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Displaced Spirit

Drake closed his eyes behind his yellow-tinted eye-covers. As good as they were at protecting him from the powerful gusts of sand in his native desert, they couldn't protect him from what was about to come next. He stood backstage, listening to the to the master of ceremonies, a strange master of very unusual ceremonies, to be sure, but an emcee nonetheless, riling up the crowd as he steeled himself, which was a feat considering he was wearing only a thong. A tight, hot pink thong that barely covered anything, in fact. An anxious sigh escaped his lips as he reflected on just how he had ended up here, backstage, waiting to be auctioned off.

As the emcee shouted to the gathered crowd, "Come on folks, let's hear some noise. It's not every day one of the performers here at Plaisir gives up their virginity! And a virgin shiny is almost unheard of! Let him know you're out here!" Drake flinched, and wished he could be back in his desert. It was a place he missed quite a lot, given it was where he grew up. Life was so much less complicated there. He could fly around in sandstorms, skimming the cliff faces, singing and soaring, drinking, hunting, and enjoying the skies, living to his heart's content in the wild.

It wasn't as easy when he was still a Trapinch, and lived in the sand for lack of a better option. Many traveled through the desert on their ways north or south, and many of his brothers and sisters had encountered them, for better or for worse. It was perhaps the most boring time of his life, for a number of reasons, and Drake didn't like reflecting on it too long if he could Most of his time was spent underground in complete silence, waiting for movement above. The movement meant food, and food meant survival. Even when he _did_speak, his vocalizations were limited. He didn't have lips, just a cavernous line that zig-zagged across his face, limiting the sounds he could make. Further limiting was the lack of vocal range -- he could make sounds, but they were all monotonal. To say existence was dull beneath the shifting sands was putting it very lightly. After he evolved to Vibrava, Drake had an easier time avoiding cars, busses, and tourists. The addition of wings to his body, and his smaller, lighter body allowed him to fly and live in the bluffs. Living in the cliff cracks, Drake passed the time making music by beating his wings in rhythm. It was a quiet life, but he was safe and, as long as he had his music, happy.

Evolution came as somewhat as a shock for him though, as he was in a particularly tight crack of the cliffs, which happened to have some of the best acoustics, when it happened. With a lot of discomfort and a huge rockslide, Drake emerged from the cliff face a full-grown Flygon. His initial jubilance was tempered somewhat by his realization of two things: Humans came through the area often and could be a threat, and that he was the only Flygon that he had ever seen in the desert now. Admittedly, he reasoned at the time, he had spent almost all his life hiding until now, but it still meant potential trouble. Still, becoming a Flygon did come with dramatically superior benefits over his previous stages -- he now had a mouth and wings. A fact he discovered shortly after being ejected from the cliff face, when he cried out and caught himself in the air with a reflexive flap of his wings.

In the days that followed, Drake began to hide out in as many of his familiar stomping grounds as he could, feeding on what he could find and experimenting with his wings again. To his dismay, he found that they could no longer produce the sounds he had grown to love in his intermediate state! He let out a wistful sigh. Then another. And another. After a short amount of time, he began to realize he could control those tones beyond what he originally thought. True, he had spent time with others in his Trapinch state, and had learned to speak, but Trapinch vocal ranges were very limited. Nothing like what he found he could do as he began to experiment with words and tones, finding mixes that were fun for him to sing.

With his newfound body that no longer could be easily hidden, he fashioned himself simple garments out of spare cloth he found that humans lost as they travelled, forming a sort of crude shirt and pants out of discarded tents, tarps, and tablecloths, making a sort of baggy robes for him to carry things in and otherwise hide himself more easily when he was not in transit between places. It wasn't much, but it was something, especially given how few possessions he actually had.

As he practiced and went about his simple desert life of finding food, finding water, and avoiding humans. To conceal himself, he would kick up a sandstorm to safely move throughout the sandy reach. Unfortunately for and unbeknownst to him though, his singing could be heard by those outside his protective sand-butt. To his surprise and annoyance, the humans were starting to become more crowded during the times he was scouting for food and water. This complicated his life, as it required longer and more convoluted paths around the desert to avoid the humans looking for his sandstorm. It was getting exhausting to keep trying to avoid and dodge everyone as he just tried to live his life.

