praxis michel // cap // [fin]

Father always knew I would be the brains behind the operation, not the girl on stage. But that never stopped my mother from strapping me into corsets and covering me in make-up. At least it masked how uncomfortable I was, practicing routines and flashing things I just didn't have. I was built to lead, not to flaunt. My mother passed 11 years ago—she was shot by the guy selling her drugs, apparently for her wedding ring—and that's when I replaced the corsets with a wide array of leather jackets, the sparkling make-up with dark eyeliner. The only thing I kept were the stilettos boots.

I was 19 years old and knew everything about my father's club, inside and out, like the back of my hand. I may not have been any good at performing, but I was entranced all the same. Something about the way the lights flashed, the music played, the girls danced. I loved the smell of sweat, whiskey, smoke. Like a director my father worked, creating new numbers, finding new ways to make the next performance, "his best creation yet!" And I found myself buying into it, giddy for the next night, simply aching for the enthralling combination of creativity and lust. It was in those few drunken years after my mother died that I lived in ignorant bliss, simply enjoying lavish Capitol living.

But then I started finding the mountains of bills, listening to the arguments—"Ah, fuck off! This club is mine and no one is taking it from me. Get out!" It wasn't until he passed nearly 7 years ago that I was swamped with the responsibility of paying off every debt that he owed—which apparently included drug money, personal favors, and my right kidney. Even 7 years later with a completely refurbished club, new performers, employee cuts, a drug dealing professional co-owner, and the extra publicity a Victor carries everywhere, I can't seem to get out from underneath the corporate assholes threatening to buy me out.

But I've hardened since I first started. I cling to my childish memories to remind myself that I enjoy what I do; I bought a shotgun because I've learned that adaptation is the only way I'm going to survive. Plus I look like a bad ass carrying it around when I'm out "running errands." Peacekeepers like to play that they are justice in its purest form, but they take all sorts of bribes to forget that I exist. Not that I go looking for trouble, it just always manages to sneak its way into my life and business. I guess that's what I get for imagining a place dependent on the lust, desire, and greed living within every human being.