Meow

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Who doesn't like or appreciate a little hedonism, and holy water here and there.

Boasting that she's died nearly 7 times, both of them coinciding with the best climaxes she's "ever had in her life," Meow sticks to her seedy underbelly of life, frequenting S&M bars hidden in the decrepit alleyways of gloomy, rainy Golgotha. 

The walls draped with red velvet, the bass of the music thumping the dust out of each cushion and old man's toupée, the flowing supply of cheap Denlotremol and "Venom tarts"--Meow lives here, subjecting herself gleefully to all kinds of clientele; her advertisement reading:

" You can't kill me baby... Do me your hardest "

Her clients ranging from the "too quiet" teenage boy, the Housewife trying to keep her serial killing tendencies in check, large groups of successful old CEOs, and fellow sadists/masochists.

Why doesn't the finality of death scare her? She could "care fucking less." 

Why can't she die? "I said I could care fucking less!"

- Meow's favorite client happens to be a well-spoken, stern faced male by the name of Aleister Poole, who likes to practice using his new tools on her.

- Rarely sleeps.

- The first time she tried having a priest give her an exorcism, she orgasmed 'uncontrollably' in front of an entire parish. The priest thought this was a severe possession and sent her case to the highest holy order in Palomé, where the cardinals and pope convene; they regularly send their strongest-willed priest to attempt taking "the demon out of her." She enjoys every minute of it.