Everyone's a Critic. Even Drunks. Especially Drunks.

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LEAH TANG WAS DYING ON STAGE.

She knew she shouldn't expect too much from a college bar crowd, but this was beyond the pale.

Her The Last Action Hero bit? Interrupted every ten seconds by the table full of bros up front yelling for her to show some flesh.

Her breakdown of why the Star Wars prequels failed, from the lack of a scruffy-looking-Nerf-herder rogue figure to the bungling misuse of the Jedi Order? Nothing but heckling.

Even her story about the Epic Ice Fortress Snowball Wars from when she was in middle school fell flat, and that bit had killed before.

It sure didn't help that the drunk first-timer before her had gotten a hooting-and-hollering standing ovation with nothing more than five minutes of boob jokes.

He'd primed the audience so much that when she took the stage, one of the bros up front asked her to flash him. It was a testament to her professionalism that she didn't just dump her water on his head to start off her set.

In fact, so far the only person in the room who seemed at all interested in her routine was the intense black guy sitting on his own in the second row by the entrance. He hadn't taken his coat off even though the bros up front were sweating in the lights. This guy, this one appreciative audience member — he liked her genre commentary, so she'd be happy to oblige.

This guy had been at her last open night too, if she remembered right. So he was either digging her work, a creeper, or maybe both. Hopefully not both. That wouldn't bode well for her future fan base. "I'm huge with the `overly intense and creepy' crowd!" Not so good.

Not that she had a fan base to begin with. The rest of the crowd — the townies at their regular tables and the drunk-ass students up front — the best they managed was polite disinterest.

Leah heard her father's voice in her head. "Oh, Leah, don't go to the coast and become a comedian. Make a responsible choice; stay here with your family and go to optometry school like your brother." The bros up front catcalled again, asking for her number for the third time.

"Come down here, baby!" one said. "I'll make your fantasies come true." Cal, the owner, had a very high bar for throwing out belligerent hecklers, so she was on her own. It was three strikes and you're out here at the Attic, and she was in the middle of Strike Three. So she might as well enjoy herself.

"Fantasy, eh?" Leah asked.

Perform for the audience you have, not the audience you want, she thought. She grabbed the available segue and ran with it, squaring off to the audience and zeroing in on the bros in the front row.

She affected a coquettish bedroom voice. "Let me tell you about my fantasy."

That got the bros' attention.

"My fantasy" — hooting and howling near