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Sally can feel the ticking of the clock inside her head as she applies a second coat of blush to her pale cheeks. The sound of the bustling nightclub and its patrons already getting drunk on schnapps causes her heart to pick up its pace as she anticipates what’s to come. In approximately twenty minutes, she’ll step out onto the stage of one of the sleaziest nightclubs this side of Berlin, Germany has ever seen. The Kit Kat Club. Her home and secret refuge since she fled the convent in France that she had promised her mother she’d go to way back when she was just an innocent, little school girl. Sally knew she was never meant to be a nun in a quaint little town in France. She was meant for bigger, better things. She wanted to be where the lights shown brighter than the setting sun, and where people begged for her attention at every waking moment. She knew she was meant for the stage. The place where you could play any character and sing any song that would absolutely dazzle a starry-eyed audience. A place where she could be free and, eventually, become a big film star. But she couldn’t do any of that with a destiny set at a convent. That’s why the second her worried mother and brutish father waved goodbye to her at the train station in England, she got on the next train set for Berlin, not France. Berlin was a place where you could get recognized (and not get recognized by your overprotective parents) for your absolute talent. Although it was not ideal for a young women to work at a nightclub, it did give Sally some exquisite experience for being a women. Now, as she hears the crowd grow more in number, Sally can feel the energy of Berlin pulsing through her veins and into her rapidly beating heart, enticing her to pull the actress out from behind the curtain and play make believe. Sally finishes applying her thick, red lipstick, and glances at herself in the club’s dirty backstage mirror. She purses her lips flirtatiously and places a dapper hand under her chin, playing with her ever so beautiful reflection like it’s a game of charades. The art of play and expression gets the best of her, however, because she doesn’t even begin to notice the young man sneaking up behind her. “Rawr!” The man yells, grasping Sally by her thin waist tightly and popping his head neatly between the crook of her neck and right ear. A shocked and ear-piercing yelp escapes from Sally’s throat, sounding as though a little baby piglet has made the distressing noise instead of her. Sally turns to her right swiftly to see the Emcee, laughing pleasantly at her sudden, shocked expression. “Oh, you wanker!” She shouts angrily, slapping the Emcee’s arm repeatedly to where it makes a bright red mark. “‘You wanker!’” Emcee repeats, mocking Sally’s British tone over his own German one as he shies away from her blows. “You should have seen your little face! You went as pale as a Geist!” Emcee proceeds to laugh proudly as he tries to tickle Sally under her armpits. Sally slaps his hands away and crosses her arms angrily, showing just how mad she is at the Master of Ceremonies. “Oh, come on kleines Lamm. You know I was just making sure you were ready for tonight’s show.” Emcee states, raising his eyebrows seductively at her as he takes some blush from off of Sally’s dresser and pats it onto his own, pale complexion. Sally, arms still crossed, looks him over sternly. The Emcee is a young man, no older than Sally, with the longest piece of his black hair curling just above his cheekbone. Because he is about to start tonight’s show, his black hair is slicked over to his right side with an overuse of hair gel. His eyes are coated in a dark, navy blue that extends up to his eyebrows, and his eyebrows, themselves, are painted to look way more defined than they actually are. His eyes are lined in thick, black liner that makes his brown eyes appear to pop right out of his skull, and he has decided to dress his lips in a dark maroon instead of a bright red. His outfit, if you can even call it that, is nothing more than a tiny white vest strung together with a plethora of white suspenders that hold up his baggy dress pants, and a small black bow tie strapped against his tiny bare chest in a feeble attempt to make himself look presentable. The black dress slacks he wears barely covers his shins, and sits way too big around his skinny waist. To finish off his sleazy look, he wears worn-down brown boots with no socks (because he can’t afford them) and refuses to tie the laces together because otherwise they would make the shoes fit too small. He pats the small loofa filled with radiant pink power over his defined cheek bones before Sally has had enough and strips the small makeup appliance away from him. “You know I don’t like when you ‘test’ me,” she states bitterly, patting the leftover blush over her already red cheeks in an attempt to hide the sudden flush of blood that has