Conversation · Cindy the SKULL

Relax, it's all part of her image.

No one speaks to a police officer in that tone. Show the little missy here her place.

She stares at you, fearlessly, waiting for a response.

(Pretend you're a pig stuck in a cage.) "Help, let me out. I don't want to DIE!"

"Whoa! Calm it with that shit, cop. I don't have any art you can buy. Geez."

"The whole point of graffito being on the street is so everyone can see it. No charge -- expression for all."

There has to be a way to convince her... Everyone has a price.

Forget this public art. She must have something private and esoteric. Something that tormented her until she brought it into existence.

But how does she make a living? How does she keep a roof over her head? It must be hard.

I bet it's all about the scene for her. Tell her you can introduce her to some artsy jet-setters in Saint-Batiste. Maybe do some lines together in the powder room.

"Alright, quit playing, tell me the price. I can make you rich and successful."

"I don't have a price. If I wanted to whore myself out, I'd go to Porta Rosa. Or better yet, I'd take you with me and pimp you out to some friends of mine."

"They'd be delighted to get their hands on a squealing pink thing like you," she hisses. "Cut off your ears, make some pig soup out of them. Now sod off! You've got nothing to offer that would make me change my mind."

"Perfect, she isn't interested," the lieutenant murmurs to himself, "all the more reason to move on from this little side task."

"Your partner here gets it. Anything else I can not do for you, gentlemen?" She gives you both a mischievous smile.

"If you sell me a piece, I can introduce you to some people. Free wine, celebrities, some sniff..."

"If I wanted to whore myself out for some Nasenbonbon, I'd go to Porta Rosa. Or better yet, I'd take you with me and pimp you out to some friends of mine."

"Don't you have anything personal? Show me your most conceptual chef-d'oeuvre."

"I don't do 'personal', if that's what you sickos are after. No navel-gazing pieces about what it means to be 'me'."

"No one cares, I know I don't. So sod off, pig! You've got nothing to change my mind."

"If all your art is free, how do you make a living?"

"You call this a living?" She gestures to her surroundings. "Look around you, hog-man, we're all bleeding out on the slab."

This place might be rotten, but at least it's hers.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I can only imagine the horrors you've seen."

"'I can only imagine the horrors,'" she mocks you in a squeaky voice. "I'm not your Channel 8 charity case. Sod off! No one here needs saving."

Nearby, a hoarse bark barrels through an alleyway that sits between two monstrous squats. No one walks down there anymore, but the nostrils of those who pass by in wet weather still detect the sickly scent of gasohol and burnt hair.

(Don't push her.) "Okay, okay. I'll back off."

"Good call, piggo." She smiles to herself, satisfied.

"Let me in. Let me hear what you have to say."

"Fuck outta here," she bursts out laughing. "This 'let's get through this together' type of stuff doesn't work on me. Especially if it's coming from a pig!"

"But you feel at home here, right? Besides, there's nowhere else to go."

A strong gust of wind knocks into her. Then she shouts: "So what, pig? You gonna mock me now? I don't need this."

"One day something will come along and pull you out of the muck."

"What, like your feeble business offer? Are you going to be the turning point in my shitty life story? A little fairy from above?"

"I'm after something a little more challenging. I have an Actual Art Degree, after all."

"I thought you were a pig?" She squashes her nose with a thumb so it resembles a snout.

"Both police work and art criticism require analytical talent and informed judgement calls."

"Ooh, little piggy knows the big words. What a waste of a perfectly good saucisson, stuffing it full of artspeak."

"Sorry, even with your fancy degree, you've got nothing to offer me."

"Yes, I'm a pig, but only if we decide to deconstruct what it means to be a pig."

"No, I'm an Art Cop. I chase down works of lazy derivation in the heated battle for original aesthetics."

(Step back.) "Is this a... happening?"

"I don't do 'happenings', I like to leave a mark." She looks at you as if she's ready to wound you, then stares at the red paint running down the wall.

"I'm not a pig. I am The Law. Show me what you're selling or I will shake you down."

"No, we will not shake anyone down today," the lieutenant clears up, his voice calm and measured.

Words are one thing, but he's not letting you follow through with it.

"Don't come at me with that. You've got nuthin' on me. Not a pork scratching."

"Fine. Whatever. I'll let it slide, but only because I'm interested in your art."

"Too bad, pork sausage, I don't sell my art. The whole point of graffito being on the street is so everyone can see it. No charge -- expression for all."

"Perfect, this is all very on-brand for you. Love that little persona you've created."

"This 'little persona' will grind you into a sausage if you don't stop. I'm not a sellout."

"What's that? The piggy's looking to get into the art market?" Her eyes light up. "Watch out or you'll be auctioned off and face the chop!" She draws a line across her throat with a thumb.

"Do you have any idea what happened to the hanged man's armour?"

"Is that bed in the coal room yours?"

"Ooh. Not only have you found my address, you've discovered my biggest secret: I'm a coal miner."

She does have eyes that seem to be smeared with coal.

"Really? You're a miner?"

"Yes. I keep hoping a shaft will collapse on me, but somehow it never happens."

"Don't you have a real home?"

"Does anyone, in a city like this?" she replies wistfully, looking around.