel Cable City sees Chen Baishan, he's boarding a train at the city's massive gothic station, wife's wrist clutched firmly in his hand and holding his young daughter. The city's memory of him disappears before the steam clears as the massive engine pulls away.

"Ok, boys- what have we got?" Fakir runs his fingers through his long untidy hair, then ties it back with a new piece of string. Fitting his fedora on straight, he leans back in his chair.

"Well, what we got doesn't amount to much, but we got a name… Peaceful Ocean Fish Market. Apparently all kinda shit goes through there, including most of the drugs coming into the city from the direction of New York. I don't know why it's called peaceful ocean… That's what they call the Pacific, but all the fish there is Atlantic-caught."

"Autor, most people have a filter in their heads that separates useful information from bullshit. Why is it you don't?"

"Jesus, Detective… Just trying to broaden horizons here… Talk about pearls before-"

"Finish that sentence, I dare you. But anyway, good job. The boss'll be happy with that. The next step for is now is to find a connection to the Corvos so when they take down the [ ] fish smugglers, we can get those pasta-eating fucks with 'em."

Officer Lysander chuckles. "Heh. Fish smugglers."

"Oh, grow up." Fakir straightens up a bit and looks around. "How long's it gonna take before we get some service here?" They are seated in the middle of the tea house, and despite this no one has taken their order in 15 minutes. "Autor, would you remind these [ ] assholes that we're Steel Cable PD?" He slumps back in his chair as Officer Autor in full uniform stands up and begins trying to get a waiter's attention.

"Duibuqi- duibuqui xiansheng, women... Boss, they're ignoring me. Can't we just leave? Oh, never mind." An exasperated-looking waiter comes over with a scratchpad. "Umm, yi hu lu cha, uh, what do you guys want?"

"What I want is a beer, but since that's not happening- just some tea I guess." Fakir's eyes are closed as he sighs out his order.

"Same," Nods Lysander.

"Gei zanmen… shenme cha dou xing. Xiexie."

"I'm holding you responsible if they poison us." Says Lysander, nervously. Without opening his eyes, Fakir nods in agreement. His hat slips down his forehead.

"Wow, Rue, I've never eaten at a hotel before- everything is so fancy!" The pair of young ladies are sitting in a sunroom attached to a massive hotel in the middle of downtown Steel Cable. The furniture is all in wicker with pillows tied on the chairs with string. A gramophone in the corner livens the atmosphere with a pleasant waltz, beneath a bill announcing nightly live music and dancing. There are festive palms decorating the seafoam-painted walls, potted with care and imported from… Florida, probably. The effect of the room is tropical, fun and festive.

"Oh, this is simply the best little place for lunch. Whoever designed the place had been around, too- the first time I walked in I thought I was back in Palm Tree City- or the Caribbean! And they play the best music, too- they even have this new style of island jazz called Calypso that's so popular on the coast right now. We've got to come back on Friday night- bring your fella, while we're at it, we can make it a double date!" When Rue Corvo smiles, it's impossible not to smile as well.

Duck fumbles with removing her hat, rust-colored to match her coat and bedecked with white feathers. "I don't know much about Island Jazz, but I sure do love the regular kind! It's amazing how you can just buy a vinyl disc and a machine and it'll play music for you. I've seen so many amazing things since I've been here- I'd never even seen an automobile until I came here, if you don't count the busses- but now someone's inventing something amazing every day!"

Rue laughs, a genuine, contented laugh. "It's true. How did people live before they had what we have? But then again, we've been sitting here for a while and no one has come by to take our order- instead of an automatic jazz combo or orchestra on a disc, someone should invent an automatic waiter!"

The henpecked waiter arrives at last, and after ordering their overpriced island-style meals, Rue's disconcertingly red eyes narrow slightly. "Listen, Duck, there's something I wanted to talk to you about. Promise me you won't be mad."

Duck meets the actress's gaze. "Upset? What could you possibly be talking about?"

"Well, know I should have asked you first, but I went ahead and invited you as my plus one to the premiere of Captive of the Crow King. I want you to meet my director- or to be more accurate I want him to meet you."

"WHAT!" Blurts Duck, bolt upright and suddenly gripping the table as though it were handlebars on a bicycle. "Me? Meet Gerald Charon!"

"Get this. I mentioned you at my screen test yesterday- He's very interested in casting you in the next picture, the ballet one. Didn't take much... I just told him how cute you look in a leotard!"

A reddish tinge stains the girl's cheeks. "Oh, Rue… I don't know what to say! thank you so much! I never thought in a million years… But oh, do I have to do a monologue or something?"