run to them. Sally feels Emcee’s hands wrap around her waist once more, and spies his reflection in the musky mirror. She watches as his face contorts into a wide, toothy grin that makes even Sally’s stomach churn at times, and takes note of how he tightens his grip around her waist, likely in another attempt to taunt her. “But I like to test you. It’s fun for me. Plus, it keeps you on your toes. And wouldn’t Maximillian love for you to be bright and eager for the show,” Emcee supplies, sticking his tongue out and licking her right ear slightly. Sally cringes and shakes her head violently in an attempt to create distance between his tongue and the small piece of flesh, which only makes the young emcee giggle like a raunchy school boy even more. “Oh, will you stop that!” She threatens, looking at both of their reflections in the mirror as she begins to stuff her makeup into a tiny satchel. “I’ll tell you what, you keep this up and I’ll have Texas kick you in the bum! She’s already fed up with how you poke fun at her short hair. I’m sure she’d love to do me a favor and kick that flat arse of yours!” Emcee only huffs triumphantly as he nestles his lips against the back of her shoulder blade, allowing only his big, brown eyes to show through her blonde bob hairstyle. Sally meets those big, doe eyes, and releases a small sigh as she zips up the small makeup satchel. Even through the dim lightning of backstage, she can see that they resemble two young children who have just put on their mother’s makeup without asking permission. It sets everything into perspective for Sally - moments like these. Moments where she actually comprehends that she is a young girl practically selling herself in front of Berlin; and the emcee is nothing more than a young man taking on the worst sides of Germany, all with a witty smirk and obnoxious banter to defend himself. Sally doesn’t like to think too much into it, though. Especially not when you have ten minutes before the spotlight hits the stage. So, she gets her mind back on track the best way she knows how. With something the two of them do before every show. “You want to go take a sneak peek?” She whispers, leaning into the Emcee’s side with a giddy, childish smirk. Emcee’s face lights up slightly, and he returns the question with his classic devilish grin that makes even the most dapper of audience members clutch their pearls. “You know I do,” he responds, staring her in the eye and waiting for the fun to begin. Sally giggles happily and grasps Emcee’s hand before they both begin racing off further backstage. Together, they weave between the cabaret girls giving themselves their finishing touches before the show, Victor and Bobby, who are polishing their respected instruments, and barely make it past one of the club owners without being caught as they head for a set of spiral staircases. Once there, they climb the metal stairs like they’re being chased by the German army, themselves, and try their best to walk along the catwalk as quietly as they can without being noticed by the drunken patrons below. From where they are sitting, the two of them can see every aspect of different social classes in Berlin, all huddled together in the smokey nightclub. Pearls, jewels, boas, feathers, fancy suits, trench coats - all of it - sitting right there, waiting for a show to take all their troubles away. “The world always looks so small from up here,” the emcee whispers dreamily, sitting beside Sally on the catwalk, his legs dangling precariously off the thin metal bar. “Indeed, it does,” she replies, glancing over at him for a moment before returning her twinkling eyes back to the people settling into the club’s sofas. “Who are you going to flirt with tonight?” She asks, smiling widely as she nudges her shoulder against his, watching for his response. Emcee smiles thinly, amused by Sally’s question, but she can tell he’s in a dream-like state based on the way he’s looking down at the crowd. “I guess whoever looks interested. Or whoever needs it most,” he replies, his eyes still appearing as if they’re in a daze; his body resembling a decaying statue. Sally nods gingerly, her smile fading slightly as she takes one last glance around the busy nightclub. Through all the smoke and minimally plain colored clothing, something bright catches her eye. She zeroes in on it, and her heart skips a beat. She spies a man, sitting pretty up close and personal to the stage, wearing the worst shade of green anyone could possibly imagine, with a bright red arm band wrapped around his left arm. She glances over and sees that the man sitting beside him also dons this brightly colored accessory. Then, she looks over to the opposite side of the club in a sudden frenzy, and sees another man. And then another. And then a woman. All of them are wearing the same arm band that many dedicated to recent politics are wearing nowadays. Without thinking much, she grabs onto Emcee’s arm, her