"What does he know, anyway," she told herself as she settled into her car. Then again, what did she know? She’d been in Hollywood for well over a year and hadn’t had one acting gig. Not even a bite. And porn was acting, right? Maybe, she figured, the guy had a point. After all, she now had the body and the looks for it. And she certainly had the jugs. Plus, she had heard that the money and the hours were great. So, sitting there in the car that day as she pondered her options, Dolores del Dunning was born and Shirley Keller was no more.

Within six months she stared in five movies, the third of which got her name in bold letters on the video box. She was, if not a star, than at least an actress. For it did take quite a bit of acting to do what she had to do in order to make it in the industry. The men, after all, weren’t exactly lookers. There were no Brad Pitts doing porn, she found. Though there were a lot of Adam Sandlers. She did like the people she met, though. Most were actors and actresses like herself who couldn’t find work in legitimate movies. And there was a certain comradery amongst her peers. They were in the same boat. Sex, after all, did make them closer than your average coworkers. And yes, as she had heard, the money was terrific, especially for the hours she had to put into it. She made even more doing personal appearances. That she liked best. She loved being ogled at. Loved signing her autograph. Loved the elation she felt when someone recognized her.

And that’s how she found herself that fateful day as she sauntered into the club that broadcast her name in lights: happy as a clam to be doing something that brought others as well as herself so much joy. She was a star, even if only in certain circles, and she was ready to perform for her fans.
At least that’s what she had planned. She didn’t, unfortunately, get that far. Just as she was making her way on stage, through the dense crowd of admiring men, someone spilled their drink on the floor, and her shiny, black stilettos fell out from under her. She went down like a sack of bricks. Her head smacked hard against the back of a chair and she was out cold.

Though she wasn’t completely unconscious. She was, if anything, acutely aware of her being. Her soul, if you will. And this was neither a scary nor unpleasant feeling. It felt like she was floating on air. Then, in the distance of her vision, for she could see the space around her, came a bright, white light. It grew and grew until it completely engulfed her, bathing her in its warmth. And from this light came a voice that permeated the very fiber of her being. It said, succinctly and with a great roaring boom, "Dolores, use your talents in my name." And that was all that was said. A moment later Dolores batted her eyelids and found herself surrounded by the club’s employees and patrons.

She knew in an instant what had happened. She had slipped. She had been knocked out. God had spoken to her. She was as certain of the last thing as she was of the first two. Felt it down to her very bones. But God called her Dolores, not Shirley. What could that mean? There was no time to think of an answer, however. Within seconds an ambulance arrived and she was carried out on a stretcher, much to her embarrassment. The management had insisted. If she was hurt, they were liable. But, in truth, Dolores felt fine. Radiant, even. At peace.