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I met Bambi in the backend of nowhere, a windowless club called Gaucho's. I was nursing an Old Fashioned, occasionally chewing at the plastic swizzle stick and wishing it was something more fun to chew on. The deejay's loud brassy voice boomed out over the stereo speakers in the club, too loud for any other place than a seedy strip joint.

"Gentlemen, please get your wallets ready for Bambi!"

She strutted from behind the blue velvet curtains in an outfit clearly bought at a Party City, a cheap knock-off of a flapper outfit as Hey Big Spender started drooling from the overhead speakers. The new bloods around the main stage started launching cash at her, a momentary artillery fire of singles and fives. I sipped my cocktail in quiet, and watched.

Bambi was a sickeningly cute and cloying name for a doe stripper, but no one said strippers were clever. She was shockingly cute for being a dancer at Gaucho's, maybe just cresting twenty years of age. Her pouty lips held an inordinate amount of ruby red lipstick that matched the unfortunate shade of blush on her cheeks. Her breasts were overflowing with silicone, obscenely big and barely fitting into her chinzy costume. I wrinkled my nose as she dipped low, men stuffing singles right into her cleavage (despite the no touching rule).

The doe could play a crowd, no doubt about that.

Despite the heavy-hand on the make-up and the college investment on her chest, Bambi wasn't so bad-looking. Her ass was nice and pert, something a person of less stature than I would try to smack walking down the street. The white fur that made the delicate heart shape there peeked itself a hello at the crowd as she bent forward again, and the men howled and wolf-whistled (in some cases, by virtue of species alone).

The big band horns started to drown out most of the noises from the crowd. Bambi found her grace on the pole, spinning around it with grace more akin to a ballet dancer than an exotic dancer. This was where I fell in love with the doe, the way her hooves let her pirouette upon the glossy stage, her hand barely caressing the pole. It was as if the pole was merely keeping her around it by gravity alone. The swizzle stick in my maw hung from a wet lip as her twirling became more fluid and graceful. The costume's tassles flickered and whipped around her, eddys of energy ensconcing her being.

Bambi hoisted her leg up high, hooking it firmly around the brass pole, and launched herself head-over-hooves into a spin. The crowd's whistling was faint against the bombastic soundtrack, and I was nearly tempted to join in. Cirque du Soleil would have killed for Bambi's talents, working that pole more like a ribbon of cloth hanging from the ceiling. She was far too accomplished and natural to be here.

I had to have her.

There were no two ways about it--the men here were going to throw money at her and forget about her. I wanted Bambi less as a sex object and more as art. That dancing was not of this world, and I was the only one who could protect her from those wanting to hurt the Michaelangelo of her body.

I was snapped from my reverie by the deejay's obnoxious warble. "That was Bambi, boys! But keep your money coming for our next dancer..." I didn't even catch the next stripper's name. I didn't care, Bambi was the one I was now entirely fixated upon. A few more whistles from the crowd followed the doe as she trotted offstage, giving the audience one last smoky look before disappearing behind the curtain once more.

My Old Fashioned was gone, and I didn't even remember finishing it. The bartender, a sturdy fox of indeterminite heritage asked gruffly if I wanted another. I waved my hand and slipped him a twenty before slipping from the barstool and making my way into the muggy night air. It was tail end of summer, and the fireflies were flickering in full bloom around the half-full parking lot.

I took refuge in my car, a Benz from the 70s. A cigar between my teeth, I watched the back door of the club and kept my mind busy with a little NPR. I don't know if Ira Glass ever thought his show would become the soundtrack to a stake-out of this type, but it wasn't like he had much of a choice. His drone was just enough distraction to not drive me mad as I fantasized about Bambi's dancing, soft and sultry in my mind's theatre. Her lines seemed all the more aggrandized there, less pole dancer and more new age Barishnikov.

I drew my hands across my face, letting the stub of the cigar slide against my palm. The sensation of the burning ashes kept me in the now, the only sign of pain being the tensing of my tail. As I let my singed hand drop to my lap, I heard the sing-song giggling of girls, and perked my head up. Some of the early dancers were filing out of the club, off to their cars as quick as could be. Nightclub parking lots were notorious stalker hangouts.

Bambi wandered out just after the last girl had driven away, thank the gods. I exited my car and slowly walked her way, my feet hitting the pavement hard enough to announce my presence. I wasn't trying to scare the girl, despite my predator status. The doe turned and spotted me, clutching her purse tight but standing her ground--just like a deer.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was not like the other girls', it had touches of hard-assed girl power that made it all the more amazing that she moved like a whirling dervish on the dance floor. I stopped walking toward her about one hundred feet away, attempting to prove no harm.

