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THE GREAT GRETCHEN
portrayed by Ivy Levan & Sasha Luss*
inspired by American Horror Story, Marlene Dietrich, Harley Quinn, Mad Moxxi, Emilie Autumn etc.
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Talents
As a former carnie, cabaret and circus performer, Gretchen frequently did and still practices:
- Acrobatics - including aerial acrobatics, contortion, aerial silks.
- Aerial silks
- Contortion--
any sort of thing that requires balance, agility, strength and a limberness that's difficult to come by, really 🫦 she'll give it a go
Russia's answer to Marilyn Monroe and Marlene Dietrich spit out a pearl-skinned daughter two decades before. Raising her on rules as thin and constricting as a steel-boned corset, they doled out sugar in small, measured spoonfuls and whittled away at her confidence until she was little more than a brittle, marble statue. No toys. No sweets. Just a few tasteful books and a family's overinflated sense of importance
Plucked like a weed from the gulag, Gretchen was as invisible as a fairy princess, as delicate as a piece of china. Gretchen was raised by her father, a ruthless old-school oligarch. He used his cane for support and a gold-handled gun to frighten her into obedience. That same gun might as well been levelled at her head as he pressed it into her side and compelled her to smile and demanded she keep sweet.
How then, is a mousy young girl to respond, if not to slip the collar, run away--
--and join the circus?
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THE BREWED LAGOON******
Stepping into Brewed Lagoon, it was like stepping into a place between waking and dreaming and between war and peace: there's hay on the floors, the the walls were covered. Not new paint, not paper, but items: political posters – one of a man riding a horse across the face of Baltimore – hung on every stretch of dark-wood wall between two booths.
There was a full bulletin board of clipped newspaper articles on one; on another: post-it to-do lists, thumbtacked maps, rents and dues tallies, printed images. Rusted table legs stand guard against the assault of rowdy patrons on the placid structure that was crumbling beneath them. And on every side of this grim green first-floor room, you'd see a scattering of shelves, hooks, and ropes that housed weapons.
Pass by any booth and there's another picture tacked over it and another couple sitting in it with their arms around each other laughing happily; another love pledge scribbled in marker across the cheap frame glass; behind every scratched booth with torn upholstery is a couple arguing with raised voices or slammed beers; behind every shelf is another rowdy drunk shouting obscenities at whomever will listen or another boozing brawler leaning against the wall while his companion looks on worriedly; and behind the pine bar – beyond stacked boxes of bullets – hanging is a dartboard; upon it someone's unflattering depiction of a man - his face distorted by all the errant darts that pockmark his image made it indecipherable.
And beyond all this mayhem - where you can decide how much further you want to walk into this warren - there's an idiot who brings his gun with him as he goes to drink; there's no telling if it's real, loaded or recently used.
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