WARNINGS

TITLE: One Pink Tutu

CHAPTER: Chapter Five - "Dangerous Smells"

AUTHOR: DarthPirate and Aragia

BETA: Maniacs Edge

RATING: R-13 (content is not appropriate for children due to language, violence, and sexuality)

DISCLAIMERS: It's getting old. We do not own the characters, Warner Brothers and the Wachowski brothers do. We own this story and these events. This story was written purely for entertainment and not as a means to acquire money. Any resemblance whatsoever to real persons, places or events is unintentional.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Also asked where this theater is supposed to be. I'm no expert on geography, and none of this is real, so... imagine what you want. In my opinion, that lets you be more part of the story anyway.

The theater wasn't large. Once you got to the end of the hallway it branched off. On a busy night the worn velvet ropes would direct pushing crowds straight ahead and through two more Pepto Bismol doors to seats of some kind. The performers would be sent to the right and through a single lime green door to the dressing rooms and backstage. The minority would be drawn to twin black doors on either side of the hall. Each had an icon: one a plain human shape that could be a male, and the other a woman's form. Well, it couldn't be a woman. The figure had no intriguing curves that gave it feminine expression only a talented artist could capture well enough to make another man want to capture it again, in different ways.
Neo was not in the main human body, so he could choose for himself which way to go. He followed the outdated shag carpet that looked like it needed a lawn mower to hit it before a vacuum could make one pass across and live to tell the tale to its comrades in the appliance closet. The yellow tweed road led him to the lime door. He wrapped his hand in a corner of his trench coat and used it as a glove to open the door. It creaked like the joints of a rest home resident, and stuck halfway. He edged through it and an odd smell hit his nostrils. It was hard to fathom, something like margaritas, moth balls and burnt silicone. Maybe some corn dogs, coffee and Chanel No. 5; or was that athlete's foot powder?
No worries, he assured himself. Smells don't carry guns, only the skill of making one with a weak stomach puke. He passed a door not worth going in, just the boss's office. Then another, where some of the fragrances intensified, and the carpet started to squish. It was a lunch and laundry room that had had a recent explosion: microwave parts littered the floor, red chunks hung ominously from the ceiling and threatened to fall into one's mouth like his enemy's guts choking him even in death. The walls were a glorious tale of disasters the room had weathered poorly.
All of this seemed typical of a place called the Flamingo, but it looked like the only kind of agents ever in this building were just trying to help failed actors find a career. Neo stayed alert as he walked down the hall, turned a corner and glanced out a window. Some punks had painted "Git gone hoz!" in graffiti right where all passersby could see it. They could've at least spelled everything right... This furthered Neo's concern he was on a wild goose chase. The only thing keeping him moving was the drag queen, if he hadn't imagined that.