Spite,
Listen, Dimes Square's crawling with vamps who'd trade their velvet capes for a peek at that monstrosity. Bushwick's offering's got zero bite, though—my loft's where the real fiends roam. I've got a fifth-floor altar plastered with Aimee Armstrong's art, and my mezcal's screaming your name. Bring that girlcock of legend, we'll dissect its lore over Bataille jabs and ketamine haze. : A five-inch revelation, sharp as your wit.