One fateful day, as he was searching for his afternoon meal and singing one of his newest melodies, his sandstorm started to die. Try as he might to try whipping it back up, he just couldn't keep the sand up. Drake started to panic, as he looked around. Maybe no one saw? His blood ran cold in his veins as he looked behind him, and saw a gathered group of humans staring him down, taking in his sight. He flew before them, his lime green body sparkling in the exposed sunlight, highlighting his distinctly different coloring - where a regular flygon was red, Drake was gold. Where a regular flygon was dark green, Drake was blue. The world seemed to pause for the Flygon as he reached for the seam in his crude garments. He looked at them. They looked at him. Then a cheer rose from the crowd - "There it is!"

This can't be good. I have to disappear NOW. Drake thought, as he pulled at the hem of his cloak, throwing it off and kicking up sand behind him as he tried to get away. The trick had distracted and confused a few, but others more intrepid than they were got in their cars and on their bicycles and gave chase to the escaping Flygon. They weren't about to let him get away that easily. He was fast, and managed to escape the bicyclists with relative ease, and even the cars had trouble facing the sand dunes. But a few had been smart. They chased him down on buggies and jeeps, easily matching his pace as they raced through the sand, draining his stamina.

Eventually, the Flygon was backed into a corner, no way to go, not even up thanks to an outcropping of rock, making an almost makeshift shelter he retreated to during the very infrequent rain. He turned to face the crowd, and adopted a battle stance. If they had come for him, they would have to fight him.

"If you want to catch me, you'll have to fight me first!" He said, lashing his tail against the sand with a menacing whap, as the humans and their companions got out of their vehicles.

"Catch you?" asked one. "No, we want to meet you. Your songs are entrancing."

Drake was taken aback, uncertain for this unexpected answer and he now looked over the crowd with an air of suspicion. "Meet me? Then why did you chase me so much?!"

"Well, it's not like we've ever seen you before," the human responded simply, with an air of excitement leaking into his voice. He was a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, with a fair complexion and dirty brown hair. "I'm in the desert fairly often. I'm an archeologist who has been looking for ruins and artifacts, and I find your songs so captivating while I'm working. I want to work more just to hear you more often."

"Yeah!" Added a woman. "I like to run through the desert for exercise. Builds up a great sweat, but the sand damages my MP3 player. I listen to your songs instead. They may not be workout songs, but I love your voice, and you always seem to have a different song each day!"

A few others spoke up, adding their agreement to their enjoyment of his songs. Though different things normally brought them to the desert, today they were going to meet this mysterious voice of the dunes, one way or another. Drake did not necessarily feel better knowing they were going to hunt him down anyway but he appreciated it nonetheless.

"I didn't think you could hear me." he eventually said sheepishly, his facing turning a little blue as he blushed. "I was just singing to myself It's... how I used to pass time as a Vibrava." He said. "Sorry for running and not giving you a chance. It's just... as a Trapinch, we were viewed as pests and nuisances for sometimes popping tires..." he said, nodding to one of the drivers. "...or nipping at joggers." he again nodded, this time at the lady jogger.

The humans nodded to him and each other in understanding. "Trapinch are a bit of a pest in this area, so your fear makes sense," the archeologist said. "I've dealt with my fair share of Trapinch digging for ruins -- humanely." the archeologist quickly added as the Flygon stared him down.

Drake sighed defeatedly, and changed the subject. "So if all of you are interested in hearing me sing, and have heard me do it before, then I guess you must live nearby?"

"Mhmm." The jogger lady replied. "A small town not far from here. You're almost legendary there as the voice of the desert. Everyone's heard of you at some point, but it's a rumor if you actually exist." She laughed a bit. "Some of the folks back in the crowds were people looking to uncover the myth! Like those crazies who are always trying to prove Arceus is in the world with us. But you exist, you're here in front of us."

Drake patted himself to make sure he really did exist. The whole exchange was fairly surreal. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming either. It hurt. He wasn't. He sighed again. "I admit, you are not what I expected from humans. I thought I'd be captured, or defeated or worse. Here all you wanted to do was meet me?"

A murmur of agreement came from the crowd. One of the younger ones in the crowd spoke up. "Mister Flygon? Will you please come and sing in our town?" the young boy asked. He looked to be maybe 9 or 10, and he sounded fairly earnest in his request. Another murmur of agreement. Drake had his doubts about being in public like that, but the gathered few assured him that he had nothing to fear, and they would protect him from anyone with funny ideas.

