Stella woke up in a dark, unfamiliar boudoir with a head full of hornets and a bad case of cottonmouth. “That goon doped me,” she muttered aloud, examining her surroundings.

From the Oriental furnishings, the stink of incense and the oil paintings of naked broads on the walls, Stella deduced that she was locked up in some swanky Chinatown cat house. Nell was nowhere to be found, and if all of that wasn’t bad enough, Stella caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror.

“Jeepers Creepers on a Popsicle stick!” she blurted.

Stella was done up like a Shanghai streetwalker. Tight silk dress with a slit up to her hip, fishnet stockings, stiletto heels so high, they might’ve been stilts. Her hair was up in an elaborate bun, held together with lacquered chopsticks, her face plastered with make-up. And Stella had thought her Cotton Club glad rags were embarrassing…

She made for the door, only to be stopped by a fat, pantsless man coming out of the Water Closet.

“Come ‘ere,” he slurred, “and give yer daddy some lovin’.”