Dr. Hannibal Lecter

 [Birds are singing in the silk-cotton tree planted just outside the little shop at the end of the row where Hannibal Lecter sells his line of elegant clothes and wigs. It is a small place, but very posh inside, walls freshly whitewashed, bottle-glass windows polished and sparkling and every bit of merchandise in place. The man himself is much the same--diminutive, neat and resplendent, his gloves impeccably white, tobacco-colored waistcoat shimmering softly with subtle embroidery. The only unusual things about him are his boots, which though polished are clearly those of a seaman, and the long knife sheathed at his belt. Any rumors about the Mad Hannibal who ran rum and stolen goods here fifteen years ago are probably unrelated. Probably.]

[He putters around, arranging a freshly made wig on one of a row of wooden heads facing the door, then steps back to look at the resulting display. It needs something.] Hm.