Andy Warhol One Blue Pussy

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Gaspode and Laddie led the way through the alleys and up a rickety outside staircase. Maybe they smelled out Ginger’s room. Victor wasn’t going to argue with mysterious animal senses.
Victor went up the back stairs as quietly as possible. He was dimly aware that where people stayed was often infested by the - and his own stared at him from every angle.
There was a large mirror at one end of the poky room, and a couple of half-burned candles in front of him.
Victor deposited the girl carefully on the narrow bed and then stared around him, very carefully. His sixth, seventh and eighth senses were screaming at him. He was in a place of magic.
‘It’s like a sort of temple,’ he said. ‘A temple to . . . herself.’ Common or Greatly Suspicious Landlady, and he felt that he had enough problems as it was. He used Ginger’s feet to push open the door. It was a small room, low-ceilinged and furnished with the sad, washed-out furniture found in rented rooms across the multiverse. At least, that’s how it had started out. What it was furnished with now was Ginger. She had saved every poster. Even those from early clicks, when she was just in very small print as A Girl. They were thumb-tacked to the walls. Ginger’s face