At the time, Elizabeth stoops to conquer, and maybe that is why they think she’ll crack like lobster.
“No offense,” she tells them, “I don’t sing for mobsters.”
“Sweetie, you don’t get it,” grins the moonlighting bouncer. “He don’t wanna hear ‘no’ from a blowsy flouncer.”
“Really.” She rolls up her sleeves. “What utter nonsense.”
“Now are you copacetic, or do we have to toss ya?”
Her eyes and smile are torches in a steel ensconcement. “Try it, but let’s hurry. Getting ready for my concert.”
After that the word gets out: avoid the songster.
Everybody knows she’s a motherfucking monster.