eyes still glued to the arm band wearers, and tugs it lightly. “Do you see the crowd out there tonight,” she asks dully, as if her voice has been recorded and set to play on the radio. Emcee looks at her briefly before glancing in the direction of where her eyes are glued to. His lips turn down into a thin frown, and his eyebrows furrow only enough to seem noticeable. “Yes, I do,” he finally responds, sounding dim and slightly agitated, not seeming too surprised, but nevertheless, not at all okay. “I never realized how many there were,” she acknowledges, continuing to stare at the man with the arm band who looks to be scanning the club like an officer surveilling traffic. The emcee hums in response, which only seems to make the air feel even more thick up in the catwalk than it has ever been before. Sally feels her hands become clammy as she grips the piece of metal connected to the walkway. Her stomach suddenly feels as though it’s been filled with butterflies as she risks a glance over at Emcee. Her gaze softens, however, when she sees he’s still staring blankly at another arm wearer, this one attempting to seduce a lady in one of the club’s booths. “Are you alright,” she asks softly, feeling guilty for even asking such a thing. Emcee doesn’t respond, his focus seemingly still fixed on the company ahead like he’s trapped in deep thought. “Emcee, darling,” she pries, rubbing his bruised arm in hopes of gaining his full attention. Emcee jars heavily, blinking repeatedly as if he’s been put under some sort of spell. “Hmm,” he asks, narrowing his eyebrows softly in confusion, looking somewhat razzled and skittish as he tries to bring his thoughts back into order. “I said are you going to be alright? You know, with performing for them tonight,” Sally states, her head tilting towards the certain people of interest. The daze seems to linger on his face for a moment longer before Emcee shakes his head slightly to get it back into thinking like his usual mysteriously inviting self. “Of course I am, Liebling. Why wouldn’t I be,” he entices, raising his eyebrows seductively and smiling wide and toothy in an attempt to hide his sudden loss of emotional balance. Sally sighs pathetically, wishing that, for once, he would tear down his guarded wall - just for her. It’s not like she blames him, though. Beneath the pound of makeup and overuse of hair gel, she can see that he’s scared. That he’s been watching his back ever since the Nazi Party became well-known in Berlin. That he’s trying his absolute best to remain the fun, sleazy Master of Ceremonies that everybody knows and loves in spite of it. But she knows who he truly is. She’s become great friends with Emcee, even going as far as to say he’s like a brother to her. She knows he’s different, and not just with who he decides to take backstage with him after every show. She knows he can be a different person behind the curtain, if only he would release his tight grip on the mysterious cloak he covers himself in. Most importantly, she knows his greatest secret. That he’s Jewish. Sally learned that the emcee was Jewish after both of them were up late one night in his personal dressing room, gossiping with one another about anything and everything (something the two of them did often after the audience had left the club). It’s true, however, that they were having way to much gin, and that’s how Emcee let it slip that he missed his mother’s famous Latke’s when they were discussing which foods they’d kill to have if they were rich. Sally was ditsy at times, so in her drunken haze, she stupidly implied that Latkes were a Jewish food, and why on earth would he give up his money for a Jewish dish. Sally would never forget how, for the very first time, Emcee let his stern, brick walls drop in a moment of weakness. Even through the puff of smoke from the cigarette that Emcee lit for her, she could see on his face how his mind was running through every excuse in an attempt to try and stray from being ‘caught’ any further. Sally sobered up pretty quickly after her remark, and laughed awkwardly, something she always seemed to do when stuck in uncomfortable situations. “What? Are- are you Jewish?” She asked, narrowing her eyes quizzically at the emcee, who now looked like a drunken shell of a boy. Emcee took a puff of his own cigarette slowly, deciding on whether he was sober enough to even want to answer the question. “I-I don’t mean any harm by that,” she stated awkwardly, raising both of her hands up to show she truly meant no judgment. