the living room area. "Live and let live, I always say."
Live and let live unless your name is Albert and you're after Lilah, T.S. thought sourly as he gulped down his new drink. Lance Worthington left him to his misery. Halfway down to the bottom of the new tumbler, T.S. realized he had made a terrible mistake. First there had been wine at what was an enormous and highly spiced dinner, and now he'd topped it off with glasses of Scotch. His stomach lining began to tingle and went numb. While contemplating this, he grew dizzy and was almost certain that he was about to be sick. He was just wondering where the bathroom was when the tall redhead that he had noticed earlier suddenly reappeared. She perched on the edge of the couch near him and leaned forward suggestively, linking one arm through his and pulling him against the straining bodice of her skintight dress. He did not have the strength to protest.
"You look like someone I'd like to know better," she cooed in a throaty whisper. She wore so much perfume that T.S. was forced to hold his breath, an act that did not improve his dizziness.
"Don't be shy," the woman ordered breathlessly. Up close, T.S. noted with distaste, it was obvious that she wore what must have been a full inch of pancake makeup. Bad skin lurked beneath and her cheeks were scarlet slashes. Her mouth undulated in front of his eyes in evil, ruby-colored ribbons, like poisonous worms dancing closer and closer.
"I've been watching you," she whispered. Her voice deepened even more and her hot breath brushed against his ear as she insisted with husky conviction, "You've got the heebie-jeebies, haven't you, darling?"
"What?" T.S. asked in sudden alarm. But his tongue was not behaving, it lolled thickly in his mouth and the words came out in a jumble. What had this creature said? That he had the heebie-jeebies?
Something had gone wrong. His tongue would not move at all. The numb feeling in his stomach spread and he felt as if a beach ball were inside his gut, swelling slowly until it could explode.
"You need another drink, darling," the redhead suggested. Her red lips met and a large, hideous tongue flicked out from between them. She dabbed it delicately over her upper lip and T.S. watched in fascination as it moved in slow motion, dragging a small trail of red across the cosmetic landscape. And who had put on a new record?
This one was warped. The notes raced and slowed with distracted abandon, tunes tumbling and disappearing, fading in and out. Surely someone would notice it soon. What was worse, someone was spinning the room. What nonsense, he corrected himself. Rooms did not spin. Only, look at those walls. They were turning. Objects and people began to flow together, to blur as if in high speed. He was on a train that was rushing faster and faster and he was unable to tear his eyes from the small window opening in front of him.
"Put him in the back bedroom," T.S. heard a sly voice order. Hands groped under his armpits and he felt himself lifted. The redhead had hold of his body and was urging him forward. She was as strong as a man. T.S.'s near-dead weight did not faze her.
Without warning, Lance Worthington's face popped into view and began to fuzz and bounce in front of T.S.'s own. The producer was laughing and pounding him on his back. T.S. wanted to cough but his mouth would not move.
"I've got a special treat for you," an unctuous voice urged and T.S. realized that it belonged to Worthington. "Just leave it all up to me. Live and let live, I always say." Something had gone wrong with the producer's voice; it sped up to the chatter of a chipmunk then slowed suddenly like a record on the wrong speed.
It was all T.S. could do to open his eyes. When he did, there was the redhead inches away, staring back at him while her red-slashed cheeks danced in the field of his vision. Behind her, silver wallpaper pulsated to the beat of the pounding music. His stomach cramped and T.S. was sure he would vomit.
"Steady there, sir," a deep voice interrupted. "Where are you taking this gentleman? He looks like he needs to go home." Strong arms pulled him away from the talon-adorned hands of the redhead and, suddenly, breaking through the madness, the face of the elderly bartender