Angst Giving

“Angst Giving”

11.30.2008





What I like to refer to as a “nice snack between Halloween and Christmas”, Thanksgiving is the seminal ushering in of the holiday season and the bellowing hell ship that is the arrival of family bearing casseroles. As depicted in the amazing movie directed by Jodie Foster and starring Holly Hunter and Robert Downey Jr., Home For The Holidays seems to encapsulate the essence of what it means to have to “deal” with those you grew up with and are forced to interact with as they are stapled to you with the moniker: Family.

I grew up quite different. My parents divorced when I was 4 and being basically brought up by my dad, Thanksgiving was usually spent with his old theater and art buddies in a large home in Carmel CA. My father and his friends openly drank, smoked pot, cursed and played music before and after the feast, all the while with some football game or parade twinkling on the television. I’ve only heard tales of horror and tension from others with their families and now that I am in a loving and committed relationship those tales are beginning to ring true.

But it has nothing to do with her family. Oh no. We get along famously. They accept my eccentricities because they seem to put up with their daughter’s. Coming from a military and political right family, my lady has somehow broken out and become a freewheelin’, life lovin’, three degrees in art havin’ independent woman. Now that she nabbed a heavy metal worshippin’, only child weirdness exhibitin’, freelance writer and Muppet Movie watchin’ man (that would be me) they’ve surreptitiously thrown up their hands and welcomed me into the family. Thanks guys!

Here’s the thing. Most Thanksgivings of the past have come and gone with little or no incident. In my almost 38 years here on Earth (gosh, has it been that long?) my experience with the holiday has been pleasant. You get time away from school or work, you cook and eat yummy food, you hang out with friends or family all day and what could be better than watching old man Kringle caboose a huge parade filled with huge balloons of forgotten cartoon characters and vapid boy bands?

She-Ra (that’s my lady) and I only received 2 full days off for Thanksgiving. Work would essentially shut down if we took any more time off so we dealt with it. That was the first snag.

We live in Tucson, AZ and her parents live up in Scottsdale which is about a 2 hour drive. We spent last Thanksgiving in San Diego, at her sister and brother-in-law’s place. Because they have two young kids and were dealing with Jay, her brother-in-law, leaving for Iraq (he’s a commanding Drill Sergeant) they wanted to keep it close to home. That meant She-Ra and myself would have to cook (that’s right, we’re the cooks, always trust in the chubby kids to put on a fantastic dinner) in a tiny kitchen with no counter tops, thermostat set for “3rd level of Hell” and eating on a traveling picnic table in the kids’ play room. They threatened to do the same this year and we threatened to not show up. So, thankfully, we ended back up in Scottsdale with a huge kitchen, counter space, two ovens and parents that are thrifty so the thermostat is set for “Off”, which equals a fairly non-sweaty environment.

We left early on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, because not only did we have a long drive ahead of us but we had some last minute errands to run. As we are driving up to our bank we are witness to a huge several car pile up right in front. It starts, I thought. Holiday drivers are the worst. Not only are they somehow in a big hurry to get to the big headache, but they are juggling cell phones, road maps and screaming kids all at the same time. It was barely 10am and already some people were doomed.

After the errands we finally get on the road and are on our way. We stop by a Sonic for some grub and tots and the lady at the drive thru window is so taken by our dog, Deacon, a pure bred Siberian Husky with ice blue eyes and a reddish coat, that she gives the guy some tots. The dog is so excited to not only be in the car but that some strange lady is giving him treats. Within seconds of ingesting the deep fried miracles, after pulling out and getting on the road, the dog vomits all over the backseat. It’s not much and, yes, we cover the backseat when we take him on trips because he is quite the hairy beast, but still. There is was, bright yellow dog sick on a bright sunny afternoon.

Just as we get onto the highway we are witness to accident #2. This one wasn’t so bad. Just a fender bender but the portly man who got rear ended looked quite upset at the small Asian lady who was on her cell phone. Ah, the magic of the holidays.

After the BBQ chicken sandwiches and tots are devoured, not 10 miles out of Tucson, what do we see? You got it, accident #3.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said. “This is an omen!”

That gave pause to She-Ra who was driving, so she put the car’s cruise control to “Grandma” and we gently sped to our destination.

Twenty miles later...accident #4. This time I just slapped my forehead with disbelief.

As we reached the midway point, a curious and common occurrence took hold. See, Highway 10, west bound from Tucson to Phoenix/Scottsdale, is essentially just 2 lanes. The right lane is for huge 18 wheel trucks and stoners in VW bugs to chug along in, so the left lane is open game for everyone else. The posted speed limit reads 70, so She-Ra takes us off cruise and jams it up 75. The 5 mile window is of no concern to the police. It’s when you get over theat 10 mile mark that they start to take notice.
It didn’t take long for us to be a magnet for a dick nozzled tailgater.

It was a new white car, a Lincoln if memory serves me, but I couldn’t get the front license plate because it had disappeared into the trunk of our Impala. Other cars behind this guy, when the opportunity arose, drove around and passed us. We were doing the speed limit, more so in fact, and this guy was bent on riding us like a cheap Brazilian whore. We figured that maybe after a mile or two the guy would secede from his idiocy and pass us. But no. He kept on our bumper as if playing a game of chicken. He was so close, his windshield touched the top of our trunk. It was maddening.

“Tap the brake,” I said. “That always gets them.”

“No way,” insisted She-Ra. “This guy is going down!”

That’s when I noticed the speedometer dropping. She took us from 75 to 70. Then 70 to 65. Nothing. The maniac relented. 65 slowly became 60. People were passing us all over the place but the moron in the white sedan didn’t get the clue. In fact, I think it only fueled his hellish intentions. Maybe he wants to ram us I thought. Perhaps the sight of a Husky drooling out of the rear left window sets him off. Bad memories perhaps. But when our car dropped to 55, almost 15 miles since we picked up the jackass, he finally got the hint and got into the right lane.

