((Hmmm! NSFWish under the cut. Also I failed at making this three sentences long. As you can see.))
The sign read “Interesting Trash” and though it was the strangest art gallery he’d ever seen in this part of town, a gentrified factory district full of sushi bars and pretentious modernist galleries, there was something about it that made him duck inside, motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.
He was stalled in front of a particularly erotic found-object sculpture that might or might not have been depicting some sort of bestiality, or at the very least a disturbing orgiastic metamorphosis, when a chillingly familiar voice brushed against the back of his neck, long pale fingers sliding up onto the lapels of his leather jacket from behind.
"My, my, Cossimo, what a pleasure to see you again." Suddenly the spider had returned to it’s web, and a growl that was part frustration, part disbelief escaped him as he he realized what had drawn him this place — it was the natural evolution of the cluttered, colorful, taxidermy-strewn interior of Proto’s dorm room of years ago, and he had gotten himself unwittingly tangled in the thick of it, without Pitch to tug him loose with a sharp word or two. "Shall I give you a, shall we say, in depth tour? I could show you the private collection…"