You're not able to seduce the blonde and bronzed Siegfried
or the equally bronzed but stumpy Roy. They only have eyes for their white
tigers. Still, they like you enough to hire you as a showgirl and you
dance with wild beasts six nights a week and two matinees. That is, until
the fateful night when you convince Siggy
and Roy to let you play a song during the show. The opening chords
of "Violet" send one of the tigers into a rage and he leaps
off his glittery platform and lands on top of you. The audience shrieks
and runs for the exits, except for one intrepid tourist who whips out
his camcorder and makes a tape he'll later sell to Hard Copy
and Faces of Death VI for big bucks. You're numb. Is that your
arm lying on the ground? "I'll never play guitar again, unless I
learn to play with my feet like that
guy with no arms who once got to play for the Pope," you think,
and that bizarre thought is your final one, as the tiger charges at you
again and his claws rip into your flesh.