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you were Jewish. Not at all! People are people, I always say, and I have no problem holding a conversation with a Jew! None whatsoever! You’re just fine the way you are! I mean-” “What would it matter if I was Jewish,” Emcee interrupted bitterly, looking at her with an intense, deep stare. “Oh! Nothing at all! I mean, I don’t care!” she exclaimed, looking rather pale and worried upon Emcee’s sudden shift in mood. The emcee snorted violently, laying back against the chaise lounge chair he was sitting on, angrily, as if he was both insulted and ashamed. An uncomfortable silence befell the two of them before the emcee decided to speak up again. “What? Am I shocking you?” He spit harshly, refusing to face the pale faced girl in his dressing room. “Oh, not a bit!” She exclaimed in her shocked, overly British tone of voice. “But..is it true?” She continued, glancing at the emcee with a sincere, yet eager, eye. The emcee snickered slightly as his gaze narrowed in on the outside world. This gave Sally enough courage and humiliation to make a crucial statement in the moment. “I won’t tell a single soul. Your secret will be safe with me. I promise. I value you so much as a friend. I even see you as my brother, you know,” she chuckled awkwardly, trying to keep the air from getting anymore thick. “Please don’t tell me I lost you as such.” Emcee’s face contorted into a genuine smile, and he glanced over at her as if he was amused. Without speaking, he reached over, took the bottle of gin, and filled both of their glasses. He placed her original glass in front of her, and then took his own. “Of course not, Liebling. What would I do without your high pitched voice constantly annoying me, ja?” Emcee smiled wide as he picked up his glass and raised it in front of her. Sally smiled back at him, nonchalantly wiping away a tear from her eye as she picked up her own glass and raised it high. “To us!” The emcee said, clinking his glass against hers. “To us! And the secrets we’ll forever keep!” Sally exclaimed before both of them took a shot of their drink. And she meant it, too. Nothing in this world, no armed guard or the Nazi Party, themselves, would ever coax her into releasing the emcee’s deepest, darkest secret. Not even if Maximillian, the owner of the Kit Kat Club, begged her - who was she kidding - threatened her with her very own job position. She valued the emcee over her own life, which was saying something incredible when it came to Sally Bowles. So, as she stares at Emcee and the mask he put on for her - just for her - she knows that he’s secretly telling her to forget about the worrisome people in the audience and, instead, focus on putting on a good show for the rest of the bustling crowd. Keep pretending, Sally. Just keep pretending like you always do. That’s what she swears she sees on the Emcee’s face as he looks at her earnestly. And so, she does exactly that. “I’m sure there is nothing to worry about,” she entails in her classic, chipper tone. “It’s just politics! And what’s that got to do with us?” She pushes her cheeks to smile wider than they want to, and sits herself up straighter to look more confident and presentable. She watches Emcee do the same as he replies. “Of course. What’s there to worry about anyway, right? There just here for a show. And it’s our job to give them one.” His remark sounds way less convincing than hers does, but she decides now is not the time to dwell on vocal tones with a show fast approaching. “Yes, there just here for a show,” she says quietly, trying to keep the sane thought from snowballing anywhere grim. “They’re just here for a show.” The two of them look back into the crowd, a weird and horrible silence falling between them. They’re both trying to convince themselves of a better explanation, but they can feel the ache in their hearts and the butterflies in their stomachs. They know life has changed, and they’re not sure if they like it. In an attempt to lighten the suddenly dark mood, Emcee scans the crowd again, and laughs as he points to a snazzy man dressed in a long coat. “Six marks says that gentleman right there will want you to lure him into your dressing room tonight.” “Oh, stop it!” Sally exclaims, slapping Emcee on the arm as the two of them laugh quietly amongst themselves. “Was zum Teufel macht ihr zwei hier oben?” Comes a booming voice from up above the pair. Sally and Emcee look up in shock to see Max hovering above them angrily, his hands on both of his hips and a deep scowl coating his lips. “Max!” Sally exclaims in shock, laughing awkwardly in the way she always does when she knows she’s about to be in trouble. “What a pleasant surprise! How are you, darling?” Max doesn’t look pleased, nor convinced, at Sally’s attempt at coaxing him out of his sudden, horrible mood. “You two. Up. Now!” Max orders, pointing his finger at the pair of performers with the same, ugly grimace painted on his wrinkled face. Emcee and Sally begin to rise to their feet quickly in hopes of not pushing Max’s buttons any further as he stares at them like an angry parent. “I swear,” Max starts, swaying left and right like he’s about to explode on the spot. “I shouldn’t have to treat my Master of Ceremonies and my Toast of Mayfair like a couple of disrespectful children! Are you two Vollpfosten aware that I have a show