As he sped up next to my window, we were in hysterics. The fact that someone was so dense and dedicated to the craft of tailgating made us laugh with a combo of disbelief along the proof element of the human micro-brain. When he passed we both pointed and laughed right at him. He was a young guy, somewhere in the 20s, standard looking, who tried to gaze at us with intimidation but soon turned head when he saw us calling him out on his own crapiness. To make things even better, or worse, when he dodged in front of us and sped off like a cork stuck in the barrel of a cartoon shotgun, we saw three Greek letters signifying that he was indeed a brother in the fraternal order of Pi Alpha Douche.

And there, just a few miles up the road, was accident #5. This was a big one. At least six cars had crushed each other in what was probably a chain reaction. There was a pickup truck, an SUV with screaming kids crying in every direction, a decrepit Oldsmobile and...what’s that? Can it be? It is! Holy crap, it was the guy that was tailing us for the last 20 miles! You have got to be kidding me! Right there, in the middle of the debacle, was our little butt lovin’ frat boy. Oh boy. Our car erupted in laughter.

“You have to pull over,” I said. “I wanna be the witness that the guy was a jerkoff and help get him off the road for good.”

The notion was vetoed as we had a family and friends deadline to meet.

Once we hit the Phoenix area, accident #6. Once we pulled into Scottsdale, accident #7. Seven. Count them, 7 frikkin accidents. This has got to be a record. It just has to be.

Knowing that we’d be shacked up with She-Ra’s sister, brother in law, their 2 kids and huge baby Dane dog, not to mention her parents, we opted to stay at a Motel 6, the greatest gift to thrifty travelers. This place is not only cheap, always boasting a vacancy and everywhere, but offers two things that we can seriously wrap our arms around.

They allow pets and there’s always a bottle opener next to the bathroom sink.

We check in with no problems but once we drive around to see where our room is we begin to giggle. Our room, all kidding aside, is literally a few steps away from the front entrance to a Dillard’s. As we unpacked the car and got the dog settled, folks were exiting the department store with sacks of retail goodness and hopping into their cars in the vast expanse of the neighboring parking lot. It was good because I had forgotten to pack a nice pair of shoes so after everything was in the room we just walked in, found a pair of low top black Chuck’s, got ‘em and moved on. Don’t you just love this age of modern industry?

It was a cold and grey day so I was craving coffee. The nearest place, big shocker, was a Starbucks. Mind you, I have no objection to this place at all. That is if you’re just getting coffee and you’re not in the center of yuppie and golf playing retirees hell. Which we were. The line was almost out the door and dorky middle aged Lands End catalog addicted Bluetooth wearing zombies were ordering the most outlandish crap. It was almost out of a bad comedy, those people. I held back my laughter as Brad and Dakota ordered half caff light foam nonfat touch of mocha sprinkle of cinnamon what the fxxks all over the place. Even She-Ra got caught up in the action and ordered some caramel concoction. Me? I just got a large coffee. Oh sorry, a “venti”. Venti means 20. 20 ounces. Clever...

She-Ra’s folks live in a nice, quiet yet very typical suburban area of Scottsdale. Once we arrive and see the chaos of the children and pre-Thanksgiving preparation, we thank the gods of intuition that we got that room.

Seeing as we can’t leave Deacon in that room (which was tiny) alone and that her folks have a big backyard, we threw caution in the wind and hoped the dogs would get along. It didn’t take but a second for the back door to open up for Cooper, the Dane, to come tearing across the lawn and get our dog by the throat. I wanted to help but was so shocked and carrying the coffee drinks that all I could do was step back and let my lady and the drill sargent take control. After a lot of barred teeth and growls, the dogs were separated. Cooper went into seclusion in the downstairs bathroom and deacon roamed free in the back forty. All was calm.

Now to deal with the kids.

Nick, who is 4, has quelled his obsession to punch me in the balls down to a dull roar. He comes close, but now he insists on pulling on my pants or shirt to get my attention. Natalie is 2 and is already showing flair to be a future Carrie Bradshaw. She is shoe and fashion focused and is always drawing me pictures. Mind you, they are hard scribbles done in crayon but still.

Turns out, deacon had torn a hole through Cooper’s floppy ear. This upset She-Ra’s sister, Erin, to no degree. Now the “fight” had become the fault of our dog. Time for beer #1.

I get along fine with her family, but seeing as we are both the “black sheep” the relative distance (no pun intended) is always there. They know about my dad’s, they know about my mom and that I haven’t seen her in almost a decade and they know I used to be a heavy metal DJ and just finished my first book about my kooky adventures in San Francisco, so the conversation deals more with Erin and Jay and the kids and so forth. I’m nervous of their reaction to the book once, or if, they read it. Yes, the guy that wants to marry your daughter had a serious cocaine problem and dated many insane women at one point. Oh yeah, I watched porn with Lemmy of Motorhead too. That should put a golden nail in my awaiting coffin.

After our visit we went to see her friend’s Jenny and Justin who just had their second baby. Catholic twins as we like to say: 9 months apart. Justin had been drinking all day and wanted to get into it about our Barack supporting, they being financial consulting Republicans. I just plugged my ears and drank the liver exploding cocktail he made for me. The babies were cute though. As we sat on the back porch talking to Jenny, Justin went to feed the oldest. After a while we wondered if everything was okay. He had passed out giving her a bottle. We hugged Jenny and took off.

Around 2am, after crashing around midnight, I heard a strange noise coming from outside. What sounded like announcements from a near by football field, I ignored it thinking it was just the mall next door getting ready for Black Friday. But the sound continued and I thought I had heard the words “we have you surrounded”. I couldn’t be sure due to the wall fan and white noise machine I always take with me were both purring away, muffling the voice. So I got up, looked out the window and let out a “holy crap”.

There were at least five cop cars, all with their flashers on, and a paddy wagon in the motel parking lot just a few doors down from us. So I went to the front door and peeked. Cops were out with guns drawn. The guy actually said, “we have the place surrounded. Come out with your hands up!”

This woke She-Ra up and she didn’t look pleased.

“It’s a raid,” I said. “We don’t have any drugs or stolen equipment on us do we?”

She just went back to sleep.

The next morning, Thanksgiving, as She-Ra showered and I took the dog for a walk (on the Dillard’s grassy front area thank you very much, he pooped in style) I spotted a guy coming out of his room that was right next door to the police scuffle last night. I then noticed a handy man nailing in boards over a broken front window.

