This is just a random free write. For some reason, all my free rights are either about strip clubs or assassinations. This has both!
--------------------------------------------------
Ungodly music boomed in my ears, I felt as if I was trapped in the never ending elevator whose play list hadn’t been updated since the mid 70s. And I wasn’t even in a damn elevator. I was in a strip club.
Yes. Me. In a strip club… please hold the applause.
My cheeks were redder than a sunburn in April and my spine was straighter than the pole Candy was dancing on. But business was business and I needed to eat… and feed the cat. Guess who comes first. Why meetings have to take place in a nudey club, I will never know. But I can only guess it’s because I’m the only female in the bunch and of course that means my comfort leave isn’t even on the table. It’s not even a crumble on the table. Hell, it’s not even a crumb next to the table. But who is really keeping track?
So why is a nineteen year old meeting with forty-five year old men in a strip club? Well, not having a birth certificate, social security card, driver’s license or even a damn green card makes it kind of hard to find a “real” job. So here I am. Watching Candy flash her goods…which look like a commodity no one should ever throw their money at… with a bunch of older men. What are we talking about? The next political leader on my hit list…
No comments:
Post a Comment