to run, and I don’t have the time to be chasing down its main stars! You two have been doing this gig far too long to be pulling these dumm shenanigans! I hope both of you know that I can replace you like that!” Max snaps his fingers forcefully as he watches Emcee help Sally rise to her feet. “Oh, please! Stille Stinkstiefel. We both know that you’d never actually get rid of us. You know we’re too important to be let go. Plus, it’s not like you even have the guts to do that, anyway,” Emcee taunts, smiling wide and puckish as he leans into Max’s face playfully. However, unbeknownst to Emcee, and without much warning from the angry nightclub owner, himself, Max suddenly lays a forceful backhand against the emcee’s pale flesh. Sally gasps loudly and raises a hand to her gaping mouth as she watches the emcee turns his face back to the angered man slowly. Emcee’s face has dropped its puckish charm, and now shows a bit more humiliation as he places a hand up to his aching cheek. “Listen here, you Arshch mit orhren!” Max threatens furiously, waving a firm, commanding finger in the emcee’s face. “No one will talk to me like that! No one! Especially not my stupid emcee! I will end your career right here and right now, you pathetic little newt! Don’t think I won’t!” Emcee only stares at Max, looking equally like a child who had been beaten for putting his hand in the cookie jar, and angry, like a man wishing revenge on his worst enemy. “Max, darling,” Sally starts, attempting to ease the suddenly tense situation with her natural, feminine charm. However, Max is far too angry to fall for her classic manipulation because he only raises his finger at her angrily and spits out, “den Mund halten!” With his fury still riding high, Max suddenly takes Emcee by his thin suspenders and pulls him closer. Emcee tries to hide his shocked gasp, but even he, with his calm, mysterious charm, can’t hold back the breath of air catching in his throat. “Today will begin the day you learn to respect your boss! Now, with that being said, don’t you ever pull that little stunt again. Do I make myself clear?” “Oh, Max, stop it! It was my idea to come up here, anyway. Leave Emcee alone! We’ll leave and get ready for the show, alright? Come on, Emcee,” Sally exclaims in a panicked state, trying to grab the emcee’s arm and pull him away from their angry boss. “Leck mich am Arsch,” Emcee utters angrily, looking Max directly in the eye as a way to challenge the older man. Max’s eyes widen and, before Sally can even try and attempt to calm him down again, he slaps Emcee across the face once more and plows his knee deep into the performer’s abdomen. Emcee releases a strangled yelp as all the air is thrusted out of his body. He bends over quickly in pain, but he can’t go all the way down due to Max still holding onto his suspenders. “Who’s in charge here!” Max demands, his face coated in a crimson red. Sally can hear the Emcee mutter something quiet and incoherent under his breath, but that clearly isn’t enough for the enraged man. “Who’s in charge!” Max demands again, plowing his knee forcefully back into Emcee’s stomach. “YOU ARE!” Emcee yells suddenly, looking up at the owner of the club and staring at him in sheer, uncontrollable anger. Max seems pleased by Emcee’s submission, and smiles as he pulls him upright. “That’s better,” he states, releasing Emcee’s suspenders and taking a step back. Sally watches as Emcee’s angry gaze never wavers as he breathes heavily from the sudden blows. She appears by his side in a matter of moments, asking him if he is okay, when she is interrupted by Max. “You,” he says, pointing to Emcee, “get down there, now! Get your jacket on, put a smile on that dumb, little face of yours, and make the audience melt like you usually do. I want a good show tonight, got it? And don’t you dare be late, or you’ll have hell to pay!” Emcee was about to make another snarky remark, but he could feel Sally tug at his arm in a vague warning, so he just nodded his head slowly. Before leaving, however, he turned to Sally and whispered in her ear, “good luck tonight, Liebling. See you after the show.” Sally only has time to whisper back, “I’m sorry. We’ll talk later,” before Max gives them both a warning glance. Emcee nods his head kindly and makes his exit, not before uttering, “Arcschloch,” under his breath as he passes by Max. Thankfully, Max doesn’t seem to hear (or he just doesn’t want to care with only 5 minutes to showtime) as he takes a cigarette out from his coat pocket and lights it under the dim lighting of the catwalk. He glances over at Sally dully, and extends the cigarette out towards her. “Oh! Thank you,” she says, retrieving the cigarette and taking a puff from it. Max takes the cigarette back impatiently, and inhales a long drag of it before speaking. “You know better,” he mutters, staring at her like she has just slapped him across the face. Sally could feel her own face flush as she watches