you know who you are. you know what you're after. a male model steps into frame, reaches for her -- you know you're too good for any man. almost. cut to a product shot of a jar of cream, the name "beaunique" and the avenal logo. beaunique by avenal. you know you want it. close on laurel as she tosses her hair back, gilda-style, with a seductive pout. she purses her lips in a kiss. reverse angle -- patience watches with a curled lip, on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, eating chocolate ice cream directly from a pint carton, a dark smear around her mouth. suddenly, midnight pounces at the spoon of ice cream. patience jerks back, startled, raises the spoon out of reach. my allergies. i thought you were getting rid of that vile dog of yours. georges plucks a long dog hair from her clothes, holds it up for her to see, then moves on briskly, down an external flight of stairs from the helipad to a penthouse below. laurel follows after him, angel in the rear. so get a bird or a fish, something that doesn't shed. have you gained weight? they head through glass doors into the penthouse. what the hell happened here? no. what's with the curtains? i like hard spaces. whatever, laurel, if it makes you happy. i plan to be spending more time at the factory, anyway. he enters the elevator, laurel behind, angel hits the button. in or out? patience meekly steps into the elevator, presses a button for the lobby, nervously keeping her eyes fixed to the front. excuse me, miss. do you know who i am? then you actually work for me. are you familiar with our products? you can afford some peroxide, can't you? do something about this mousy hair. georges runs a hand distastefully through her frizzy hair, then takes a moment to study her. stain on your blouse, run in your pantyhose -- and that color's awful on you. do you own an iron? show me your hands. shaking, patience extends her hands. georges inspects her trembling fingers. he seems saddened, clucks his tongue. a nail-biter. my my, you really are the "before" picture, aren't you? what's your name? i haven't got all day -- i'm afraid that's no excuse. regardless of your position, you do represent avenal beauty. i simply can't allow that to continue. i have no choice. all we have to sell is an image -- and you are not it. you've got to go. ding! the door opens. patience stares at the man in disbelief, then bolts out into the showroom. stay with georges, laurel and angel as the doors close. is that a pimple? ugh. that one's yours, laurel. these look good, wesley, send them back to the agency. laurel closes the compact, leans across to catch a glimpse. you wouldn't be interested. that's drina. she's magnificent. georges takes the board back, laurel looks a little sick. you've had a remarkably long shelf life, it's true. but. every product has an expiration date. laurel bites her lip, looks out the window, close to tears. a phone is ringing, angel answers in front. georges' hands are still full with the ads piled around him. who? i don't talk to bean-counters. all right, angel, put it on speaker. why are you telling me this? it's routine to have a surplus -- perhaps that is a trifle optimistic -- impossible, this has to be an error. are you responsible for this data? yes, yes, i'm familiar with ms. price. obviously her bookkeeping is as sloppy as her appearance. i've heard enough, berger. in the future, double- check your figures before you waste my time -- and then put it in a memo. okay, with too much yp-3 you get side-effects -- but too much of anything is bad for you -- tap water, sunshine, cigarettes -- the point is, now that we've adjusted the formula, beaunique works. plumps the skin, removes wrinkles, leaves a nice rosy glow -- it's perfectly safe now, my own wife uses it. his voice trails off as he considers this fact. he glances at the medical pictures, puts them aside. airy denial: you want to be beautiful, you've got to make certain sacrifices. i mean, look at botox, women are lining up to get their faces paralyzed. nevski has been doing a slow burn, now blurts out: what? you're not making sense -- i've never heard of the man. doctor nevski, is it possible you've gone insane? nevski spins on his heel and storms out. as if i don't have enough on my mind. georges moves to a nearby shredder. he starts feeding in the changes are going to have to be made. and change can be painful. he glances at a magazine ad lying on his desk. it isn't easy to eliminate an established brand. finished shredding the medical photos, he picks up the ad -- it's an ad for beaunique, featuring laurel's face. i'm not talking about beaunique. i have no choice. pov -- georges on the elevator, staring into camera. angel is right behind him, looking menacing as usual. you've got to go. we'll shoot another. georges moves in on drina, as the camera discreetly pans to the window over the factory. this had better be import -- oh my god. he's now looking out the window at the chaos below. who is responsible for this?! are you crazy?! who are you? catwoman cracks her whip. just shoot the bitch! blam! blam! blam! angel has appeared on the catwalk, brandishing a handgun, firing wildly. catwoman dodges and dives from the catwalk, landing -- ssh. giselle is mistreated by a cruel prince and kills herself. later, the souls of betrayed women come back from the grave for revenge. drina makes a snoring noise, puts on a walkman, and is soon bobbing her head to faint rock music. no -- please -- why -- why kill me?