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The music bumped loud in the penthouse suite. Five women in decorated bras, thongs, and high heels were dancing on members of the bachelor party. Rubbing, grinding, and gyrating to "Bandz a Make Her Dance" by Juicy J. A sixth woman slid upside down down a pole that was installed in the room just for the occasion. Her legs spread out, made to seem longer from the six inch platform heels on her feet. There were supposed to be seven women in attendance, but the seventh was missing and so was the bachelor. 

Behind two closed doors, one to the room, and one to the bathroom within that room were the loud and rough sounds of cheeks getting clapped. Anaya had been pulled aside by the bachelor and asked for a private dance. She lied and said it would cost extra. The agency she worked for charged for those things up front, but men hiring high-end strippers didn't look at the itemized bill. They just charged the card. Anaya knowing that got away with charging extra under the table. 

So Mr. Bachelor, some big shot football player, she wouldn't know him from Adam, dropped a thousand and she offered to spread her cheeks without the thong if he caught her drift. Caught it he did. 

She was right there on the edge of completion when, in the mirror, she saw his torso twist in on itself by a gaping wormhole? She screamed and tried to pull away from him, but his grip was firm, then she was pulled through and woke up with the headache of the century...


In a warehouse? Factory? 

"What the fuck?" she muttered, getting to her feet. Was she drugged? She heard screaming, multiple voices emerging from the beyond the pallet pile she was tangled up in. 

She pushed the pallets away, crawling on her knees to get squeeze through what wouldn't budge. She came out onto the floor of a factory? Yeah. She's never been in one, but it sure as hell looked like what she assumed one would look like. 

All at once she caught sight of several people asking questions, freaking out, mostly some girl no older than 19. She had a vague thought this was a sex trafficking ring, until she spotted a shark thing with limbs it shouldn't have. Her first thought was skin it and turn it into a jacket. Bitch. Fire. 

She instinctively reach for her phone and unlocked it, giving no thought that the phone case was gold and not red. No thought to the background being the city scape she's never been to and that her apps, other than the camera app, weren't in the right places. 

She stood in front of the shark, it's maw open and endlessly black, and snapped a selfie. No thought given to the fact she was wearing a gold, shimmery mini cocktail dress with a V so low it ended right about her navel. One she definitely didn't own. Her lipstick was a touch too burgundy, and her fro a touch too neat. Regardless she snapped several photos. The last one capturing a purple ghost with her foot fazed through the shark. 

"Oh my God! What the fuck!" She turned to the creature and backaway, now dialed-in to how concerned she should be. 

She turned to everyone else. "So, anyone know what's going on?  Cause this is a lot more fucked up and unorganized than I thought a sex trafficking ring would be."