One reluctant acceptance and the group was ready to go. Drake, still somewhat nervous around the humans, opted to fly slightly behind them as they lead the way. It gave him time to think as his eyes trained on the car below, tracking it through the dunes. He wondered if it was a trap first of all, but they could have just gotten him back at the shelter. Then he started to wonder why they made an effort to find him like this at all - was this just something humans did sometimes? Could they not just enjoy his song and leave him be? More than once, he thought about making a break for it, but worried that more would come and be better prepared to take him in, if he didn't follow them in now. As the small caravan wove through the sand, he also wondered about all the Trapinch resting beneath the sand, and how he hoped that none of them were in the path the group was taking back.

Drake was positively lost in thought, almost flying into a tree when the group came to a halt at the town a short time later. Well, it was barely a town. It seemed to consist of a few small houses gathered around a fair sized oasis. There was a road that drove past it and up through the desert, and off to some other unknown locations. As they came to a stop, the rest of the townsfolk came out of their homes to see the return of the group who went to investigate the voice of the desert. There weren't that many; a group of mothers, fathers, children, and others, all began to come from their houses, meeting with the returning company and asking them how their expedition to find the voice went. They gleefully reported success, indicating the sparkling flygon above them, hovering near the tree he narrowly dodged.

Drake was having second thoughts as he saw the crowd gather. All their eyes were on him. He could feel a sense of pressure that he'd never felt before as the townsfolk looked him over, pointing and whispering to each other. The desert was only a short flight away in any direction. He could probably make it back out there before anyone had a chance to catch him, since he did have an unimpeded route. He nervously checked over his shoulder - a clear path back to the safety of the desert. He considered making a bolt for it. Apparently, the jogger from earlier could sense his flightiness. "Don't worry." She smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're safe here. You're among friends."

Slowly, timidly, the Flygon descended onto the jeep's hood, and looked at the gathering more closely. Maybe 20 or so people had come to see the voice in person. Some were awed, some were collecting bet money, others carried a smug sense of superiority - they had known it was a Flygon all along, obviously.

"H-hello." Drake started, his voice catching in his throat, causing him to trip on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hello. My name is Drake," he said, slowly at first. "And... it's my understanding you know me as the voice of the desert." The words felt awkward in his mouth. Of course, he had only learned of his title a half hour or so prior. Introducing himself in such a way seemed to destabilize his demeanor as he continued. "And... a-and I have been asked to... um, come and si-sing for you. By, um, request."

The crowd looked amongst themselves skeptically. This was the voice of the desert? This timid flygon who couldn't say more than two sentences without stuttering? Some of the crowd was starting to ask others for their money back, and a couple of the smug were looking decidedly less so as Drake got out of the car and moved in front of the crowd. His body seemed to be shaking furiously with anxiety as he stood under the scrutinous gaze of the gathered town. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and began to sing...

A few minutes later, as his voice began to fill the air, there was no doubt. He chose a deep, and resonant aria to sing, filled with the tonality and passion of the arid terrain he came from. His voice was deep, warm and earthy as he began, a solid base that grounded the crowd in his performance. As he continued, his voice, much like the shifting sands of his home, began to take on a more airy quality, shifting along scales between deeper notes and higher notes, undulating smoothly like the dunes behind them. Slowly those undulations grew in size and intensity, becoming grand like the desert, itself, until finally, at the end, he reached an almost fever pitch, emotion dripping from his words and tones that felt as turbulent as a sandstorm, before ceasing suddenly and becoming soft and cold, his song coming to an end on a chilling note. Drake was the voice of the desert. Money was re-exchanged, the smug were justified and the crowd processed the display for a moment, then applauded. Some even called for an encore! Drake felt himself overcome with emotions that he did not have the time or ability to unpack. He took a bow and began to sing again, his voice filling the air once more to the delight of the gathered crowd.

