(You) can smell the lit joss sticks in the insectoid's shrine over there, along the wall next to some unfathomable manicure themed junk. It appears to be some kind of obese cat avatar with a motioning arm rocking back and forth, a Garfield buddha with mirrors and plastic plant garnish, motioning hypnotically and vaguely suggestively. Its alien to your eyes and there is a smell behind the sandalwood that's alien to your nose. The Bing-Bunggg of the break beam door alarm, the universal sound of the customer, has brought tonight's honey hued harlot out from a cubicle in the back.