For her to even dare to peep a dangleen ankle (wearing the wrong shooz) past the threshold of this up-scale, aspirational, gentrified locale -- one styled exclusively to attract appealing, upwardly-mobile
parvenus -- would be thoroughly and utterly humiliating and humbling for the Hambeast.
Were she to appear at their entryway like a ungodly huge, reeking, Bibendum apparition. Every pretty head would turn, and over the Glamour patrons and staff a hush would fall.
From the front of the venue, Hamber's enormous shadow unfurls, announcing her trespass into this once-alluring space. The dark gloaming spreads dread over the bar, the dance floor...even as the pall flows up
(along with her fumes) to darken the once lively VIP lounge...Ambie's dank foreboding unfolds like the creature from
The Blob...
Seeing the scorn warping the pretty countenances of the venue's guests, an overpowering embarrassment compels the Hambeast to turn
tail shelfass and hurple-shuffle back to the tedious safety of her wretched lair and the ego-stroking solace of atomic-power filtered TikToks.