For about a week, Drake would return to the village during the day to sing for the townsfolk, to their adoration. Not everyone turned out like they had on the first day, but many still did stop their tasks to listen to the Flygon's song. Some even started to tip him - the first money he had ever possessed. Money, he found out, could acquire food and water, even shelter and education - such as learning to read and write - skills which he readily attempted to learn to the best of his ability. The ability to read and write - mostly read - would be fairly useful, he reasoned. Many of the humans seemed to use it regularly, and it seemed to be a thing he would need to know. If he had a more reliable way to make money, he wouldn't have to spend so much time scavenging to survive, and could improve his life just a bit. There was a definite appeal to this, since it meant he had more day for himself and his singing.

He talked to the humans in town about how to get more money for his singing. They explained to him the concept of Pokémon liberation and how they could hold jobs for compensation. "If you want to make a living singing, you'll need to find work as an entertainer." One had told him. "Doing live shows at bars to start out, and go up from there." It seemed as good a place as any to start, at least.

So began the search for gainful employment. Without access to a computer, he grabbed a newspaper and, after being informed where job listings were _in_the newspaper, found an ad that sounded just what he was looking for. The ad read:

"Come to Café Plaisir, home of the finest entertainment and live shows of all variety for adults and those of age! With a fully stocked bar, and no shortage of entertainers ready to delight and bring pleasure to your life, Plaisir is here for all your needs.

ID Required to be shown at door."

It had a bar, live shows, and entertainment! It sounded like the perfect place for Drake get a foot in the door of entertainment. Get money and have a decent life that he didn't need to fight for. It really sounded too good to be true. But there was the little matter of getting hired... A detail he would deal with when he came to it. He wrote down the address, got some directions from folk with some odd stares, and expressions of concern - "You know what they do there, right?" Of course he did - the ad said everything he needed to know. If there was something important, they surely wouldn't have left it out. As it would happen, they _did_leave out one small, barely significant detail. Plaisir was not a small bar with some live shows. It was a fuckhouse, or brothel, as the employees called it.

He felt really out of place as he was shown around by a stoic-looking Sylveon; the buff fairy type was making it hard for Drake to get his nerves under control. Something about the overwhelming power coming from someone who already had a significant advantage over him made it hard to relax. Still, he made it to the interview. It was rocky and could have gone better, but the interviewer decided to give the Flygon a chance, and he would go on stage later that night.

The booming voice of the emcee snapped Drake back to reality. It was soon. It was sudden. Drake was not ready. The feelings he had now were reminiscent of his very first show, when he stood right in this spot. He even shook the same way he did back then. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips, after all he could remember it as if it were just yesterday. He had made it to Plaisir for one show. If he had known what would happen next, and the events to follow after, he might not have come to the café at all, given the way he was back then. If he had known it was a brothel, or what a brothel was at the time, he maybe would have found some place entirely different to get his start.

Everything seemed to snowball pretty quickly after that first show. It all seemed to happen so fast. The booming voice of the emcee carried over the din of the crowd. "Now that's the kind of reaction we like to see here at Plaisir! What do we want?" He called.

"_Drake!"_the crowd replied.

"You heard the folks, Drake! Come on out!" He steeled himself just like he did for that first show and stepped out into the light, his colors glinting as the spots hit his mostly naked body, only covered by his scrap of a thong. Even as the lights rose and the voice rallied the crowd, he couldn't help but feel like this was all very familiar...

"...Please welcome a new act to Cafe Plaisir, The Spirit of the Desert, Drake!" said the emcee. The curtain raised, lighting him up. at least, what little of him was visible. It was a bit strange to have an act at the brothel be so covered. He appeared with only his head uncovered, and the rest with the sort of garb one would expect of a desert nomad - light colored robes and capes covering his body to reflect the heat and catch air to stay cool. The apparel drew stares, but only because he looked so out of place compared to all the other folks in the area with various levels of undress. Some were even having sex at their tables, not that he could make out that many details - between his own nerves and the bright stage lights, he may as well have been blind up there, even with his eye protection. At least his robes covered his form as he shook like a leaf.

He cleared his throat as he stepped up to the microphone, mustering what little courage he could. His mouth opened and closed a few times, with nothing coming out. The crowd was already losing interest, going back to their drinks and partners. Drake grit his teeth, took a deep breath and with every ounce of his willpower, began to sing.

