I guess you'll be with me a while.  

 I work at Lion Mouth Bakery, the one around town in the back of an alley, the one that only street punks come to when they've got something shiney in their pocket.  Someday it'll be better and everyone'll wish they had considered the place - especially Todd Fink.  Fink is not his real last name, it's just what I call him, because he's a wealthy brat who's father and mother look upon him like he's a winning lottery ticket.   

  Lion Mouth Bakery owns a real lion - and she's my partner.  Elise is just a teenager, and so am I.  I'm Eleanor of 13.

  Who are you? 

Lion Mouth Bakery's lion does not get penned up, she wanders around, lounges around the place like a fluffy old kitty.  That's the main reason many decent folk who value their lives come here.

  "Don't worry," I always tell them, "she's well fed."  They nod and don't come in anyway.

  Who would?  

I bet they figure that if they go to Lion Mouth Bakery, they'll end up in a lion's mouth at a bakery.  

Which would happen at some point - the reason only punks every come.  

 And to see Elise.  

"Elise," I said to my lioness one day, when earnings were low, "do you think I could convince customers that you were in a cage?"  "I'll try ," Elise admitted, and when the bell rang signaling a punk, Elise went to  the farthest corner and sat like a gargoyle, one paw in the air.  

"Yo," the guy said, "sup with Elsie?  Angie?"  "Elise.  Pumpkin muffin?"  "Sure.  What happened?"  "She's caged."  "What?"  "She's caged.   She'll get out when decent people come to buy."  "Woah, that'll be a long time.  The Geometrey club master, aka me, already staked this out as my own."  "What?!?"  "Yeah.  Told people to get lost, yeah this is ours-" "but it's NOT yours!!"  

 "What?"

"Elise, sick 'em."