When Linda Pol arrived to the Time Seam Bar, it was St Germain’s time, and everyone in the bar was captivated by the show with the fat pole dancers, and the mesmerizing stroboscopic lights.
She yelled at the bar tender “where’s the management? I mean, the regent queens?”
Someone she hadn’t noticed yet seated next to her turned slowly and gave her a mean look. “What do you want with the management. I am the management here.”
“Dear God, Anna Purrna, you look like shit.”