His voice was enchanting. Even if he didn't move much during the show, the patrons of Plaisir did seem to enjoy his song and his voice. He sang and sang, many of the songs he had written and created during his time in the desert. Much like his first performance, his voice was filled with low, earthy tones to begin, but, much like his home, changed quickly and abruptly between songs. A mixture of happy songs, sad songs, slow songs, fast songs...the variety was almost as impressive as the voice they were sang with. The first couple of songs didn't quite sound right to him, as he adjusted to the particular acoustic nuances of the stage, by about halfway through the third song, Drake found his groove. As he slid into it and started relaxing a little, getting more into his music, the patrons began to take notice. Not all of them, but many who were not preoccupied, or at least, not too preoccupied, began to notice and quiet, allowing Drake's voice to more easily dominate the din of conversation and coitus happening in the the hall.

The end of his two-hour set came surprisingly quickly. At the cessation of his act, the café filled with some scattered applause, from those who weren't too busy with other things at the time, or were still sober enough to do so. Drake quickly hopped down off the stage and beelined for the bar, taking a seat and ordering a cold water. He soothed his aching throat, and caught his breath. Nearby patrons complimented him as the next act stepped up, getting their set ready. Drake didn't care much to check out the next performer. He was too busy trying to ease his throat with the refreshing water.

The pay was enough to get food, water, and even some real clothes. It was nice to have money, and he returned to Plaisir after a few days to request another show. The reception to his first show was evidently positive enough that the powers that be allowed him another show, but he was gently encouraged to do more than just sing if he wanted a third. Drake nodded and started trying to figure out what he could do to help draw in the crowd, like he didn't already know what they were there to see.

The act went over a little better the second time, as he removed his outer robes during one of his songs, and started to move along to the music, starting to get into it. It didn't take him as long to start, and he could start to get a feel for the energy of the crowd, using his songs to set the tones as he transitioned between similar tones. He wasn't always perfect - far from it - but he did better than his first show, with a more positive reaction. Once again, he hopped off the stage to get some water, this time to more applause and more positive reactions from the bar patrons, some even offering to buy the flygon a drink or two. He accepted graciously, though the alcohol was bitter, and would take some getting used to.

The money from his second show helped secure him a small apartment nearby. But he needed furnishings. A bed, for starters. And maybe some more clothes. And food. So he headed over to Plaisir for a third show. And a fourth show. And a fifth. Each time, the money went to improving his life. Electricity - he had a TV! A computer! Internet, even, where he found he could further his education more easily! A bed, soft and comfy instead of making due with whatever he could find. Food, drinks beyond just water - even some alcohol. But as his life was improved, his bills grew higher, requiring more shows, to be done with even more on his side.

By the tenth show, he hit the stage, the robes bursting off him in a gust of sand as he flew up to the microphone. His confidence was translating into stage presence, which drew eyes and a bigger audience as he became more well-known and lascivious with his act, each show revealing more and more skin and his songs more passionate. He took to the air, flying above the stage, even hanging above the dining area, light sand swirling around him, catching the light and glinting as he sang. It commanded attention as his top came off, appealing to the crowd as he flew and moved more and more provocatively for the duration of his set.

Once again, as his set came to an end, he returned to the stage, took his bow and hopped off the stage, making his way to the bar for his glass of water, which was waiting for him at the bar. As he sat down, and received adulations for his act, many offered him drinks. By now, he was getting a taste for alcohol, but still didn't have an idea where his tolerance gave out. He took the first few drinks like a champion, even settling in to watch the next act - a glaceon doing a sort of performance dancing. Very entertaining to watch, especially as more and more drinks were put into the naive Flygon, he was starting to let his guard down. He didn't usually answer many questions about himself during the down time after his shows. He thanked fans, and interacted with them a bit, but usually just kept medicating his throat with assorted drinks. After one too many drinks though, he began to talk about his life, to _anyone_listening.

He talked about his life in the desert, about how, as a Trapinch, he never really moved, just resting, growing, eating and... well, being a sand-dwelling creature most of the time. He commented repeatedly on how much that period of his life was the absolute worst, and how much he would rather forget ever having to live in that horrid hellhole. He then went into a miniature slurred tirade about how awful it was being a Vibrava too - no mouth, just flying and waiting to evolve. At least there was the flying.

"Honshetly? I prolly woulda gone inshane if it weren't fer the flyin'." He said, having difficulty wrapping his mouth around some of his words. "If I had to shpend one more day in that shit, I'd... well, I'd have done shomethin about it. Not... not shure what though..."