"Oh, I think all you have to do is not embarrass yourself at the screening, and everything will fall into place. I'll make sure of it. Oh, look!" A waiter is bringing their dishes now- grilled Tilapia on a bed of shredded cabbage for Duck, seasoned with a myriad of spices she's never heard of before, served with something that looks like lengthwise strips of fired banana but Rue assured her it tastes like potatoes. Rue smiles upon seeing her meal, and exotic dish of various shellfish diced raw with bits of this and that chopped up in it, served in a little heap with a lemon wedge and glistening invitingly. "It's called ceviche." She says, upon noticing Duck's curiosity. "I've been wanting to try it. Apparently it's 2,000 years old."

"That stuff?" Duck replies.

"No, silly, not this fish! The style of eating it. Raw, with citrus and herbs. It's slimming, too- no fatty cream sauce or frying."

"I dunno, I'll take mine cooked. Hope you like it, though…"

"Here goes…" Rue squeezes the lemon over the pile of whatsit and raises a spoonful to her lips. As she chews, her expression shifts- first surprise, then shock, then what can only be described as horror. She finally manages to swallow, then pushes the dish away with finality, calls the waiter back over, and asks him for a hamburger.

"OK, So we've got the place, we can B.S. the time…" Lysander takes a sip of his Oolong tea and continues. "Now we just need a who, and we could blow the top off this thing like a popcorn kettle."

"I might be able to track down the name of one of the bosses, someone high-up enough to be incommunicado with the Italians on this whole operation." Autor is holding his teacup in both hands, curling wisps of steam fogging his glasses slightly.

"Stick to Chinese, Autor. Incommunicado means out of communication." Replies Fakir, who has been fighting a losing battle with his hat ever since they walked into the tea shop. "That said, good job on this stuff- I've never really liked tea before but this silk stocking stuff is really tasty."

He lifts the ceramic white-and-blue pot to pour another cup. Without warning or explanation, it explodes into a thousand shards, sending scalding-hot tea everywhere. Time seems to slow to a crawl as Fakir looks in the direction of the noise, and sure enough…

A short-ish, white-haired man is standing outside, beyond a pane of glass spiderwebbed with cracks, a bullet hole at their epicenter. The cracks and missing pieces distort him and discolor him in places where shards have fallen to shatter on the sidewalk, but for Fakir he's well within range. He's pointing a luger pistole parabellum at the detective, suit jacket unbuttoned, expression unreadable through the network of cracks in the glass. But there's no doubting that it's him.

"Mytho!" He shouts, standing up and reaching for his revolver, seemingly not affected by the tea soaking into the arm of his suit. Truth is it's burning his shooting hand like crazy, but there's no time to do anything about it. In a flash he's drawn a bead on the gangster and pulled the trigger twice, haze of adrenaline drowning out his surroundings. The pane of glass gains several new holes, objects to his left and right explode, and someone has kicked the table over. As he's about to fire his third shot at the man's heart, he feels a hand gripping him by his coat and yanking him down behind the cover of the upturned table.

"Detective, What the fuck-" Autor begins, fumbling with his service handgun. Lysander is lying on the floor cursing, clutching at his shoulder, crimson with blood.

"It's him! It's fucking Mytho! Let go!" He stands up again in time to see the entire pane spill from its frame and shards of glass flow like water across the floor and sidewalk outside. The man is nowhere to be seen. "Fuck! We're not letting him get away, come on!" In no time flat he's past the table, across the floor and on the street, looking desperately in all directions. There's no limousine in sight, no sign of any automobile in fact. No white-haired man running, no bodyguard waiting to ambush him. He disappeared like a ghost. Fakir's fury is too great to just let go of, so with fists clenched he screams "MYTHO! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME! I'M NOT GONNA REST 'TILL YOU'RE BEHIND BARS, HEAR ME? I'M GONNA PUT YOU AWAY MYSELF OR DIE TRYING!"

Somewhere, in an ally nearby, a slight chuckle issues from the cheshire grin of a white-haired young man. His cream-colored suit is becoming grimy from negotiating the filthy passages, but he doesn't seem to care. Blood issues from a wound on his left arm, and as he presses it with his opposite hand he calmly says, "Well now, Brother. That sounds like an interesting challenge… Needless to say, I accept." His laugh echoes down the alley long after he's gone.

TO BE CONTINUED

Author's Notes: Thank you for your patience and for reading my story. I don't want this to stretch out too far, but it looks like this isn't gonna get finished in the next chapter, or even 2. Imagine, if you will, a coming attraction for the next chapter that involves a fancy-dress ball, secrets coming to light, girls kissing girls, and probably some really cool violence.

Fortunately, I've had more time to write lately, so hopefully that keeps up. 'Till next time, this is Tinyangrypuppy reminding you to eat healthy… Oh who am I kidding, I just polished off a plate of hot wings and a 20 oz. of stella. You all take it easy, OK?