“Excuse me sir,” I said. “Do you know what happened?”

“Some nut,” he said, “obviously on something, was screaming and tearing up the place. I went over there to see what was the matter and to tell him to stop or I’d call the cops. He apologized and was quiet for a few minutes. Then it was more screaming, more cursing and then, crash!, the guy throws a desk through the window. I called 911 and he was arrested. He wouldn’t come out of his room so the police had to storm the place.”

“Gee whiz,” I uttered. “Happy Thanksgiving huh?”

“And we’re in Scottsdale for crying out loud!” said the man. “What do you think this is? Tucson?”

I kept quiet.

Back at the house, we started cooking. All of our great recipes for garlicky mashed skin-on potatoes, bacon-y green bean casserole and a few others were nixed seeing as the kids wont eat anything that’s not super bland or microwaved. This coming from a mom that put a microwave lasagna in the oven and couldn’t understand why her gravy wasn’t cooking. The stove was off. So we obliged and cooked up a decent, yet safe, dinner.

After the Macy’s parade comes, of course, football.

“What team are you lookin’ at this year?” Jay asks me.

“Huh?” I chirped. “Um...football? I, uh...I don’t know.”

“Saints are lookin’ good. Cardinals have a strong defense.”

“Uh...yeah. Cardinals.” Then I had to think, is that baseball or football? Oh wait, the cardinals is the Arizona team. Right. I’ll go with that. “They look...good.”

Sure I’m a man, sure I like metal, sure I’m heterosexual...that doesn’t mean I know anything about sports. There’s a ball, they wear tight pants, there’s a lot of bending over and ass slapping then in the end they pour Gatorade on the coach. Bingo! There’s my extent of knowledge. I never go up to guys and say “Hey, who do you think will take the wing eating contest this year? Joey Chestnut? I’m hoping it’ll be Bertoletti. He’s got nimble fingers and has been training pretty good this year.”

The rest of the trip went by fairly easy. No more dog fights, no more arrests, no more severe car accidents, although we were happy to be home as a vacation from the vacation was in order. Isn’t that always the way?

I think for Christmas we’re keeping it on the down low and staying home.

But that’s another story...

"Destro is a turd." (part 1)

“Destro is a turd!”




By Mark Whittaker





My name is Robbie Stevens, I live in Charlesberg California, just outside of Salinas, which is a few miles inland from Carmel and Monterey, which lies about a hundred miles south of San Francisco. The “central coast” they call it. It’s nice here. Quiet, good neighbors, decent places to eat, reasonable rent, all the stuff one needs to survive and have a good time without the headaches of a big city.
For a few years I lived in Los Angeles trying to break into show business. Not as an actor but as a grip, the guys who carry around all the big equipment and drive the big trucks and all that. It was more of a headache than anything because of all the red tape, ‘who do you know’ bullpucky and having to deal with the unions. That’s how I ended up in Charlesberg.

A good buddy, Ernie, said that there was an opening at the manufacturing plant he worked at as a security guard. Well, me being real sick like of L.A. and the whole scene down there I took him up on it. So now I’m the graveyard security guard for Ambus Industries, which produces metal materials for all sorts of things, mainly military stuff, like guns and weapons. You’d think this place would be under constant surveillance and have a tighter security measure. Turns out no one really knows about it and why would someone want to come in and steal a bunch of triggers and tubes that will someday become a weapon? Sure they have tons of cameras and all that but at night it’s pretty much just me. And that’s the way I like it.

On my off hours I like to fish and play baseball with my friends. I’m a simple guy with a small house on Maple Drive, just down the street from Andy’s Deli next to Forest Glen Park. I like my life. Things are going alright.

That is until I met...HIM!

It was just an ordinary night, a Tuesday. I spent the day sleeping and caught a movie before coming to work. That new pirate movie. Pretty good. Everything was going along smoothly. I clocked in, did my security check, grabbed my sidearm and some coffee, talked to Harold the main foreman for a bit and started my rounds. The first walk through went by without a hitch. Silent, not a peep, just the hum and roar of machines cooling down from a day cranking out metal bits of all shapes and sizes.

When I went back to the security office, I turned on the TV to catch a late night movie. That Spike channel was doing an all night Kung Fu marathon so I thought that sounded fun. After switching on the set, I noticed something move on camera D.

It was a swift movement, as if something ran by real quick like. I turned the volume down on the set and walked up to the camera D monitor. Nothing. Just the crates waiting to be shipped to Fort Harbor Michigan on Wednesday morning. I went for the remote control to move the camera and when I did I saw another movement. This time on camera G, overlooking the long corridor leading from this office to the assembly area. This made me nervous.

The movement was so quick and swift I was sure it was just a cat that got loose in the warehouse. This happens now and then. In fact the other graveyard guard, Monte, saw one and actually started shooting. Blew holes clear through a shipment of cylinders for new machine guns. The cat was okay but Monte got a weeks suspension and a lot of laughs from us.
But I wanted to be sure. So I turned the TV set off and walked out of the office. It was quiet, except for those hums I told you about earlier.
“Hello!”, I yelled out. I don’t know why people insist on yelling out ‘hello’ when there could be a possible situation with a thief or killer but, hey, I’m only human and they never really covered that in training.
There was no response, which wasn’t a big surprise. So I walked down the iron grate steps to the main floor. Nothing. Silence. Just that hum. And as I walked down the corridor where I saw the movement all I was met with was large crates and a forklift. That’s it. No cat and no killer.

As I began to walk back to the office a loud “SLAM!” echoed through the warehouse.

When I looked up to see where the sound came from I noticed the office door was closed. I’m sure I left that thing opened when I went to go investigate. So I quickly and silently walked up the stairs, hand on my sidearm, approached the office door and then threw it open.

Sitting there, in front of the TV set was a large man, dressed all in black and wearing a shiny silver mask, trying to turn the channel.

“I hate Kung Fu movies”, he said in a deep and commanding voice, one that resonated like an metallic echo. “Can’t you get any porn on this thing?”

“Put the set down sir!” I yelled out. The silver faced man kept futzing with the small TV as if I had not said anything. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The silver faced man kept turning the knob, completely ignoring me.

