You scampered off into Klaus's room after a particularly burdening session with a regular. He had his door open for fellow sex workers and con men and bandits, especially when he wasn't performing a seance.

Needing both a touch-up and Tylenol, you reached for a little trinket dish on his glitter and bead sheathed vanity. Nearby, Klaus counted his fives, half-draped in feather boas and leopard print rugs.

"Hey, hey, easy on the makeup, I need my eyeliner fresh for someone later," he quipped in a hilariously whiny tone.