"Hello again, officers. Have you come to admire my mural?"

"That it? Alright. It all helps." She gives you the painting.

"How much do you want for it?"

"Sixty seven thousand reál. And your head on a silver tray."

Remember, this isn't about the art or the artist -- this needless purchase implies your excessive wealth. Art comes across as more tasteful than simply hanging cash on the wall.

She may antagonize you but she's still a struggling artist with no prospects. She needs as much money as you can give.

Lowball her. The wretched are used to rolling with the punches.

"Show it to me." (Study it closer.)

She juts out her hand, letting you examine the piece. Three red splotches have been shot at a diagonal across the surface. Tinier spots of various colours fan out from the same point of origin.

"Well, piggo, what do you make of it?" She sounds almost mocking, waiting for your reaction.

There's tension in these strokes of genius, a desire to step into a dialogue with the viewer, to provoke them. A meditation on... Sein und Nichtsein?

As said before, it's a palette. Nothing to see here.

The angle of the paint drops reveals that they were fired at the canvas with the force of a hand cannon.

It's one of those ink-blot tests. An invitation to connect with the divine.

"I don't really have an opinion."

"Of course you don't. Why do I even bother? Just cough up the money!"

"I see... blood-clot coins placed as offering to a pulsing threshold. But what does it mean?"

"It's a sign! Better pay up or you'll anger the terrible beast from... what did you say?" She knows -- she just wants to ham it up. "The threshold. Careful now, I heard it has a soft spot for smoked pork."

Hmph, her improv skills could do with some work. That was a pathetic performance. Are we supposed to be scared? NONE OF US ARE SCARED!

"It's just a mixing palette."

"Damn." She's almost ready to abandon the entire endeavour, but then changes her mind. "Well, it's also art. It's a conceptual illusion. Both the tool and the outcome."

Tool? Maybe she's onto something after all. Athletes are simultaneously tools and artists -- bodies chiselled to a singular purpose.

"Someone got killed here. A five millimetre calibre, point-blank range."

"Yes, my artistic integrity." It's impossible to tell whether she's being serious or not.

She is. Despite the demeanour, playing this game brings no joy to her. She cares about art and her private relationship to it.

"You're exploring the liminal space between being and unbeing. A cunning juxtaposition."

"Yeah, whatever, Art Cop." A wide smile crosses her face. "Spaces, bodies, shit. Hit me with that lingo!"

"Yeah, whatever." A wide smile crosses her face. "Spaces, bodies, shit. Hit me with that lingo!"

It looks like a palette. Nothing more than a board for mixing paint.

"Would you describe this as one of your signature pieces?"

"Signature? Oh yeah, pigster. I sneezed while holding a wet brush. Paint flecked onto the canvas, and voila. You don't get more signature than that."

Is that all she thinks it takes to be an artist? Outperform her with her own style. Make it yours.

"That's disgusting."

"Says you." She looks you up and down.

"An exquisite commentary on the precious serendipity of the creative process."

"If you say so. I like to think that my trigeminal nerve painted it."

(Tickle the longest of your nasal hairs.)

You feel the biggest sneeze of your life itching its way to the centre of your face...

"Uh, what are you doing...?" She looks disgusted, her individual facial features racing to be the most dramatic expression of her disapproval.

The lieutenant furrows his brow at another one of your eccentricisms.

"Nothing. Nothing! Khm..." (Stop the sneeze while you still can.)

"I'm an artist too." (Your nostrils flare involuntarily.)

You tilt your head back, close your eyes, and get ready to snap it all forward...

The coat gets flung over her head as she braces for impact.

The lieutenant is desperately searching for another handkerchief.

The pre-sneeze hype is unreal.

The mucous gripping the sides of your nostrils is cheering. All scents and odours seem to have left the world; your nasal chambers have become wind tunnels of very ticklish particles.

"AHHH--"

But the rest doesn't come. You exhale softly -- no spittle, no shout. It's over. Just like that.

Perhaps not everyone is an artist after all.

"Was that it?" She looks relieved. "Stop playing with your snout and let's get on with this so you can go back to your stinky sty. You still want this painting or what?"

The lieutenant is desperately searching for a handkerchief.

"Interesting. What I really want to know is -- what do you call this new style?"

"Art-ishoo."

"So you painted this with a sneeze? Truly remarkable... a clear sign of a genius!"

"That's what I said, piglet."

"Really? You're just going to let go of a chance to milk some stupid piggo rolling in cash?"

"Blah-blah. I'm not for sale, piggo." She looks almost disappointed by your lousy offer.

Try as you might, you just can't fathom what a young rebel dressed like a granny would want from you. She certainly isn't a flowers and chocolate kinda girl.

Cindy picks the dirt out of her fingernails as you stand there, quiet and clueless. Without looking up, she says: "Ask something or piss off, swine."

Humiliation wasn't enough for her? How about you offer her something -- like a job?