As I walked out of the hotel elevator, I was swarmed by cheers and excited whispers. Some of the hotel employees winked and gave me the thumbs up and even a few elderly rich ladies with their pooches in their laps gracefully clapped and made eye contact with me. "Good luck tonight! You're going to make England proud, for sure! It's now or never," Richard from the lobby desk exclaimed proudly. His chubby chins wiggled from the loud outburst. "Oh, you won't need the luck! You're an absolute hero in all of our eyes," a young mother clamored, bouncing her little shrieking boy in her arms, half-heartedly trying to calm his crowing. I smiled unsteadily, truly appreciating their soothing guidance. In perhaps any other time, I would have beamed and spontaneously hugged some of the crowd close, but not now. My tongue felt dry and thick and my palms damp. "Break a leg out there, girl. You've got real talent in those dainty hands of yours. Jesus, your entire career and rep is on the fucking line, eh?" a towering Black gentleman rumbled, half chuckling. The muscles in my shoulders popped, my neck twisted and my knees shattered. I collapsed listening to the screams of horror and I sensed ripples of shock go through my once giddy audience. I died about 3 minutes later, I think. All I could think about then was how to take my opponent by surprise and if my current tactic that I had excruciatingly brooded upon for the last week would work? My last few words were a strangled, "Oh, fuck me surprised." The silly doctors in the nearby Charming Hospital confirmed that I expired from cowardliness. My once faithful fans scoffed in disgust and never visited my grave from hence forth, except when they had the irresistible urge to urinate evilly on my resting place.