"You danced exceedingly well."

The doe didn't move, not one muscle. "Thank you." It was clear she wanted to make a dash for her car, and I understood the response--too many times girls would exit places like Gaucho's and be immediately attacked, descended upon by predators with lust in their hearts. I had no such issue tonight, at least.

"Did you go to dancing school when you were younger?" Small talk. Paltry, really, but I had to win her over.

"Yes. A few years of ballet. I was going to go to college for dance, before..."

"Before your father said it was a waste of money?"

Bambi softened in her face, but tensed more in her chest. The doe's off-work clothes were something straight from Flashdance, oversized sweater that pooled at the wrists and Danskin tights in the blackest of blacks.

Bambi's better judgement was waning, if only a little. I could feel my fingers digging into her, even from the safe distance I had set up. "And so you decided to dance at the one place they'd let you, while you saved up for...Alvin Ailey?"

"...Y...yes. I'm feeling a little uncomfortable, but this has been a great talk." Bambi turned and started high-tailing it to her car. I was quicker, though, and was back to that hundred-foot distance within seconds.

"I know a few people who work for Cirque do Soleil."

Bambi stopped. She didn't turn back to me yet, and I could see her tail quivering with doubt. I didn't move, but I didn't need to--I could smell it on the doe, her curiousity overcoming her fear of this situation. "You do?"

"Scout's honor. I run in the artistic circles. In fact, I even own a gallery. I've met a lot of people in the dance world. It all intermingles."

The doe turned on her hooves, her large eyes looking me over with a newly-lit interest. It was my turn to not move a muscle, letting her feel me out from afar, seeing if I was trustworthy. I always was, in these situations; Guy Laliberte was a personal friend.

"So what do you want me to do, then? I could give you my number."

"I'm hosting a party tomorrow. You should follow me back to my house, you can sleep in my guest room. Tomorrow I'll introduce you to a few patrons and we'll work on your entrance into the art world."

The shoulder of Bambi's purse dropped, now only held against her body by her hand. That was the line that snagged her. She nodded obediently and took a few steps toward me. I saw a hesitant movement or two, but she was dumb, and trusting. I usually didn't like them dumb, but I couldn't argue with that natural talent.

It was in her bones.

Bambi's green Civic pulled into my driveway as I was stepping out of my Mercedes. On the way back home I had inhaled another cigar, and had pawed at the passenger seat as if Bambi's body was there, groping at imaginary thighs and sides. Those beautiful lines she had, filling my car, swooping and swinging around the upholstery, swirling in mad spirals against the roof and floorboards. Her image lay across the dashboard, gossamer in its incorporeal state. I nearly hit a road sign during that phantasmagoria, but played it off coolly. This was no time to die.

As she approached, the doe gawped at my home. "You live here? This place is huge!" I felt a swelling pride inside of me, though it was hollow and fleeting. Of course it was huge, one cannot correctly display art if it is not huge. I merely flicked the nugget of my cigar onto the flagstone path and walked toward the front door. Bambi followed, still with gaping jaw.

"Close your mouth, you'll catch flies." I heard an audible click of her teeth as she obeyed. Good.

The lights in my house turned on as I crossed the threshold. The white walls reflected the light purely, which cascaded in caressing fingers along my many works of art. Bambi followed tentatively, her hooves tapping lightly against the parquet floor of the foyer. "I think it's even bigger on the inside." She spat out a nervous giggle behind me, but I ignored her. Already we were walking past the living and dining rooms, and through the main hallway of the house.

The design of my abode was simple--all rooms were small growths off of one main, giant room. Its ceiling was glass squares held by wrought iron. Currently, the moon was peeking through the panes of glass, a pervert hanging from a thread in the skies. The room itself was big enough to hold a smaller house inside of it, and every sound echoed throughout. The floor was poured concrete in the most unobtrusive grey there was to be had.

"This is such a strange house." Bambi's head was rocking to and fro as she scanned the walls. The walls were the main attraction--not because of the white, but because of what was hanging on them, or butted up against them.

"I told you I owned a gallery. It's my own personal one, but I host soirees and showings here from time to time. Like the one I'm having tomorrow."

Bambi nodded dumbly. She was wandering toward one of the walls, a giant canvas upon which a giant swath of red ran from the lower left corner to the upper right. It grew bigger the further the arc, brushed out to smooth the color tone into something almost entirely homogenic. Still, small flecks of dark red permeated the entire painting. I stood beside her as she stared it down.

