The motel was pure sleaze and was, in fact, named "Sleazy Motel." She cruised past it twice and then, on a dark street, punched the button that changed the car's appearance from a Lamborghini to a 1992 Buick Century with just the correct touches of rust, including USMC and NRA stickers fading the back window. She quickly modified her own appearance to something more like that of the car, and then pulled a cover over her toolkit to cover the Gnucci custom work that it was. Pile her hair on top of her head and she looked like the sort who would stay at the Sleazy Motel.

She knew that this was where her prey would eventually come, like zebras come to a waterhole where the crocodiles wait for that moment when the zebras' attention is distracted long enough for the kill machine to move in an do its job. And she was the killing machine, the crocodile.

"Bobert must be saved," she muttered to herself, "but this place literally stinks."