A cold figure stands on the crumbled cement curb. She is slouched with all her weight on one foot while the other one is set out in front. Her body is bound in fish-nets and dainty black leather like string strangling a loaf of pork. She is sheltered by an abandoned bus stop even though it has just finished raining. Her body is dead and is only defibrillated by the occasional sound of rolling rubber against the wet pavement. That is when she exposes herself from behind a shadowy curtain, struts out on the runway, turns, poses and smiles like she has done it hundreds of times before. She is an artist waiting to be consumed.

She is a pop star, enormously successful and tremendously powerful. Executives have built a mega empire of merchandise, glamour, fashion, and music based on a wellcrafted persona. The artist that may have existed before has long been dead. Girls mutilate their bodies to be like her and boys masturbate thinking of her. She calls herself an artist, but none of the words she says or the notes she sings have been hers. Everything has been willingly and methodically crafted for her. Like a baker creates a lardy dessert and all she does is put in on the table.

She works as a hamburger jockey at a fast food establishment serving fat people food—food that will make them even fatter. Because she has no family or wife, she needs to make money on the side to support her painting habit. No matter how hard she tries, her debt, loans, and bills never disappear. She lives modestly in a house occupied by friendly acquaintances. A few months ago she was regularly screwing one of her roommates which unfortunately ended in ruin. Recently, the source of her painting has been the angst and awkwardness with her ex-communicated roommate. No art galleries will host her work.

Not five miles away is a very exclusive fine art gallery. The smallest painting goes for no less than eight hundred. It is located in the heart of paradise where tourist bees swarm between Memorial Day and Labor Day. She is an affiliated and well-liked artist at this gallery. Her subject matter usually includes marine scenes, dunes, delicate skylines and weathered houses. Considered the most successful fine artist in the region, she works a self-imposed nine to five day laboring images that she is confident tourists will buy to hang in their urban brownstone apartments.

Even though the rent is nine fifty a month, she has no problem affording her luxurious apartment on Caucasian Hill. Recently a college graduate, she is a graphic designer at an international design firm that she commutes to daily. She creates mockups for advertisements that are ripped apart by a disgruntled supervisor. When she was hired she thought that she would have more of a creative voice in her design. She is slowly beginning to understand what is expected. Whenever she is bored, she doodles tiny stars on a desk calendar until some tells her to get back to work. In the cubical not five feet from her is a seasoned and eccentric veteran. He has been there for many years and his opinions are well respected at the firm. Because of this, he is able to take many risks in his work without fear of rejection. He is responsible for creating sexually explicit beer ads in teen magazines, and he loves his work.

While living in the city, she works as a stripper to earn a living. She went to school to be a professional dancer, moved to the big city, and struggled to find dance companies that will hire. She is a little short for a dancer. In order to keep her body active and to make money to pay off her debt, she finds a job in an exotic strip club. Although she's comfortable naked, she is ashamed to be labeled as a stripper so her family thinks she works a temp job filing paper. She has an over-abundance of choreography ideas that she formulates in her head. Because of her current occupation, no one will take her ideas seriously.

He has been in numerous art journals. His named is widely recognized throughout the art world as a sculptor extraordinaire. Her job, along with a team of underpaid artists, is to create his art. He hands her a scribbling on a napkin, and she is the foreman responsible for overseeing the meticulous craftsmanship. As he gains more notoriety, his studio begins to morph into a factory and the workers become interchangeable. Once and awhile, he will disagree with one of her decisions, however, for the most part he's never around to see the production of the art that bears his name. He's mostly preoccupied with promoting himself, negotiating with dealers, and being interviewed by famous publications. She hopes that one day she will replace the company's CEO and have the authority to call the shots.

Unlike most sex workers, she is her own boss. A car rolls up to the corner and opens the tinted window enough so that she can see her potential client. She awkwardly hunches over to expose an ample amount of cleavage and throws him a arbitrary question. Before she can make an offer, he waves several bills and without hesitation she steps off the crumbled curb and slides into the leatherlined passenger side.