"Painted by a young artist I met a year or so ago. Quite a striking piece, don't you think?"

Bambi just nodded again. She was clearly not thet type for canvas, but I had figured as much. She was a dancer, not a painter. I touched her on the shoulder, the first physical sensation I had given her since we met. It felt electric through my body, and I wanted right then and there to grab at her and feel her up and down. I wanted to trace the lines of her muscles, tight and sinewy and feminine, able to make beautiful curves in space, to bend time itself around her whirling form.

"Where's this guest bedroom?" I almost jumped, almost lost my composure. I flicked my head away from her and motioned to a far doorway, only visible by the slight difference in paint color between the wall and the door. "Through there. A bathroom is attached, feel free to make yourself at home." The doe nodded, and started her walk toward the door.

I stood, admiring the red and white canvas again. The door to the guest room made te audible sound of it opening and closing, and my face grew into a grin. I lingered in my gallery, perusing my works until I decided it was time to get to work on my next piece, for the gathering on the next evening.

I entered Bambi's room just past four in the morning. I must have smelled of plexiglass and wood glue, but she didn't stir a muscle. Now out of shoes, there was no sound from my feet, predator senses heightened. I moved with grace toward the bed and the sleeping doe entombed within the plush down comforter. Stopping at the edge of the bed, my breathing the only movement on my body, I watched Bambi sleep.

The doe turned slightly in her slumber, stirring just enough I assume to make out blurry shapes in the dimly-lit room. "Hmm? Who's there?"

I leapt, grabbing the top of the comforter and tugging it over her head. Bambi screamed and began to kick with force only a dancer could muster. I managed to dodge most of her attacks, but her hooves struck me once or twice against the thighs. I stifled the pain into a few teeth-gritted sucks of air, and held the comforter tight to her face. I kept tugging it tighter, doing my damnedest to shove part of it into her wailing maw.

The doe's flailing grew weaker as the oxygen to her brain dwindled. Still wrapped in the bedspread, I scrambled to grab the corners with my free hand, creating a net with which to drag her. As Bambi's kicking stopped, I removed my hand from her mouth and waited. Nothing, no movement, except breathing so shallow I had to open up the makeshift bundle to see it. I stood up again and grabbed the corners of the bedspread, and lowered it gently to the ground before dragging it out of the room, across the gallery, and into my workshop.

I laid a pack of smelling salts on Bambi's nose as I began to strap her down. As I was tightening the last leather band on her extremities she regained enough consciousness to start screaming again, bashing her head against the wooden board I had stuck her on. I had, in my forethought, put a pillow there. No damaging of the bones, not now.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing, you perverse horrorshow?" The doe spat the words at me like daggers, but I was immune. It wasn't the worst insult I had heard, and it wouldn't be the worst I'd ever hear. I kept my mouth shut, walking away from the table to start amassing my tools. The deer continued to volley obscenities in my direction, but none of them landed a hit.

I laid a few of my tools along her naked middle: industrial boning knives. Serrated tongs. A few small jars. Bambi made a sudden choking noise, and I was afraid she would vomit upon herself. Somehow she kept her innards on the inside, but the tears were starting to well up in her eyes. "You're vile. You're just vile."

Now dressed in a set of seafoam green scrubs, with surgical mask over my maw and latex gloves on my hands, I was unrecognizable from my form at the bar, with cigar and Old Fashioned accessories. I picked up the serrated tongs and clapped them together like a party favor. "Merely an artist. Merely a collector, Bambi. Bambino. My Bambino, you will be immortalized. Isn't that what all artists want?"

The deer began to shake her head violently, only stopping when I clamped my free hand against her chin, squeezing tight enough to keep her from moving. I let the blunt side of my tongs run along her brow, smashing beads of sweat into her short fur and leaving a streak of mussed fuzz. "I just wanted to be a dancer."

"I know you did." My tongs dug throug her left eyelid, slipping into the socket and cupping the eyeball inside. The doe wailed out through her forcably-closed jaw as I slid the ball from its cave, using one of the knives to sever the bundle of nerves holding it tenuously in her skull. I dropped the eyeball into one of the open glass jars, its pupil dialated and staring out into the room, the glimmer of life slowly fading as the wetness turned to a matte finish. I made quick work of the other eye, much in the same way, and closed the jar before setting it off to the side.

