“Nobody,” Alice whispers.
“That’s the real fantasy,” it says. “Thinking you can leave.” “Nobody,” Alice whispers
“It’s not about sex. It’s about control. And you paid to lose yours.” It’s about control
The Caterpillar sings a sultry, meandering tune about transformation. As Alice takes a hit, the screen splits into three panels: in one, she’s a nun; in another, a rock groupie; in the third, a weeping bride. The harmonies are dissonant. The word “explicit” flashes. The harmonies are dissonant
“You’ve got the look. The ‘I’m-not-supposed-to-be-here’ look. That’s what sells tickets.”
The key unlocks a side door. Inside, it’s a fever dream of red velvet, broken mirrors, and the smell of clove cigarettes and amyl nitrate. A house band plays a sleazy, funk-rock riff on a distorted “London Bridge is Falling Down.”
The Knave of Hearts (a handsome, terrified accountant in handcuffs) kneels.