The Death Of a Star

An unincorporated territory of New York City where the law no longer exists. The denizens of TWEAKERNAM are waifish by nature and lethal by force. The recent census purports an unparalleled knowledge of late 20th century pop culture–loosely linked to a rise in nebulous narcotics. Ransacked by the recent fashion technocracy, all Tweaknamese are obliged to weigh less than 115 lbs or be shot on sight. However, there is a hidden clause: if you can snort every powder placed in front of you in under 4:18 (the length of the 1995 alt rock classic Bullet with Butterfly Wings) you shall pass the BMI check. Afterall, all is fair in love and tweak.

Lemon is struggling with perverse fixations. Every day she wakes up and plans her demise. She’ll wear one turquoise Repetto flat, her favorite white dress, violet American Apparel tights, and her mother’s Rolex. Her hair will fall perfectly in her face, lips parted just slightly enough to find the note. Two words, seven letters: FUCK YOU. Lulu appears naive. Her messy bangs and perfect pigtails belie something sinister. She’ll do anything for a good time and everything for a quick fix. As always, she licks a sucker the size of her face. She has an oral fixation. She won’t go very far. Good luck girls.