She painted her face with rice powder in the morning. She collected the broken teeth like kernels of corn from the floor. She mended her clothes. As a last touch, dark glasses. They flattered her type, gave her a provocative look, menacing, sadistic. Nor will she forget the black velvet gloves with tiger's claws, the spiked boots. Now she is prepared. The doormen open the gates. Reverently, they adorn her with the horns, the tail, the golden wig. The heavy staff pounds thrice to announce her. Everyone steps back smiling, their hands busy behind their backs tearing up the photo of the woman with blackened eyes and blood congealed on her skull.