You have to remember, when you’re facing that pretty lady in the shiny form-fitting outfit: she wants to kill you. She’ll beguile you with her fancy lair, romance you with her tight costume, and enthrall you with her slinky, skanky minions. She’ll tie you down to an uniquely engineered, custom constructed and maybe comical deathtrap the likes of which no one has ever seen before, designed with only you in mind.
You’ll be the center of attention, get to utter brave platitudes and struggle manfully. She’ll lean over you, whisper sweet deadly nothings in your ear, her lips brushing your cheek as she departs. She may even pretend regret, and declare that you were her favorite nemesis, her very favorite, and that she’s going to miss your ridiculous posturing. But when all is said and done, if you let her have her way she’ll have killed you just as surely as if she had put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger.
Because all that glitz and glamour is designed for only one purpose: to distract you from the fact that success, for her, means turning you into a corpse. All the showbiz-sex-and-carnivals stuff is just a mask for a ritual act of murder. The Rube Goldberg mousetrap of a device into which she puts you will go through some elegantly entertaining gyrations but will eventually settle down to business and proceed to pierce, crush, squeeze, strangle, cut, burn, slice, impale, mangle or eviscerate you in a most inelegant way, leaving you untelegenically dead.