Honey

She's covered in flash and covering herself with her own hands, blue cap pulled low, boxer-wrapped wrist, red lipstick, that little round badge riding on her cap like a pin from a show she went to in 2009. Arms crossed over the chest in the universal "you wish" pose. This is Kat Von D at the Hyatt bar, not a centerfold — she's the one deciding whether you get to talk to her.

Flip her and it's brown damask wallpaper with a skull hiding in the paisley, the kind of print you only notice on the third whiskey. Slow side plays like the back room at the tattoo shop after close — quiet, dim, everything slows down. Pro-fabric on the deck reads fast and predictable, then the paisley grabs and holds a real stop, full shot selection from a straight airmail to a push block that just sits there like it paid rent.

More flies with honey, sure — she just doesn't want the flies. Throw a set, mind your manners, don't ask about the tattoos.