You'd think that Deb's first stop -- after crawling out of a plane crash with only a shoulderbag, a disheveled flight attendant uniform, a head wound and a vague woozy feeling that Deb was a really stupid name, despite the fact that she was wearing it pinned to her chest -- would have been a hospital, but no
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OR WAS SHE?
Whatever. Fuzzy memories of having an important mission (what flight-attendant had missions?) -- aside, she was there and she was trying to smile, for the moment. Somebody might come in who was willing to trade a cigarette for a miniscule bottle of tequila, after all.
Forgive the fact that her idea of a smile looked absolutely terrifying; she hadn't had a smoke in at least 24 hours.
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But hey, look who it was behind the bar. "Deb!" Vicki exclaimed. "I thought I was never going to see you again."
And what was with the smile?
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"Vicki! Oh, thank God!" See? She was worried and all. It was heartwarming. "Tell me you have a cigarette?"
Kind of?
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She came up empty. "No, sorry," she said, shaking her head. "But, oh my God, are you okay? I mean, the crash!"
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Dance.
DANCE.
DANCE!
It felt good to have that kind of energy again.
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After all, when your boss was an extremely vicious vampire who only communicated through The Power of Dance, it was good to figure out what his mood was like tonight.
His choice: "Dust in the Wind." Great. He was depressed.
After a strange profoundly moving bit of choreography, Eric took up his seat in the VIP section and brooded.
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She made her way over, polite smile desperately pastede on yay, and asked the only question anyone sane would ask an extremely vicious vampire who only communicated through The Power of Dance: "Hi! Sorry, but you wouldn't happen to have a smoke I can bum, would you?"
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It could also have looked like he was directing traffic.
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