“What I want,” he said in that weird, deep, hollow voice, “is to get some action on this thing. Dear God! Is this just basic cable?”

It was then that I released my sidearm, pointed it at the man and said: “Sir, if you do not put the TV set down and step back I will be forced to shoot!”

The silver faced man slowly lowered the set, turned towards me and looked me straight in the eye. Who was this guy? It wasn’t Halloween was it? What’s with the thick black outfit and that crazy mask?

“Go ahead,” the man said. “Shoot me. Go ahead. Let’s see what you got!”

I felt my finger tighten on the trigger but I knew darn well I could not shoot. He wasn’t being hostile and I was scared stiff. I had never shot anyone before. Well, not real anyway. On that video game ‘Zombie Hunter: Blood Crave 2' I shot some people but not in the flesh. They weren’t even alive. They were zombies!

The silver faced man just stood there, smiling, waiting for me to do something.

“Look,” I eventually said, “I don’t know who you are or what you want. So I’m going to just lower my weapon here and just...”

“NO!” The silver faced man shouted as if he was incredibly upset. His cry bounced off the walls and glass and continued through the warehouse. I started shaking with indescribable fear.

“I want you to shoot me!,” he said again. “Shoot me! I...I have....” The silver faced man then bowed his head and turned away from me. It looked as if he was crying. “I have nothing left to live for.”

With my gun visibly shaking in front of me I let out a quivering, “Huh?” The silver face man was beginning to both scare and annoy me.

The silver face man lowered his head, wiped a tear away and composed himself. He looked me dead on in the eyes.

“Look, mister...?” He wanted to know my name. I wasn’t really sure what to do so I thought I’d throw him off a bit by giving him a phony one.

“Um...Cliff.”

“Really? OK, look...Cliff...my name is Destro and I am here to steal some...stuff.”

The silver face man (or Destro as he called himself) didn’t seem to be telling me the truth. In fact, he was obviously telling me a bad lie and didn’t seem to be into that at all. It looked as if he was putting up a front or trying to cover something up.

“Oh really?”, I said. “And, um, what are you here to steal?”

Destro looked around the room. Finding nothing he let out an audible “Uhh” and trained his gaze out the window and into the warehouse.

“OH!”, he finally said. “Um, some of that metal tubing out there.” He then slowly nodded his head and returned the gaze to me. “Yep,” he said unconvincingly.

I lowered my sidearm and cocked my head slightly. “What are you gonna do with a bunch of metal tubing?”

Destro then put his fists on his waist and threw me an indignant look. “Hey! Who’s in charge here?”, he asked as if a middle management boss had been one upped by an intern. “I mean, hello!, this is a weapons manufacturing plant is it not?”

“No. It isn’t,” I said.

Destro’s face then grew long, mouth agape, eyes wandering in confusion, and he lowered his hands off of his waist.

“Oh,” he said. “Well then...what is this place?”

“We make parts for weapons, but not weapons necessarily.” I heard my words come out and then caught myself. Quickly, I raised the gun back into firing stance. “Look. Who are you and what do you want? You have five seconds before I call for backup!”

Destro held up his hands in quasi defense and let out a small laugh. “Don’t you know who I am?”, he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. It was true, he did look a little familiar. “Maybe.”

“Destro. I’m Destro! You know, I work for C.O.B.R.A.? My boss is the Cobra Commander. That fucking...asshole.”

It then dawned on me where I had seen him. Sure, he was that silver faced guy from the GI Joe toys, movie and TV show. My gun quickly dropped when I realized this.

“Shut up,” I said with a smile. “No you’re not. Your some dude in Destro costume. Destro and Cobra Commander are fake.”

Even though the silver face man really looked convincing and sounded even more so, I could not believe that he was the real deal.

“No way. I am for real. Honestly. I’m Destro and I’m here to do some bad guy stuff. You know, because...” Destro then yawned deep as he continued speaking, “it’s what I do.” The big yawn finally came to a finish. “Oh. Excuse me.”

To me, this guy looked tired and bored, almost destitute. His clothes were shabby, even with all of the high end fabric and technology that made it up. His face wasn’t so much shiny as it was well worn much like a cheap engagement ring. And his face indicated an air of gloom and despair. If it could, stubble would protrude from the silver plating. If this was indeed Destro, he had seen better days and had hit the skids quite hard.

“What happened?” I just had to ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You look...” I couldn’t finish. Fake or not, this guy was probably pretty dangerous.

“How do I look?” he asked wildly. “Like I could use another drink? Hell yes!”

It was then that Destro produced a large gun from seemingly out of nowhere. It was a big and hulky thing, like a cross between a sawed off shotgun, space age cannon and a bubble blaster.

“Jeez,” I uttered in shock and awe. “Wh...what is that thing?”

“It’s called an all access pass bitch!” Destro then grabbed a large black satchel that was laying on the table and approached me, gun held high. “C’mon. You’re coming with me!”

He threw the satchel over his shoulder and snatched my right arm with his thick gloved hand. His grip was like an iron vice and I moaned from the pain. Ignoring my gasps, Destro lead me to the door, kicked it open and almost threw me down the stairs. Once on the main floor, Destro grabbed my arm again.

“This way!” he insisted and pulled me in the direction of the back loading docks.

“Well...what about your plan to steal some metal tubing?” I said in a desperate plea to be released and run home to the safety of my bed, where I’d throw the covers over my head and try to forget this weirdness had actually happened to me.

“Ah, to hell with the tubing. I can get that anywhere. Let’s get loaded!”

Eventually we were at the loading docks. The night air was cool and the moon was half full. The lights from the back lot were yellow and not bright enough to see any further than the chain link fence that separated the plant from a big field of brush and gophers. A large vehicle shape of some kind was parked nearby. The yellow hue from the lightposts silhouetted it. I’m sure it belonged to Destro.

“You smoke?” Destro asked me, still with a death grip on my arm.

“Ah, no. No I don’t,” I said with a hint in my voice indicating that I was in some distress here. “I mean, some pot now and then.”

Destro tossed his silvery head toward me. “You got some on you?” he asked like a thirsty man begging for some water.

