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 Bitsy: the Discontent Ghetto Queen

You already know Bitsy.

You're at the bar having a drink with some of your girlfriends. The nights been going fabulously when some little girl stumbles by you and at the last step trips and decorates your silk dress with her lady's-night margarita. She falls over herself trying vainly to undo the stain with her cascade of apologies. Oh no, no. Bitsy is not that mousy thing. Bitsy's that friend that's screaming over your shoulder.

"Oh no she di'int." She's the one pushing for the fight. "You need to teach that bitch some manners." Always jutting forward without making any progress. "Fuck that hoe up Alice." Like an invisible posse is holding her back. "That fool think he can look at YOU like that, who does he think he is?" All head bob and finger snap. "They don't know who they're messing with." All. The. Time.

What I end up with is a constant narration on how everybody within line of sight is somehow insulting me and what I need to do to show them. If I'm alone in a room she goes on about that: "Look at this tacky ass crib, mother fucker ain't got no style." And she never offers any (non-violent) solutions ever.

And her appearance; oh god. She looks like the mascot of zombie crack whores everywhere. She's a skeleton with just trace bits of rotted flesh sticking to her bones. She's got, for lack of better words, a short cut halter top and miniskirt that look to be made of tattered and dripping sea weed. Her hair is a shifting pile of overgrown leeches. She has a few accessories (necklaces, bracelets, rings etc) that have rusted beyond recognition. She has no eyes, just sockets you can't see the end of. Her arms are overly long and could reach past her knees if she ever put her arms down. Her hands end in long thin claws that she pampers like nails.

Keystone: ?
Keys: Passion & Tear Stained
Skill: Street Wise