Max take in another puff. “I know. I’m sorry, dear. But we were just taking in the crowd before showtime. You know. To better prepare ourselves.” Sally gulps heavily, wondering if it’s the inhalation of the cigarette or the events that just unfolded moments prior that has made her throat so dry. Max doesn’t seem too fazed by her excuse and, instead, only nods as he stares down at the busy crowd settling into their respective seats. “Well, next time, just listen to the bustling crowd from the wings, okay?” Sally nods sadly. “Yes, Max.” “You’re forgetting your lollipop,” Max continues dryly. “Go back downstairs and get it. Then come directly back up here. Don’t miss your cue, or you’re out. Got it, sweet cheeks?” Sally nods once more, and watches as Max heads for the spiral staircase. “Also, I’ll be wanting some pampering tonight, so no invitations.” And just like that, Max is thundering down the spiral staircase, likely looking for another victim to harass with his anger. Sally takes a deep breath when she realizes she was finally alone, and allows her head to fall back carelessly as she tries to get her rapidly beating heart to slow. The moment doesn’t last very long, however, as she soon hears the familiar drum roll that begins every show. With a small curse under her breath, she gathers her senses and begins scurrying down the spiral death trap. Trying not to bump into the cabaret girls scampering up the stairs to gather their instruments, and muttering a few “excuse me’s” as she nudges past them, Sally finally reaches the main floor of backstage. There, she sees Emcee waiting for his cue behind the array of doors that guards a small portion of the stage like he always does. She notices that he’s still rubbing at his hurt cheek, and appears to be lost in thoughts of humiliation as he listens to the drums getting louder. He spots her, and smiles thinly, attempting to put the hand rubbing at his face into his coat pocket. She runs up to him, trying to explain her situation as quickly as possible for both of their sake. “Sorry, I just need to find my-” “Lollipop? Here, I got it,” he interrupts, holding the plastic prop that resembles the oversized sweet that reads: Ich Liebe Dich, out towards her. “You got it for me?” She asks, shocked, ripping the giant prop from out of his hand and grasping it between two fingers. “It was by my coat,” he explains, fixing the collar on the black, leather trench coat he was now wearing. “You seem to have forgotten it, so I thought I’d just pick it up so you wouldn’t have to run all that way. Wouldn’t want you to be late and risk getting kicked out. You still need a place to sleep tonight.” Sally frowns at him sympathetically, and responds. “Thank you, Em. You’re always looking out for me.” Emcee smiles sweetly and lowers his head to look at the floor which, given the subtle light of the stage, helps Sally see that his cheek has already started turning black and blue from the earlier beating. “Oh, dearie, your poor face,” Sally exclaims quietly, careful not to let the guest hear as she raises a hand to his cheek. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry!” Emcee places his hand over hers and scoffs lightly, staring at her like an older brother getting babied by their much younger sister. However, a sort of initiative suddenly takes over him and he gently pulls Sally’s hand away from his face. “We don’t have time for this. You can’t risk running late. I mean it when I said Max might kick you out for this. He actually seemed pretty serious this time. Wild for a Shabbaroon.” Emcee scowls as he mentions Max’s name and remembers the cruel encounter mere moments ago. Sally frowns sadly, acknowledging that Emcee is right, but not liking it one bit. She huffs sternly, feeling agitated and defeated as she stares at Emcee hopping up and down, a routine he does frequently when he’s trying to get more into character. “Em, I-” Sally starts, but Emcee doesn’t allow her voice to waver any further. “Show’s about to start, Liebling. Time to race up the stairs like the Mäuschen that you are, ja?” Emcee looks over at her and smiles mischievously, already back into his sleazy persona that is completely blind to the outside world. He sells the facade even more by raising his eyebrows seductively and slapping her on the bum in a playful manner, encouraging her to get a move on and to not distract him any further. Sally picks up the memo quite quickly, but decides to act on her sudden instinct rather than do what she’s actively being told. Without much warning, she lunges at Emcee and wraps her thin arms around his neck in an intense embrace. “I love you, Em,” she whispers in his ear, sounding as though she’s almost moved to tears by the sudden change of the night. “I love you too, Meine Liebe,” Emcee responds, holding Sally close and acknowledging just how much warmer she is to him. “We’ll talk later in your dressing room, right? After I’ve given Max his