I removed my hand from Bambi's jaw, a wet and shuddering rattle emanating from deep in her throat. I struck with lightning quickness to grab that tongue of hers with my tongs, digging into the flesh. I watched blood trickle from the pricking points and make tendrils toward her throat. My knife swooped in, slicing it clean in one movement. That muscle, too, earned itself a jar. The death rattle from Bambi was becoming a drowning burble as the blood gushed out from the artery now open wide in the back of her mouth.

Two labels were already printed out, ready to be stuck upon the jars as I brought them to a small wooden cabinet across the room. Behind me, Bambi thrashed upon the wooden plank, coughing and making noises only ever heard in rooms like mine, only ever to be made by those tortured and cast into the pits of despair. My tail swayed like a metronome to her swan song, and my hands worked deftly to not get a spot of blood upon the labels that bared her name: Bambi.

I fit the jars next to pairs that read "Horatio" and "Grace", and shut my cabinet once more. I would move it back to its safe location after the rest of my work was done. Bambi's light was dwindling, but she would still be a dancer tonight.

Joining my boning knives came a vat of bleach, which sat on a cart I rolled toward the plank in the middle of my workshop. I turned the lifeless head of Bambi, letting the blood drain from her gaping maw. Not all of it would come out, but that was of little concern--everything would be artificially whitened soon enough.

I returned to my boning knife, feeling its molded plastic handle fit snugly into my palm. I began my dissection of this postmortem Isadora Duncan at the breasts, those tumors upon her otherwise svelte body. I lobbed them off with no precision whatsoever, silicone balloons bursting within and showering Bambi's chest, my stomach, and the board beneath her in its goopy, ersatz mess. I paid no mind, tossing the now limp hunks of fur and skin that were once her breasts into a trash can.

My knife entered Bambi once again at the collarbone, starting to carve and cut along her upper chest. I attempted to carve in large chunks, letting the knife graze against Bambi's ribcage without exerting pressure enough to break any of her delicate bones. With time, her entire front was now a gaping hole of stained bones and unusable organs, merely taking up space in this immortal frame.

Quick work was made of the deer's internal bits, digging and slipping out the intestines in large sausage-link chunks. Each one I admired only momentarily, feeling along a few of my cuts with a gloved thumb before tossing them into the refuse bin with the rest. The stomach came next, still sloshing with whatever Bambi's last meal had been mixed with all that acid. I didn't even give some of her lesser organs the time of day, the spleen and pancreas finding a quick trip to the garbage bin. Her liver was discolored, I assume from the amount of alcohol she was wont to consume at her previous employer on a regular basis. A 'perk' of the job, they must have told her upon hiring.

The only other fleshy bits hidden within Bambi's chest cavity I gave any respect to were her lungs and heart. I cut them from their stations with deft hand, and laid them out next to the open body. I let my knife lay across Bambi's neck while I picked up her heart, taking it in. It felt heavy in my hands, still holding a little cache of blood when her functions were too weak to go on. I pulled the mask down from my maw and leaned in, pressing my lips against the lifeless muscle. It tasted of purity and of shame, and I revelled in the dichotomy. My index finger teased along an artery opening, some part of me trying to elicit some response from this beautiful muscle that powered the form so elegantly. I turned the heart in my hands and gave the artery opening a kiss as well before putting it gently into the trash can. The lungs I spent no time with, but I gave them the same slow descent into the bin, before returning to my work.

Slab after slab of Bambi's meat came off of her body, and with it tendrils of veins and ligaments galore. The bin filled up slowly, the plastic bag stretching and straining against the top lip of recepticle. As bone showed its beautiful but stained form, I sliced through connective tissue with surgical precision, taking special care to not move any one bone too far from its brothers and sisters. I wanted to keep her whole, even in this state.

I undid the bounds on Bambi's arms and legs as I came to them, shaving each finger clean of meat and laying the bones and joints out in diagram perfection. Her hooves I sat upright, if only because they would roll to and fro on the wooden board as I worked. It reminded me of the way she would roll and spin around the pole at Gaucho's, and I was more than once sent into a dream I only snapped myself out of when my finger ran across the edge of my blade midway through feeling up dream Bambi's calf. I bandaged my finger up, replaced the glove, and continued.

The deer's brain I extracted after severing her head from her spinal column. The tongs came back into play, digging up through the bottom of her skull and slowly extracting the wrinkled mass of nerve endings. All of Bambi's thoughs were encased within the soft, purple-grey blob of goo now resting upon the wooden table. I splayed my hand across its surface, fingertips digging into the squishy mass. I kept pushing, my grip growing firmer and firmer, my arm's muscles tensing up until my claws pushed past the surface and I was deep within the soft interior of Bambi's brain. I let my digts enjoy the waning warmth within, lifting the brain up and suspending it over the trash bin. A few hard shakes and it, too, was gone, hitting the pile of flesh and guts with a sickening sound I had heard more than once in this room.

