Zamie yawned, twirling Lucky around her index finger as she idly lays in her chair, half lidded glances darting around the area. Unlike some performers her show requires some additional setup as live rounds flying around isn't really that safe, requiring lots of formal papers to be signed and officials to watch her shoot targets. Documents and Bureaucrats are the two things in life that Zamie loathes the most, well, behind that guy who groped her at her last show, causing her to shoot his hand off and cause -lots- of the other two hated things to occur. Zamie loves groping, but it needs to be in the appropriate places, like in bed or at a wedding.<br/><br/>She looks to her new gun, an unamed as of yet revolver and looks to be much too large for her hand to hold properly. It has two triggers, fires rifle rounds, is a pitch black matte color all around save the grip, and beeps strangely when empty of rounds followed by a mechanical loading mechanism popping out. "I need to give you a name, hmm...".<br/><br/>Zamie pulls at the corset-strings of her dress, looking like a porcelain doll. A tan porecllain doll. A tan porcelain doll with nice hips that pouts a lot, in a somewhat antiquated lime-green Victorian dress, dark black opera gloves and stockings on her legs, though the latter is obscured by her  billowing forck. She looks bored at the carnival so far, recently being hired after she was so rudely evicted from her last one. It was -not- her fault, the safety was off! Intentionally off, but so what? She looks over to the crew setting up her range, a huge mound of clay pigeons, clay mice, and clay fleas for her to shoot to pieces.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>