The charred remnants of the once vibrant Pussycat Club have all but been excised.
The bodies have been removed; the blood on the ceiling and stages have been thoroughly unstained.
In the middle of the muted chaos stands a familiar figure, chewing a stick of gum and wearing his textbook sandals and shorts.
Suddenly, a man brandishing a clipboard enters the room and stands docilely behind the Pussycat Club’s former proprietor.
“What’s the word on the street?”, Drexl inquires – neglecting to turn and face the individual he addresses.
“I’ve finished crunching the numbers, just as you asked, sir. It’s going to cost us an arm and a leg to put this place back together.”
Drexl brings a hand to his face.
“As I thought”, Big Slim ruminates – caressing his pronounced jawline up and down.
“I’ve been thinking, sir… About the club.”
This declaration seemingly irks Drexl who merely lowers his head, shaking it ominously to cut off the man’s advances.
“I don’t pay you to think, boy; I pay you to do as you’re motherfuckin’ told. Don’t you be forgetting that.”
The man gulps down audibly, taking a step backwards and drawing the clipboard closer into his chest.
“Now – start using that thing of yours as it’s intended and jot down some useful fuckin’ information for once, you hear?”
Frantically, the man pulls a pen from his jacket pocket and flips between the sheets until he comes to a suitably blank page.
“When the Ferryman entered my place of work and reduced it to ashes, little did he or anyone else know about my far greater plan. At Ring of Dreams, when that plan manifested itself, it left a lot of questions unanswered – including the impending future of the club in which we now stand.”
“I’ve deliberated long and hard about this old source of steady profit, but with my acquisition and evolution of the Shark Tank, there simply isn’t a place in Arcadia or my empire for such an establishment to endure.”
Drexl muses for a brief moment.
“Similarly to those who have been burnt before, we should just let bygones be bygones.”
The man stops scrawling momentarily, looking up from his clipboard.
“You mean like the Burned Man, sir?”
Drexl smiles, turning to face his associate for the first time.
“I mean just like that burnt fuckin’ freak”, Big Slim retorts – snatching the clipboard and pen, and scribbling down a few words in the process.
“The Pussycat Club will remain closed for business”, Drexl announces – ripping the sheet from the clipboard and pushing it back into the man’s chest before making his way over to the door. “Make the necessary plans and sell her to the highest bidder.”
Drexl removes the gum from his mouth and attaches it to the back of the sheet, pressing it firmly over the sign Tombstone had previously left there –a note which reads ‘WE HAVE MOVED’.
The Real Shark sneers contemptuously at his handiwork before turning to take his leave – a wry smile stretched across his face.
“Time to set the world on fire – starting with the mummy and his two little homies.”
Drexl walks away, scoffing at his own former tongue.