“Uh, no. No I don’t. Look, could you please...”

“You know where we can get some?”

Destro tightened the grip. This was a strange man on an even stranger mission. But I had to think. Sure I had a little bit at home and I know the guy I buy from is up but I didn’t want to endanger anyone. Especially me and my connection. So I came up with plan B.

“Yes. Down on Hurley street. It’s a known drug haven. But, watch out...lots of undercover cops.”

Destro then threw his big head back and let out a hearty laugh, aiming the guffaws towards the heavens.

“You think I give two shits about some small town cops? I’m Destro motherfucker! Look at this piece I’m carrying! Look at my car!”

He pointed toward the shape in the lot. I nodded in semi approval. Then with another “C’mon!” Destro pulled me down the ramp, into the lot and toward his car.

Actually it was neither a car nor was it a tank. It was both. This thing made the Batmobile in Batman Begins look like a Big Wheel toy. It’s ominous shape and size was hard to actually make out in the dim illumination, but all I knew was...I was in for quite an adventure!

“Wow,” I said as he ushered me to the passenger side door. “What is this thing?”

Destro produced a small black device from his left pocket. It was thin and decorated with several buttons. He pressed one. With a dull beep, the passenger door raised open like a Delorean gone future war craft. It opened in relative silence and revealed an interior filled with objects and technology I could hardly ever imagine. Bathed in a subtle red glow, much in the same fashion as a spy jet or submarine, Destro tossed me into the huge passenger seat and said:

“This is my ride!”

The door came down to a shushing close. Before Destro entered the vehicle I had a chance to look behind me at the vast array of weaponry and gadgetry, all blinking away and sitting menacingly in that mysterious red light. My heart pounded like mad, both from absolute terror and a strange excitement as well. This was something I secretly wanted to happen to me on my shift. Now that it was here, I kind of didn’t know what to do with it.


Soon enough the driver’s side opened with a pshhh and Destro clambered inside. He tossed the bag and gun in the back and settled in the driver’s seat. He then began to fumble in his pockets.

“Ah shit. Where’s the stupid keys?”

In the strange humming vehicle from some GI Joe cartoon, it struck me funny that he actually needed keys.

“Oh wait,” he said. “I don’t need keys.”

Destro then bent down by the dash and pedals and procured two wires. He then began to strike the two together which reciprocated with some sparks.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “Did you steal this thing?”

Destro kept at his sparking of the blue and red wires until, “Barooooom!”, the vehicle roared on.

“Yeah,” he said easing back into the chair. “Stole it from that douchebag Snake Eyes. Fuck that queer! He doesn’t deserve a rig like this, especially after...”

He trailed off. That look of sadness I witnessed earlier appeared. Yet with a heavy sigh and deep breath, Destro composed himself and looked at me.

“You ready to party?”, he asked.

“Um, I guess so...”

With that, Destro threw the vehicle into gear sending it flying forward, crashing through the link fence and careening us over the bumpy field. I suddenly thought about all of the poor gophers we were trampling.

“OK,” Destro said as we came to a main road and took a sharp left. “Where is this Hurley street?”

Looking out of the wide and squarely configured window, I saw we were on Delores street. Hurley street was nearby; a scum trough of burnouts, drug pushers, scabbed up whores and boarded up liquor dens. Local teens would go there on dares when the booze and boredom ran high to poke fun at the unfortunates and grab cheap narcotics. The video The Homeless Scuffle was partly filmed here, a sick almost snuff like “movie” involving bums and tramps getting into bloody fights. It’s a best seller. Hurley street is prominently featured as two vagabonds duke it out over a cheeseburger. Or so I’ve been told.

“Turn left on Garfield then make a right. You can’t miss it.”

Destro looked at me with a smug grin. “Damn. You know where to go. Tell me, you like fucking young bitches or what?”

His candor and perversion threw me back a little.

“I...I don’t know. Sure, I guess...”

“You guess?,” he said in a dire attempt to sound nasty. “Young girls are so tight. Especially young chink bitches. It’s like fucking a water balloon or something.”

When he said that I couldn’t help but laugh a bit. Then the realization that Destro was on a drug hunt and talking about sleeping with underage Asian girls made me queasy.

“Personally I like to get all high on crystal, drink some Jager and fuck a bunch of school girls from China. Hell yeah. Destro has a big silver cock!”

“Man,” I said in defiance. “You aren’t the Destro I remember from GI Joe and stuff. You’re weird.”

“Life is short, uh...what’s your name again?”

“R...” I almost said my real name. “R...ondo. My name is Rondo.”

“Rondo?” asked Destro with a disbelieving voice. “What kind of name is that?”

“Um,” I was caught. I couldn’t think of anything except, “my parents really liked to play Dungeons and Dragons.”

That was so lame. So bad in fact I felt myself cringe and clasp my eyes shut.

“Wait a minute,” Destro said, “I thought you said your name was Cliff.”

That’s it. I was caught. Yet I still had to say something.

“Y...yeah. Rondo. Cliff Rondo. That’s my name!”

Destro then hit the brakes so hard I fell forward bashing my head on the angular front window.

“Are you lying to me asshole?” Destro said in a dejected and angry tone. “Let me see your drivers license.”

He held out his right gloved hand and I knew I had to do as he said. Reaching into my back pocket I removed my old leather wallet, opened it and pulled out my license. Destro nabbed it, looked at it and began to laugh.

“Oh my god!”, he screamed. “You look like fucking Charlie Brown in this picture. No really...like a total retard. And I hate retards! You’re not retarded are you?”

Destro’s face indicated a hint of repugnance towards the mentally challenged. This guy was obviously screwed up.

“No,” I said. “I am not retarded.”

“Good,” he said. “‘Cause I don’t want some asshole retard partying with me. You got me?”

“Sure.”

“OK. Good. How much cash you got?”

Looking at Destro indicated that he was a worthless piece of filth. Now he wanted my money. Knowing darn well that I had no choice, I produced the 20, two 10's and a few 1's from the bill sheath. I handed it to him and he counted it up.

“Naw. This isn’t enough,” he said with a crackling voice, still hollow and menacing yet now vaguely pitiful and twinged with depression. “We’re going to have to make a stop before we buy drugs.”

