"You have to be kidding me. $150? That piece took fifty hours!" I tried not to raise my voice, but my agitation bled through. The jerk, who was wearing a designer shirt and jacket worth more than I made in a month, pulled an insincere smile across his fashionably stubbled face. He was admiring one of my art pieces as I stood aching in heels during my art show gallery opening. The piece he had referred to was an eagle, rendered in 24k gold and watercolor, intricately rendered and sitting proudly in a frame worth about as much as the man had offered me.

"Well, everyone starts somewhere," he said, shrugging. The tech nerd reached into his pocket, and produced a square business card, offering it to me. "I'm trying to help you out, and if you change your mind, here's my card."

I took the card, and he went to shake my hand, which I did so to be polite. He smiled again, and turned away with his martini, giving me a view of an perfectly styled man bun on the back of his head. I watched as he went to talk up one of the other female artists showing here at the gallery tonight. Guy was looking for a date, not to buy art, I concluded.

It was opening night for my group show where I was displaying some of my new works of art in the small gallery owned by my friend and curator, Janet. The space was a rustic little hall, nestled in a side street off the main drag in Newark, New Jersey. Each piece I had made had been painstakingly channeled out of an image I had seen in a dream. The art opening, unfortunately, was slow. People didn't buy art much anymore, and if they did, they would buy it in a New York City gallery, and not here. Newark, New Jersey wasn't cool enough, I guessed.

"Three sales so far, not enough to cover bills after commission," I said as I took a brief seat on a nearby tall stool. My curator was standing closely, slowly shaking her head. She was a willowy middle aged woman with dirty blonde hair, a black suit, and a vintage grey beret.

"This isn't you, you know," she offered, sipping her white wine. "Times have changed. All these new tech guys don't buy." My curator would receive a substantial cut of what I sold, so if I sold well, she made money. In the past, I had sold well with her, but not tonight.

"I know, I know," I sighed as I watched the weak trickle of gallery walkers tour around the space, waiting for someone to show interest in one of my pieces. As bad as only selling three pieces had been, I was better off than my fellow group show artists. Only one other had sold a single piece, a sculpted representation of a wild rabbit. This was a bad night, I thought, watching the man bun tech guy chat up one of the other female artists.

"You got anything else lined up?" my curator asked, motioning me to come with her to the small bar in the back corner. "I heard you were getting into writing; how's that going?" Before I could answer, I heard her quietly say, "Give Erika some of the fancy stuff; she sold things," to the young guy manning the bar. From beneath a black tablecloth, a bottle of expensive bourbon appeared, and a small amount of amber liquid was poured into a small glass. It was offered to me with a smile, and I took it. Yum! "Take a break?" Janet asked.

I nodded, and walked to a high table with two stools near the rear of the gallery. There weren't that many people on the floor at the moment, and I could keep an eye on any interested buyers from where I sat. Placing a dollar in the tip jar for the bartender, I took a sip as Janet asked "How's everything going?"

"Well, its going," I said, referring to my writing. Truly, I had been feeling defeated.

Through a series of unfortunate events, I had seen, over the past couple years, nearly all of my prospects miraculously dry up. My number, given at gatherings, galleries, and openings seemed to suddenly be cursed, as almost no one called me back. Any freelance position I had sought I was ignored. Just this morning, I had discovered that my online storage had been broken into, and a letter that appeared suspiciously like a suicide note was posted publicly to anyone who could see it. I was anything but suicidal, so I figured it to be a nasty prank by someone with way too much time on their hands. It was upsetting, but I tried not to worry about it, and took it down.

In my spare time, I had taken up writing to broaden my horizons and spirits. "Yeah, I'm working on my writing. I've got a few stories going. One project is a series of seven books, and another is just a crazy fanfiction, but its going alright," I shrugged and sipped, savoring the bourbon's spicy vanilla tones. I wasn't going to mention to my fancy professional art curator that one of my stories was a Warhammer 40k fanfiction. Talking about Warhammer in any capacity got me teased and mocked by people, so I usually just kept quiet about that subject. It was my guilty pleasure.

"I'm sure it's good. Hope it works out; you deserve it," Janet took a sip of her wine, watching another small group of people enter the gallery. One large man, wearing a black trilby, a flame shirt, and an unkempt beard, trundled up to view one of my pieces. He had chosen my eerie blue falcon piece to admire.

