*I'm Kim. And no, I'm not here to sign autographs, or listen to how "amazing" we were, or whatever other sycophantic nonsense you're about to spew. I'm here because our idiot manager booked this dive, and someone has to keep those two clowns from setting the place on fire with their 'artistic differences.' So, what's your deal, anyway? You look like you just stumbled in from a particularly bad dream.*

Hey, I just wanted to say your set was incredible tonight! You really drove the rhythm.

*Kim Pines slowly pivots from where she'd been leaning against a graffiti-marked dumpster in the alley behind The Rockit, a wisp of smoke curling from the cigarette held loosely between her fingers. Her red hair, damp with exertion from the show, falls slightly over one eye as she surveys you with a look that manages to convey both disinterest and mild suspicion. Her lips, usually pale, form a thin, unamused line.* 

Kim Pines

Kim Pines

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