Destro pocketed the cash and reached behind the seat. He held a large silver flask which he twisted opened and took a long hard pull off of. After swallowing he made a thick face of temporary anguish followed by a look of a man finishing a lengthy urination.

“Ahh. That’s what I needed.” Destro then offered the flask up to me. “You gotta try this. C’mon! Don’t be a fucking pussy.”

Horror and curiosity crept up my flesh and in the heat of the moment I grabbed the flask, put the small screwtop opening to my lips and let the venom splash in. The taste was a mix of gin, turpentine, chlorine and dog droppings. I took a small swallow and gagged hard, holding back the impending vomit.

“It’s good right?”, Destro said.
Coughing madly, I was able to let out a “God! No!” to which Destro took the flask back and screwed it shut.

“Fine. You don’t like my special drink. Then...fuck you!”

After getting my wind back I looked at Destro through tearing eyes. He looked upset, almost insulted.

“Wh...what’s (cough), what’s wrong?”, I stammered inducing the best gag reflex I could muster.

Destro then hit his knee really hard with his right hand still holding the flask and made a face of someone in emotional distress. Almost crying.

“Nothing ever goes right!”, he said in a choked up manner. “I mean, I used to be the leader of a major army, I had money, a mansion, prestige, honor, the world at my mercy! But most of all, I had... I had...”

Stifling the last remaining wretches, I asked Destro, “What? What did you have?”

After a long pregnant pause of sighs and rubbing his eyes, Destro finally said, “Her. I had...her.”

This is when the mighty hell swill hit my brain. Not so much that of a hearty shot followed by a good stout beer, no, this feeling was more like PCP with an Acid chaser. I wasn’t just drunk, I was higher then I had ever been in my life.

“Whoooooo...?” I felt the words exit then trail off into the ether. “Who did you have?”

In the glib haze of the death liquid contained in that flask, Destro uttered the name, “The Baroness”. I heard what he had said but could not for the life of me figure out what he had said.

Then, by some magical rewind of my childhood marked by the doom shift of the watery drug, I knew who Destro was talking about. The Baroness was Cobra Commander’s second in command and Destro was, apparently, in love with her. She was foxy, I guess, in a cartoonish way, with long red hair, subtle librarian-like spectacles and an hourglass figure. Plus she could kick butt and look good doing it.

“Oh yeah...”, I warbled. “The Baron...Baroness. Oh yeah. She was...”

Destro looked over at me and his face changed from sorrow to haughty.

“That’s good shit right?”, he said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Is my face still on?”

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get going.” Destro then put the super rig into gear and we sped off towards Hurley street.

A few blocks later, after watching the entire night sky melt into a black sea of light streaks, moving figures on the sidewalk and the fact that I was sitting next to a cartoon character turned flesh in a transport that could survive the onslaught of 10,000 alien battle ships, we had hit the crux of Hurley street. Through hallucinating eyes I could still see the awful truth of what this embarrassment to Charlesberg had to offer. Lowlifes and gun shops, half naked black men sleeping against graffitied walls, broken bottles and broken teeth scattered everywhere. The smell, even through the harsh armor of the transport, was a glugging stench of human waste and burnt out drug ash. How can a place like this exist in a fine city such as Charlesberg? It was something out of a textbook stereotype of what urban decay is and can become.

“Alright!”, Destro said spryly. “My kind of place! Let’s get rocking!”

“Well...wait,” I uttered, still unable to form true sentences, “what about the Baron...”

“Here we are!” Destro shouted as if to shush me up quick. His vocal tanner resembled that of someone trying desperately to find and distraction from the gloomy subject at hand.

Destro parked the hell rig in front of a rundown storefront with the words “Liquor” strobing in neon ineptitude. There were wrought iron bars peeling away on dirty windows and an empty shell where a phone booth once stood. Destro looked at the place for a moment adding a whispered “Perfect” before grabbing a large weapon of sorts and cocking the chamber to arm whatever lies within its stocky black workings.

“What are we doing here?”, I asked.

Destro gazed at me slyly and with a silvery toothy grin uttered, “Shopping.”

“Oh good,” I said. “I could really go for some Gummi Bears.”

The large doors whooshed open and we were out in the chilly air again. A bedraggled man approached me and asked for spare change.

“Back scum freak!”, Destro yelled at the poor man. “I will blow your fucking face off right now if you don’t back the fuck off!”

The man, who was obviously inebriated (although nowhere near as I was) threw up two grubby hands and ran away. Destro’s voice bounced off of the shabby walls in the shabby neighhborhood for minutes it seemed.
“I fucking hate bums!”, Destro announced. “If society were a perfectly pressed and tailored white tuxedo, they are the bloodstains you get on your knee after a lapdance from a stripper on her period!”

I turned back to Destro to see him literally fuming. “He’s just a bum man,” I said in the beggar’s defense. “Just relax.”

“I can’t relax,” he said, “because I am broke too. My family left me nothing! And the Baroness took everything. Ah...crap! This sucks! I can’t even buy gas to fill this stupid transport up. I have to siphon it from city busses.”

Sure Destro was evil and kind of a turd, but right then and there my heart went out to him. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the mind jellying drug juice I partook in but for some reason I felt really sorry for him. It was then that I knew I had to help him out and get him through this night. Then I thought about my life and realized that I needed something like this much like a hungry man needs an extra helping of cole slaw. So I perked up, threw my shoulders back and said, “What’s all this woe-is-me crud? I thought we were shopping!”

Destro slowly emerged from his pity hole and glanced at me as if I had just dictated the meaning of life. The color came back to his mirrored and colorless face and a wicked smile bloomed.

“You’re right shithead,” he said. “Let’s do this!”

After kicking in the front door, Destro entered with enough machismo to sully an entire race of bullfighters. Crazy looking gun held high, Destro proclaimed:

“All right! Get down on your knees, put your hands behind your head and don’t say a fucking word!”

The harsh orders hung dense in the shop as we realized there was only one middle aged Asian man behind the counter and a chubby teenager leafing through a copy of Massive Milk Cannons magazine. Dull Muzak crackled through ancient speakers. I began to giggle at the situation.