time,” Sally asks, her arms still wrapped tightly around his neck. Emcee sighs pathetically at the mention of Max’s ‘agreement’ he’s set for a Sally, but proceeds to speak into her ear. “Of course, Sonnenschein. I’ll be waiting for you.” Sally nods against his shoulder and braces as Emcee suddenly tosses her away from him, opening one of the doors on the stage and sticking his index finger out, ready to entice the audience. Apparently, in her haste, she had forgotten to listen for the beckoning drum roll that dictates the start of another sleazy show. But Emcee heard it. He always hears it. Sally backs away slowly, realizing that she now only has approximately five minutes until her main cue, and Max will ultimately sack her if she misses it. As she heads for the staircase, she notices Emcee blow her a kiss with his free hand that isn’t in the spotlight. She pretends to catch the kiss, and places it to her heart as she watches him step through the small door onto the main stage. Without a moment to waste, Sally dashes up the staircase just as Emcee begins the song he sings every night to start the show. “Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome!” As Sally ascends the catwalk, she overhears the cabaret boys and girls gossiping behind their instruments as they wait for their respective cues. She can hear them wondering why Max is so uptight tonight and if Emcee looks to have a mixture of black and blue tainted to his cheek. She ignores all of this, however, as she pushes herself through the crowd to her seat on the catwalk. Sally sits down on the wooden chair situated in the center of the catwalk, and ruffles her tiny, red tutu slightly to make it appear more flared. She fumbles with the lollipop prop a bit, twisting it back and forth between her fingers to make sure the words plastered to its red base is facing out towards the crowd, and waits for her inevitable cue. As she waits, feeling especially jittery and tense tonight, she can’t help but notice the arm wearers in the crowd again. Her stomach flips as she sees one of them laugh at Emcee as he removes his coat seductively. Lord only knows what that dastardly man is thinking as he laughs his problems away. A bitter taste fills her mouth as she watches the man intently, and it doesn’t ever seem to go away, even as she hears the cabaret girls and boys walk down the stairs onto the stage. Her eyes dance over to another political entity, but this one looks too stern for her liking. His arms are crossed tightly and his jaw is wired shut in stern confusion. Clearly Emcee has made a joke directed to his ‘cause,’ and the man didn’t seem to like it. Who cares if you don’t like it she hears herself think, but the thought gets tossed out of her head as she shakes it violently. All of this ‘political stuff’ shouldn’t affect her. She knows this. After all, she’s the one who always implies that politics has nothing to do with her. But something clicks in her brain, something heavy and forceful, when the ones currently dancing and singing and practically selling themselves in front of the worst of Berlin are at the butt end of this political joke. Especially the one labeled ‘The Master of Ceremonies.’ His specific job is to not care much about the outside world, and to give all these useless people a chance to forget whatever worried them in the first place. Giving yourself up. All for the luxury of a few marks. What a pathetic life they live. Sally feels her thoughts race inside her mind carelessly until her ears finally connect to her brain long enough for it to understand that Emcee has just finished introducing the Cabaret boys. Knowing that her cue is coming up in a few moments, she pushes her shoulders back and straightens her spine, lollipop prop firmly in her hand and an inviting, Cheshire grin plastered to her dumb, little face. She feels her heart race and the actress coming out from behind the curtain as Emcee speaks to the crowd. “And, finally, the Toast of Mayfair, Fräulein Sally Bowles!” Emcee exclaims, raising his hand up in the direction of the catwalk. “Hello, darlings!” Sally screams happily, waving her arms gleefully out towards the drunken audience like the good little performer she is. Sally can feel the stage lights burn at her corneas as she scans the audience gleefully. It’s brilliant glare pulls her further into the facade of the Kit Kat Club, making her soon forget all of the troubles she had earlier that night. The sound of the music and the cabaret performers dancing along makes her head feel light and airy as the actress soon takes over. She is no longer the nervous little lady who was reprimanded by her boss, and was forced to watch her dearest friend be reminded of their pathetic excuse for a life. Now, she is Sally Bowles. The air-headed, yet the most charming and most talented, young lady of the Kit Kat Club, who was born to be in the blaring spotlight.
Right now, she is The Toast of Mayfair.