Some of the patrons were starting to get concerned for him, he was fairly inebriated by this point. He wasn't the least sober person present, but he was quickly on his way to becoming that person, if he didn't stop soon. Others around him here laughing, trying to get him another round - watching the normally composed and somewhat timid Flygon spilling his guts like this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Finally, he started talking about his personal life, nothing too interesting - coming out of the desert, finding his way to Plaisir, warming up to the place -- and the nice people buying him drinks, of course, -- before letting slip a crucial detail.

"Y'know..." he said, his face flushed from the alcohol, looking back up at the ceiling, "I was the only Flygon in my desert." He waved a little on his seat. "No other Flygons to be found... not that I was, like lookin' or anything... With no one around, you just never get the chance... you know? To feel the touch of another, y'know? I always won..."

"Wait." One of the patrons around him said, interrupting his drunken ramblings, "You work here and have never had sex before?" She sounded incredulous.

"Nope!" He replied quickly with a laugh. "Nev... Never found anyone who would! I mean, I... I'd like to, sure, but..." He said. "But..." He said again, trying to hold his train of thought as it rapidly slipped away. With his train of thought, slipped away his consciousness, and he passed out at the bar.

He woke up the next morning inside Plaisir, or at least, he thought it was Plaisir. his head feeling like it was in a vice as he tried to remember what happened last night and tried to take stock of his surroundings. He was... in what looked like a recovery room of sorts. One where someone took care of those who couldn't do it themselves. There were a number of strange machines and devices in one corner, and a single door leading out. The room was otherwise sparsely decorated.

He uneasily got to his feet, trying to shake off the hangover as he stepped out of the door. The room beyond appeared to be filled with assorted microcosms of various types of terrain - some hills, water, ruins, sand. It all looked very official. In the corner was a small terminal with some effects adorning it - a small, red and white ball, some ribbons, and what appeared to be a silver replica of a fossil? Wherever he was, it didn't feel like the rest of Plaisir. It felt... safer? It was a hard feeling to put his throbbing mind on. There was another door, that had a very fancy plaque on it, though he didn't stop to read it. Instead, he squinted and looked up - there were some holes in the roof, shining sunlight down into the room. He gave his wings a hesitant flap to see if they still worked, and after a second to get his bearings, he took off, flying out of the building and back towards his home, wondering just what had happened last night.

The word started getting out after that day - the Spirit of the Desert was still dry, it started to draw more of a crowd from those who were now interested in claiming his V-card. His shows became more frequent as he required more and more money to afford his lifestyle, drawing more of a crowd with his voice, his act and the rumors that he was still uninitiated within the brothel of Plaisir. Passes came from the employees, the patrons, and almost everyone he encountered, but he rejected every one, now swearing off alcohol after shows to be on the safe side. The time wasn't right for him yet. One day, he would find the right person to give it up for.

But bills were starting to pile up. Shows intermittently weren't doing the trick. He needed full time employment, with a regular income, hopefully with a signing bonus of sorts to help him get back to a healthy level of solvency. Before his 20th show, he went to Nikki, a tough-looking scrafty in charge of marketing and events, and pitched to her a crazy plan - an auction for his virginity. Details were arranged - a 50/50 split of profits between Drake and Plaisir, a contract was drawn, Coco, the shiny vulpix director of HR, was called in to negotiate employment after the auction ended. A deal was struck, and papers were signed. Drake would become a full time employee as part entertainment, and part of the host staff of Plaisir with the perks and benefits thereof following the auction, which was set for two weeks from that date, so Nikki would have time to advertise.

He wasn't sure it was the best deal, but it was the only way he saw to afford his life as he had built it from his work at Plaisir. It seemed almost natural for him at this point. He was as much a regular as some of the employees there. Still, as he stood backstage, and heard his name get called, it was like he was starting it all over again. He looked over the crowd, now almost nude. He was shaking like it was his first time. His usual stage presence was gone, which only seemed to appeal to the crowd more. The innocent virgin act seemed to be working, even if it wasn't an act.

The emcee shouted as Drake opened his eyes and adjusted to the stage lights. "There he is, folks! The Spirit of the Desert, a lovely rose ready to be deflowered! A diamond in the rough, ready to be claimed! Shame that I can't have him for myself. Ah well, let the bidding commence, and may the best man, or woman, win!"