To the left of me was a particularly muscular man in nothing but a tight tank top and jeans. He held a large machete over his head, checking himself out in the mirror. His stylist leaned close to him, bright red paint on her hand, and pressed it flat just over his chest. “Lift your tank top a bit, girls will go feral if they see a bit of blood when you raise your arms,” she said to him. “I think they’ll notice the difference between fake and real blood,” he said. The stylist let out a laugh. “Oh don’t worry,” she said, still giggling. “It’s real.”
