Gagging, coughing, and hurling up champagne and bile, a woman sprays a stream of sick into a porcelain basin before a chipped mirror. The woman throws up strands of sour milk, somewhat more than a gallon of liquor, and grit and desert sand. Alone in a stark room of starving wood, she empties the contents of her belly until the bowl overflows. Tangled hair clumps about her eyes and in the corners of her mouth. Naked shoulders shiver. Bare feet step gingerly around the flood of vomit the basin's unable to contain. The woman wipes her mouth and stares at her pale reflection. She leans in close, looking into bloodshot eyes framed by fresh bruises. Her cracked lips smile.

"Jane!" A voice calls through the small cell's walls. "Jane, where are you, bitch?"

"I'm coming!" The woman in front of the mirror shouts.

-

Jane, emaciated, battered, and young, steps out onto a saloon's main floor. Her knotted hair's tied back. Her bruises are hidden behind mascara. Her body's strapped into a leather bustier and leggings. Preposterous heels take her forward into a maze of tables and chairs all dotted with drunks. Women in similar outfits and sunken eyes work the tables, all plying patrons with whiskey, gin, and breasts. The young Jane looks about the bar for the voice that called her. Instead, she spies other hostesses pinned down by pistols and lies. Punches. Threats. Muffled screams. Craning her neck above customers breaking bottles and pulling shivs, she spots the saloon's stage – and the voice that beckoned her hiding behind its curtain.

Jane wobbles in her unnatural heels up the short steps to this circus's center ring. She ducks behind a bright crimson drape.

"What took you so long?" A fat man in a soiled suit barks. He accents his every word with a tap of a brass cane, banging it against the stage's polished wood.

"I'm sorry," Jane bows. "I lost track of time."

"Pathetic," the fat man huffs. "You're late. The crowd's getting antsy for your show."

Jane looks out in front of the stage. There's no crowd. A dozen miners and cowhands wait with ubiquitous disinterest. Jane, though, nods her head.

"I'm sorry, Dicky, I won't let it happen again," Jane whispers. "But, sir, can I speak with you after my act? I have something I need to talk about."

"Yeah, whatever," Dicky yawns. "Just keep it short as you aren't making me money when your ass ain't behind the bar, up on stage, or tied to a bed." The ugly man's not even looking at Jane as he speaks. Instead, he's started to pace through the curtain. Lights shine. He wipes his brow with a dirty rag and tightens his tie. The man spreads his stout arms wide. He lifts his cane high.

The assembled drunks barely take notice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Peculiar Pussycat!" Dicky shouts. The man glowers down on the things before him. He squints his eyes. "What am I saying? There aren't any ladies out there! Hell, if any of you cowboys had a lady of your own, you wouldn't be here!" Dicky pauses for laughs and doesn't continue until one – a forced bit from Jane – ends the showman's shtick. "Don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining and hope none of you are thinking of settling down with a hen anytime soon! You see, while you may find a maid to cook and clean, you won't be able to find a squaw close to the likes of the fine specimens here tonight!" Dicky waits for hoots, hollers, and applause. He instead finds a space again ripe with silence. The man crosses to the front of the stage, peering hard at the drunks. He waves his cane and bellows. "And, for the right price, they'll do things to you a girlfriend or wife never would!"

Dicky hopes for cheers. Now, though, he's only met with a rancher demanding to see skin. The fat man mops his brow and waddles back to the curtain.

"Very well, I can see I've kept you in suspense long enough! While foreplay's part of the game, never let it be said the Pussycat doesn't leave its customers satisfied!" Dicky announces with a foul grin. "I'd like to welcome you all to our Sunday matinee! Put your hands together for the Peculiar Pussycat's feistiest feline! Miss Jane Libourne-Bordeaux!"

Finally, there's applause. The men jump to their feet as Dicky's replaced with a dark-haired woman imprisoned in leather. The fat man and the skinny woman pass each other under the red curtain.

"Don't leave until there's $100 on the floor," Dicky snaps. He wheels his metal cane into Jane's back and then across her head. The heavy brass thing knocks her forward. With two welts on her skin and a spinning inside her brain, Jane strips.