oh, I feel a brothel scene coming on...UPDATED

Oops. I hate to do this two turns in a row, but I just had a few projects thrown at me at work this week and am pretty slammed for now. I'll try to get to this tonight, but, in case I don't, I wanted to provide Nick's prompts.

Genre: Sci-Fi
Prop: A gold velvet couch
Line: Whatever you do, don't sneeze!

Have fun!

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UPDATE:

Poor Maribel scrubbed down the pine bar with an old rag and cloudy, soapy water. The first rays of sunrise were creeping in through the dirty window and the dust swirled in the light. A few men snored with their heads on the saloon tables, still wearing their hats and drooling into puddles of spilled liquor. Those few patrons still conscious were squinting through a cloud of cigar smoke at their poker hands or leaning silently against the bar, sipping watered-down, rotgut whiskey. Maribel appreciated this time of day. She had just woken up and got to experience one of the rare times in this town when things were quiet and relatively safe.

Dropping the rag in the bucket and picking up her frilly pink feather duster, Maribel was reminded of her very different past life in this saloon. She was known as the Pink Lady, the main entertainer on the small, crooked stage. When Jimmy, the piano player, would begin the opening chords of her first song, the rowdy cowboys would quiet, the bartenders would pay attention, even the gamblers looked up from their games. Then Maribel would slowly strut out of an upstairs bedroom, her curvy body held up by lace, cheap silk, and whale bones stitched together, twirling her trademark pink feather boa. Singing at the top of her lungs, her voice traveled over the cowboy hats and hanging smoke as she made her way through the audience, pausing at tables to tease and flirt with the patrons, and making an attempt to pick out her money for the night. After surveying her audience, she would climb onto the scuffed stage and belt out the final notes to an overwhelming round of applause. After her last show of the night, she was free to make her real money. With the other bar ladies, she picked out her target, always looking for a regular first and warning the other girls about which men would hit them or wanted crazy things in bed.

As she dusted the stair rail, humming one of her old songs, a door creaked open and Rosaline stumbled out of her room in a green bathrobe. She called out to Maribel and threw a purple dress over the balcony on to the saloon floor. “I need this mended, woman. And today!” Maribel looked up startled, then glanced over at the heap of silk on the ground. She shuffled over to the dress, gathered it up, and started to head back up to her room to get her sewing kit. Rosaline’s door opened again, and a man stomped out, boots on and spurs jangling on the floor. Maribel recognized Brett as the son of one of her old regulars. He threw a vest down the stairs, and it landed on Maribel’s head. As she pulled it off, she heard him stomp back into the room and slam the door. The vest was missing several buttons and had a tear in the back. Maribel sighed.

Back in her room, Maribel watched the town slowly come alive, first the merchants and tradesmen, then a few miners and their wives, and finally the rest of town, rich and poor, walking through the dirt street, clopping in on horseback, and visiting with one another. Maribel bolted up when her door suddenly opened and Brett walked in. “Wher’s ma vest?” he mumbled.

Maribel looked around, trying to remember what he was talking about. “You ain’t done?” he shouted, “Get started, cow poke! This vest ain’t gonna knit itself!” He left, slamming the door.

Maribel laughed, sat back at the window through which daylight poured, and draped her feather duster over her shoulder.