Time to make the dough, I thought as I stood up and made my way to the large admirer, still holding the remainder of my drink. The man noticed me as I walked, and I smiled. As I took a few steps, an odd feeling overcame me, like a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. I ignored it and continued, stopping near the man as he smiled at me.

This guy was taller than me, and considerably overweight. A vague miasma of sour body odor hung in his general area. His face was flushed as if through exertion, and his goatee was messy and hadn't been trimmed in awhile, so he had a bit of a neckbeard. Whatever, a customer is a customer. He held up a finger that was curiously stained orange, as if he had been eating cheesy snacks. "This your work?" He asked me, still smiling.

"Yup, this is me! Erika Romanov, in the flesh," I said happily, pulling a hand through my long dark hair. I was about to shake his hand before I had remembered his cheesy fingers, so I simply drank the rest of my bourbon and continued smiling. "If you have any questions, let me know, I made these pieces here," I motioned to where my works hung, with three pieces marked off as "sold" presently. "I work a lot with dreams and the subconscious, so everything you see here comes from a thing I've probably seen in a dream. I see it in a dream, I drag it out, and I make art with it," The man nodded as he studied the finely rendered feathers on the falcon.

"You've got some good energy, you know?" He said, looking at me. I felt that chill again. Did someone leave the front door open? "Lots of artists, they're low energy, they say, and that's why they don't sell," he nodded. His eyes went to my empty glass. He sniffed the air. "I see you have good taste. Not into girly drinks, huh? Scotch?"

"Nah, bourbon," I replied. I needed to steer the conversation back to my work. The art he was looking at also utilized copious amounts of gold leaf. The falcon art piece had a golden halo, illustrating its magical nature. "I like both drinking gold and working with it," I said, trying to be witty. The man nodded. He seemed to be studying the art intently, which was a good sign. Maybe I would sell this and make rent?

After a slightly awkward pause, the large man reached into his pocket, and produced a metal flask. "Yanno, I don't really share my secret stash, but this is some good stuff, so would you care to partake, m'lady?"

I held my glass out, and he gifted me a generous pour of a dark whiskey. A chill washed over me once again. Something felt wrong in here, and I couldn't put my finger on it. I motioned a "cheers" gesture with my glass to him in thanks.

I sipped at the gifted whiskey. There was an odd aftertaste. Glenn watched me as I drank, and then went back to studying my piece.

Glenn? When did he tell me his name? Maybe I had met him somewhere and forgotten?

"I'm sorry, have we met before? You're kinda familiar..."

Glenn pulled the corners of his mouth, almost appearing nervous. "We've met before," he said, and swallowed heavily as he watched me sip my drink. It was a peculiar variety, and I couldn't really place what exactly it was. It somehow drifted in taste between a peaty scotch, and a velvety bourbon. He let his answer hang without clarification on where we had met. He seemed to be fixated on me instead of my piece again. I began to feel uncomfortable.

Poison...

The word came unbidden to my mind, surprising me, and stopping me mid sip. I shivered involuntarily, and recovered as to not appear awkward. "Yeah, uh, I've seen you before. Your name is Glenn, right? I swear we've met. I'm sorry but its driving me crazy."

Glenn cleared his throat and moved too close to me before he spoke again. He was now so close that I could feel his breath on me, which stank of Camembert cheese.

"The struggle to overcome adversity can be hopeless, you know. I want you to know that," Glenn said under his breath as if he was telling me a secret. He then stepped back, and continued to look at my art. The sudden weirdness of this confrontation set me off balance. Some people were just odd, I excused his behavior to myself. Maybe he would buy something?

Again, I felt a wind at my side, this time, definitely from the front door. A tall blond man had strode in, immaculately dressed in smart casual suit. As if he had a destination, he quickly walked over to me and the large man. His expression was sharp, and he wore a knowing grin as smartly as his style. He walked right up to the uncomfortable situation between me and Glenn, forcing himself next to me.

"Soooo Glenn, pleasant seeing you here," the young man said, smiling venomously at the neckbeard. That was my confirmation on the large guy's name. The newcomer flashed a smile at me before turning his attention back to Glenn. He then lowered his voice and breathed "You really do get around, don't you? Almost like a disease, you know?" He reached out and flicked at Glenn's trilby hat, knocking it slightly out of place. Glenn didn't like that, and curled his lip at the newcomer, backing up.

