The New York night was a blurry kaleidoscope of flashing lights and shouted names. Harley St. Germain, a vision of drunken defiance, stumbled up the marbled stoop of her townhouse, each step a wobbly declaration against the horde of human vermin—paparazzi and reporters—who clung to her every scandalous move.

"Y-you want some real news?" she slurred, her bottom lip failing her, "Come closer, bring it in." Her eyes, obscured by alcohol, winked into the intense light as she hoisted herself onto the stoop, daring them to approach. She was the town's jester, the 'Playgirl' of the tabloids, and tonight, the show was reaching its peak.

"Suck my fat, ginormous, rich DICK!" she shrieked, launching a bottle into the crowd. Plants followed, then a massive pot, hurled with surprising force. "Maybe, she will forgive your inadequate stroke game, HAZZA!" The crowd scattered like headless chickens as she fumbled for her keys, two locks suddenly appearing where only one should be.

Inside, the sweet scent of burning incense offered a brief reprieve. Her phone rang, her father's sigh a familiar prelude to his disapproval. "Harley, what are you doing? Tonight was just horrible."

"You are acting really emotional right now and it's so bad for my inner child," she drawled, before clicking the transfer button on a beep from the other line. "Welcome to fucks-R-Us, to what I owe the sweetest pleasure." A rowdy room on the other end.

"Come to Limelight, Kit and I are waiting." Her best friend's voice cut through the haze, a promise of more chaos. Harley checked the time: midnight. Perfect. She snorted a line of 'Gods dry skin' and, with sunglasses perched on her nose, hailed a cab into the glittering, unforgiving night.