Now clean of close to all of her flesh, Bambi's skeleton laid naked upon my worktable. I could only grin at the sight, those bones so perfect for dancing. Hip sockets wider than normal, able to gain incredible lines along the floor. I could see, in my mind, Bambi dancing through The Firebird Suite, spinning into the Nutcracker, and hitting every pose in Swan Lake. I began humming a little Tchaikovsky as I turned my attention to the bin of bleach. A rough scrubbing pad floated along the top of the water, and I plucked it up with one hand while grabbing a hoof with the other.

Bleach does wonders to bone. The hooves, thankfully, did not lose an ounce of their black luster, but as I worked upward on Bambi's skeleton, each bone I scrubbed clean of barnacle-like bits of muscle and flesh became white and virgin. The bleach water became redder and redder, the blood having been wicked away from the hard bone. I worked unendngly, the hours ticking themselves away as the sun rose outside. In the gallery, paintings began to glow with the sunlight that invited itself in, through the glass roof and along the white walls. It bounced from the red and white canvas, aong the floor past a sculpture cast in light cream plaster, before shining on the wall furthest from the entry door. There, a large white curtain hung, draped over the shape of something large and turned at a slight vertical angle. A small placard in front of it, printed in helvetica in black type on a white background, simply read "A New Piece".

The wine flowed heavily when evening came. I was alert, having given myself enough time after disposing of Bambi's flesh in my kiln to sleep, eat, and caffienate myself for the evening's festivities. Members of all different walks of the art world were amassed in my gallery, peering over works they had seen before and a few new ones I had made for private functions and brought back to my home afterward. Benches had been erected, chrome with plush grey pillows atop them to blend into the concrete as much as possible, so as not to distract from my works.

Hors d'oeuvres were passed out by strapping waiters in full tuxedo regalia, set on round glass platters with no edges. I trusted my catering company to never drop a single pate, and they had not failed me yet. Once again, I was complimented on food other people had made, and I soaked it in with abandon. I had an arousal beneath my trouser pants that could not be contained this night. Days after a fresh kill, I would have this insatiable lust that I attacked with ferocious measures when no one was around. No one knew how to please me like I did.

Promptly at nine, when the moon was once again peeking in its perversion into my gallery, I called my guests to stand around the white sheet. Smiling at them all, I held up my wine glass, sloshing the little bit of the cabernet around. "My valued guests. I present to you, as I present on every party I host, a new piece." I motioned to the placard, which drew a soft laugh from the crowd. It was pleasantries for a tired joke.

I lowered my glass and turned to the sheet, walking toward it. "I have found myself, as of late, completely enamored with the idea that the best ballet dancers are born...different. Their bones are a different shape, which gives them the extra openness one expects from ballet." I set my wine glass upon a small table, and began to finger the edge of the sheet. "This fascination has brought me to my new piece, which I simply call Bambino."

A flick of my wrist and the sheet flew away. A large plexiglass aquarium greeted my party guests, filled with gelatinized formaldehyde. Inside, placed precariously in ballet first position, was a skeleton. It looked ready to leap from the blue goo it was contained inside. A gasp rolled through the crowd, the stunned silence that always followed the first unveiling of a new masterpiece. The roar of applause followed, a few of my guests putting their wine glasses down to clap with such intensity that I could feel the vibrations from my distance. I felt my entire body go numb with adoration, my eyes lidding themselves halfway as I basked.

The applause, like all good things, died down, and while some partygoers began to wander back toward the rest of the gallery, a lean zebra approached me and grabbed my hand, shaking it before I could stop him. He seemed intensely pleased with my work, and who was I to say no to more praise.

"I have to commend you on this, it's simply amazing. You achieved the perfect first position. How many pictures of ballerinas did you have to study to get it right?"

"I have a few books, I made sure to follow those as much as I could. Beyond that, it was all simple knowledge of anatomy."

The zebra seemed dumbfounded, but let go of my hand finally. I picked up my drink and walked back around to look at the aquarium from the front. The zebra found his way back over to me as I nursed the last sips of my wine, watching the skeleton through the bottom of the stemware.

"I truly cannot say enough about this piece. Then again, the art world always thinks they've seen the best of Jessica LeLange, and then you wow us again."

A smile tugged at my lips. "I know."