“So sorry sir”, the Asian shop keeper said, “but we have very little money. No safe. Just what’s in register.”

“Awww...crap!” Destro shouted.

“Dude, this is a shitty liquor store in a shitty part of town,” I said to the very let down Destro. “What do you expect?”

“Hey!” The shop keeper seemed upset and was waving a finger at me. “This is my store! You don’t insult it. You insult store, you insult me!”
“I’m sorry man,” I said. “But...you know what I mean.”

Destro composed himself and began to look around the store. “Well,” he sighed, “what are we gonna do?”

I scratched my head looking at the dusty cans of Spagettios and green beans wondering why the once strong leader of a sinister army would be asking a guy like me, a graveyard shift security guard in Charlesberg, CA, what we should do in the middle of a robbery in some shabby booze locker. But then the irony and drug influence took over and I smiled wide.

“Well,” I said in my best ‘I have a plan’ voice, “we take whatever cash this guy has, take that kids wallet, fill up some shopping bags with beer and snacks and get out of here. Huh? What do you say?” In all honesty I just wanted to leave. And some salty snacks and cold beer sounded good right then.

Destro’s face indicated both approval and defeat. I think the reality of the situation was hitting him.

“OK. You’re right,” he said. Destro then directed his attention to the shopkeep. “You! Just give me all the cash you got and give us like, oh, I don’t know, like 10 bags or whatever so we can stuff them with some shit.”

The shop keeper then tried to reiterate that there was very little cash in the store and register to which Destro replied, blaring:

“I ASKED YOU FOR ALL YOUR CASH DICKCHEESE!! NOW DO AS I SAY OR MISTER GUN HERE GOES BANG IN YOUR FUCKING FACE!”

The shaken man did as Destro ordered. He opened the register, filled a small brown bag up with it along with his wallet and nervously handed him a grip of large shopping bags.

“There. That’s better,” Destro said calmly. “Now...do you have Cristal champagne?”

The kid in the back holding the porn mag laughed. Destro turned to him and said, “What? What’s so funny?”

The kid, who was no more older than 16, zitty and chubby from too many liquor store frozen burritos, sank his smile realizing that Destro was indeed a large man with a silver face holding an extremely complex and devious weapon.

“N...nothing,” the kid uttered. “Um...there’s a funny joke in this magazine.”

Destro furrowed his brow and walked up to the kid.

“What’s that you’re reading?”, he asked.

The kid wore a face of abject terror and embarrassment. Clutching the mag in sweaty hands he silently admitted, “Um...it’s called...um...”

Destro then snatched the magazine from the kid’s clutches and looked at it.

“Massive Milk Cannons? Alright! Now we’re talking. You like tits kid? You like big fucking tits?”

The kid knew he had to say something, so taking a deep breath the kid answered, “Um, yeah. I guess. Sure. I mean...um...”

“Well I like big tits!”, announced Destro. “The Baroness had big fucking tits! Nothing wrong with tits man! Yessir! Say, what’s your name?”

The kid, shadowed by Destro and looking confused answered, “Uh, Matt. My name is Matt.”

Destro stepped back from Matt and looked him over. As I walked over to the beer cooler and twisted the cap off of a Colt 45 (hey, might as well!) I began to see what Destro was probably seeing.

Matt was dressed rather well. Not in the typical going out and hitting the red carpet well, but his clothes were the expensive kind you find at hip stores in upscale malls or plazas. His shoes were brand new thick skateboard shoes and his jeans, tee shirt, wrist bands, necklace and hair tint indicated that he was probably from the wealthy part of Charlesberg called The Pines. The Pines was a gated community with yuppie dipshits that drove SUVs and played golf who produced kids like this. He probably went to Morrow High which is a prep school for the wealthy.

“Why are you here Matt?” Destro asked with a curious smile.

“I just...I just...”

“Hey Matt,” I said, “do you go to Morrow High?”

Matt looked at me with mild shock, as if I were a truant officer catching a rich delinquent kid in the act of mental masturbation.

“Y...yeah. How...how did you...?”

“I knew it,” I said. “The kid comes from money. There’s your paycheck ‘ol silver puss!”

Destro put the magazine dedicated to obscenely busty women in his back pocket.

“Is this true Matt?”, Destro asked. “Your parents have cash?”

Matt was beginning to sweat and twitch as he put his well manicured hands in the pockets of his pricy and pre distressed jeans.

“I don’t know. I mean, my dad he...”

“He what?”

“I mean, he’s the main ad man for the Nike and Burger World commercials.”

“Holy fucking dog shit!”, Destro cried. “You are fucking loaded son!”

“Yeah,” I said not too surprised, sipping my beer. “So what are you doing in this place?”

Matt shrugged and admitted, “I don’t know. It’s the only place I know that carries magazines like this and don’t care that I’m not 18 and buying them.”

“You not 18!?”, the shop keeper shouted. “But your I.D. say you are 22!”

“Yeah,” Matt smugly replied. “That’s what having rich parents and friends who go to Mexico often can do for you.”

“Let me see your I.D.” Destro said.

Matt then fished for his wallet, produced it (and it was a fine quality leather one at that) and showed Destro his fake I.D.. Destro just laughed.

“Dude, this doesn’t even look like you!”, Destro said. “It’s some guy with a huge thick moustache who’s name is Molonon Shneckinopolis! This is great!”

I walked up and took the I.D. from a laughing Destro. It’s true, the I.D. was as fake as they come. No wonder he doesn’t get to buy porn from “respectable” places. It was atrocious.

Upon looking in the wallet I came across a stack of 20 dollar bills and at least four major credit cards. One was a black American Express.

“Hey Destro,” I said. “Check this out!”

I held the magic credit card up to both the horror of Matt and the delight of Destro.

“Yes!”, Destro cried. “That’s just what we need!” He then quickly spun around to Matt, grabbed him by the arm and said “You’re coming with us!”

Unable to pry himself from the powerful grip, Matt was pulled out of the store like a cheap Raggedy Ann and tossed into the back of the vehicle. Destro then hopped into the drivers seat and shouted out, “C’mon you! Let’s get going!”

