You were a Jazz singer in a local club, the year was 1969 and business was good. There were a group of three men and women who came to your club most nights. They looked messy and most people avoided them, including you. You didn’t leave your stage, singing your songs and avoiding the gaze of the man you believed was their leader.

He had long, dark hair. Usually exceptionally greasy. Covered in crystals and charms. A typical hippie.

And his eyes never left you. Not once.

Tonight, you were singing your newest song. Ultraviolence. He looked entranced, more than usual, by your lyrics.