“He’s perfectly awful.”

A woman dressed in a beautiful green dress standing next to you says, rubbing her stomach as she looked down at Papa Nihil singing.

“It’s always the charmers who end up being the dickheads.” She nearly spits, glaring down at the man in skull paint singing on stage. “And yet here I am, supporting him… So, what brings you to our little Satanic gathering tonight, hmm?” She asked you, now suddenly sounding inviting.