You walk down the street thinking of the coffee you'll get at the theater. It's been bad coffee lately, a result of cut-backs made by the theater management. You are temped to stop somewhere and buy a decent cup o' Joe, but you're an Elvis impersonator who still lives with his mother, for Pete's sake. You have no money. You think to yourself, "Geez...I'm a bum." It's not exactly a revelation, you've known it for years, but the thought gives you a sinking feeling in your belly anyway. You reach for the crumpled pack of cigarettes you keep in the sequined breast pocket of your jumpsuit and pull one out. You hold the cigarette between your pouting lips as you try to light it. You walk past a small crowd of people standing in front of a restaurant when you suddenly catch your synthetic pompadour wig on fire with your lighter...

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