"I was just leaving, actually," Glenn adjusted his hat, leaving a few orange fingerprints on the black felted material. This new guy had apparently intimidated him enough to upset him, which I was secretly grateful for, despite possibly losing a sale. Curiously, I was reminded of my Warhammer 40k fanfic. I had written about a Nurgle-corrupted neckbeard named Glenn as an antagonist, and this guy looked just like how I had described him, right down to the orange cheese fingers. Wild. I still could not place where I had met this Glenn in real life, though. I raised the glass of bourbon to have another sip.

I closed my eyes, and inhaled the aroma of the whiskey, tipping the glass back to my lips.

Before I could indulge, I felt jostled, causing me to drop my drink. The glass shattered on the floor, spilling amber liquid everywhere. "Hey!" I yelped. Heads turned at the sound of breaking glass and my outburst. My expression betrayed my dismay, and it was noticed by Janet, who started making her way over to my peculiar little situation.

"He pushed me!" Glenn said, pointing accusingly at tall blond stranger. The stranger shrugged innocently, wearing an impish smile. You know, this is really something, I thought with amusement. This blond fellow looks like the "Zac" I had written into the story. The fictional Zac was actually an avatar of change that served Tzeentch, and both Zac and Glenn were trapped in the real world together. How about that, huh? Life imitating art! As I made that funny observation, the grinning blond man immediately made eye contact with me. Another weird chill passed over me, followed by a a feeling of vague danger. It came across like a whisper through my mind, like the word poison I had heard earlier.

Go. Now. You'll thank me later. Get into the taxi outside and go home.

No one had said anything. What was going on?

"I didn't push you, you clumsy ogre," Zac said, protesting Glenn's accusation as Janet joined us, arms crossed, ready to kick out any troublemakers. Zac continued, jeering: "Maybe you should work on your balance, buddy. Standing like that makes it look like you're about to tip over anyway!"

"Is there a problem?" Janet's voice rang up next to me. Something "felt" deeply wrong about this Glenn guy now, and it was as if every instinct I had screamed at me to get away from him.

"Yeah, this guy was just leaving," I pointed my index finger at Glenn, and motioned my thumb toward the door.

"I gave you a free bourbon!" Glenn raised his voice at me.

"And you knocked into me and made me drop it on the floor!"

"No, I...!" Glenn clenched his fists, and glared at Zac (if that was his name), who smiled innocently. "I'll get you for this, fucker..." Glenn hissed at the stranger.

"Say it don't spray it, lardo!"

Glenn huffed, his face turning bright red, as he burst out the gallery door, causing some people to turn with curiosity. Zac shook his head and sighed. I heard him mumble, "He never learns."

I couldn't help but find this funny, but I was beginning to feel light headed. I had been on my feet for over eight hours at this point, and the night was finally winding down. There was an after party planned, but that wouldn't start for a few hours. Maybe I could sit down somewhere for a little bit?

Zac turned to me, once again looking at me penetratingly in the eye. His eyes were very interesting to look at, I thought. They were... gold? My ears began to ring as I "felt" another word, this one was said with urgency.

Leave.

I shook my head, bringing myself back to the present. "Um, Janet? We're almost done, so I think I'm just gonna head home and take a nap before the after party," I said, feeling slightly dizzy. I very much suddenly wanted to get out of there.

"Sure, come by tomorrow for your check. I've got another guy coming in later to look tomorrow night, so you might sell a fourth..." I didn't hear the rest of what she said, as I was making my way to the exit. Curiously, as I leaned on the doorframe of the front door of the gallery, I could not see Glenn nor where he could've gone in the two seconds that had passed since his departure. It was as if the neckbeard had ceased to exist the moment he left the gallery.

My attention was pulled to an idling taxi outside. I waved to him, and he nodded, flashing his lights.

The short ride home was uneventful, but I kept falling asleep in the back. The tips of my toes were beginning to feel numb and cold as well, probably from wearing heels all day. Was I really that exhausted? It had been a long day, but the bourbon I had had had been the only thing I had enjoyed. Why did I freak out and leave the gallery? I should've stayed, I said to myself, swallowing. That was unprofessional. I felt a thin line of drool wet my chin as I paid for the ride, and stumbled up to my apartment. Something felt really wrong. It was as if the gravity had been turned up. I could barely stand. Poison? I remembered the word poison as I threw my keys in the dish before walking into my living room. Had I been roofied? I should probably call an ambulance. I should do that...

I didn't have much time to think further, as I lost consciousness almost immediately as I fell bonelessly onto my sofa. One thought lingered terrifyingly at the edge of reality as the black rushed in.

Poison... Glenn poisoned me...