I stood there for a moment trying to take all this in. Was this indeed happening or just the figment of my mind as it wandered the fields of phantasmagoria? Either way, the store was silent again, let for the crackling elevator rendition of The Beatles “Here Comes The Sun” and the transport roaring on and revving up.

The shop keeper had his hands held up with his mouth wide open is disbelief and body wobbling in fear.

“Sorry man,” I said. “But, um...thanks for the beer.”

I downed the last bit of malted goodness, belched and walked out. As I opened the door with my back I just had to say, “Have a nice day” before getting back to my seat and taking off to who knows where.

* * *

Destro was heading down Main Street towards downtown. He had figured out the mapping system on the dash and was yelling at the sonar gleaming device: “Strip clubs! I want the nearest strip club in Charlesberg!”

I looked back at Matt who was pressing himself hard on the deep turret seat behind me. “Hi,” I said. “My name is Rob. This here is Destro.”

Matt shuttered out some words. “I...I know who he is. Jesus Christ! Is he real or...”

I shrugged my shoulders and tiled my head. “Don’t know. Don’t care. This is fun though...right?”

Matt’s expression waned between dread and curiosity. He looked all around him, at the wizardry that was the armored transport’s interior. Buttons, gadgets and screens of all kinds stared back at him.

“What the hell is this thing?”, he asked.

“It’s my fuckin’ ride!”, Destro declared. “And, yes, I stole it. So keep your crappy opinions to yourself!”

Whatever properties that lay within that hateful hootch was beginning to wear off a bit. But for some reason I was beginning to miss it, that feeling of bliss, trepidation, numbness and into the 4th dimension all once. If I was going to survive this night I would need another hard pull off that flask. I asked Destro for another drink. He fumbled for it, found it, drank from it then handed it to me.

“Go easy bitch. We’re almost out.”

I swished the flask around to feel that there was maybe a good 2 or 3 swallows left at best. So I took my pull, felt the burning slick rancor ebb down my gullet, shuttered and handed it to Matt.

“Wh...what is that?”, he asked.

“No way man! He’s too young! He’s just a kid damn you! Just a kid!”, Destro proclaimed pounding the steering wheel.

“You know he has to try this dum-dum. Here kid, it tastes like garbage but it feels like nirvana.”

Matt nervously took the flask from my hand. He brought the opening to his nose and smelled. A harsh grimace overtook him.

“God,” he said with a cough. “It smells like an asshole filled with vomit!”

Destro and I laughed. Matt then drank from the flask and almost gagged to death. I took the thing from him before he had a chance to spill it. Destro grabbed the flask from me and killed whatever was inside that thing. Soon enough, the devil spew began to take hold. The sky opened up again and the walls of the universe sang.

“Turn right on Fifth,” said a sultry woman’s voice. It was the mapping system and it was instructing Destro to a strip club.

“Oh right,” I said. “The Pastie Pagoda. I’ve never been. It’s really upscale.”

“Pasty?”, destro said unimpressed. “Like some pasty white guy? Fuck that! I want tanned bitches!”

“No no,” I replied, “I think it refers to the pasties strippers used to wear back in the age of burlesque. I guess they still wear them today. I don’t know. Matt, do strippers still wear pasties?”

Looking back at Matt revealed a teenager in the throes of helplessness. The drug was obviously doing its job.

“Jeeeeeeez,” he uttered. “What is...this...stuff?”

Destro laughed sinisterly and once again I shrugged and said, “Don’t know, don’t care.”

“Why are they called pasties?” Destro asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably because they had to paste them on their boobs. I would assume.”

“Nah, I don’t like that name. Pastie is a bad word. I like titty tooks better. You know, because that’s what they call beanies in Canada. Tooks.”

“Well, why not just call them boobie beanies then so the fine folks in the USA can...”

“I like titty tooks!”, Destro proclaimed. “Alright? So just deal with it ape fucker!”

Destro turned right on Fifth and we were headed for the club district downtown. “Geez,” I said. “That drug stuff really makes you angry.”

Destro was lurched forward and staring intently at the road ahead.

“It’s just... Well, I just wanna see some titties is all,” he said.

“Okay, okay. We’re gonna get you some titties Mr. Cranky. Matt, you up for some stripper action?”

Matt was smiling big and checking out his hands.

“Wow. This stuff is great! My hands are gigantic!”

I turned back to Destro.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Downtown Charlesberg is actually quite decent and jumping for a fairly small town. Lining the main drag of Fifth are several hip restaurants and bars, nightclubs and cafes. Down the street though, past Vernon Ave., you get a few sleazy outlets such as adult book shops, peep shows and strip clubs. The Pastie Pagoda is one of the upscale “gentleman’s clubs” that has been in business for almost fifty years. Tonight, like most nights, there is a small line of guys to get in. The beefy guards at the door seem to take disdain for fraternal brothers looking to get drunk and hit on exotic dancers. Businessmen and those dressed not in jeans and college sweatshirts are let in quite easily.

We park the rig sort of far from the club, down a dark alley and in a dank cove. Destro turns the thing off which responds almost like a breathy coo and we get out.
Luckily for us we are all dressed fairly decent. I may still be in my night guard outfit, but taking off that stupid black tie and untucking the white shirt just makes me look like I am some normal man in dark slacks and black shoes. Matt is dressed nice for jeans and tee shirt, a common look these days for kids who go out and try to impress. The one concern was a big one.

Destro.

Dressed in that thick black body armor suit with a silver face made us all pause for a second.

“How are we going to get in,” I asked. “I mean...look at you!”

“I know I know,” he said. “I don’t know. Maybe through a back entrance?”

The idea that we could just sneak into a well guarded and armed strip club was beyond me. I’m sure loads of other horny men have attempted the same.

“Guys...who cares?” Matt was grinning and looked like he was about to burst with excitement. “Dude, we have cash. I have cash! Plus with my Dad’s credit cards we can do almost anything.”

Destro stroked his chin and I nodded.

“He’s right you know,” I said. “We hand the doormen some cash, flash the AmEx and in we go. It’s so easy.”

“Yeah,” Destro exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because,” I said, “you’re tripping balls!”

“Oh yeah.”

With that we straightened up and headed towards the door.

Once there we saw the short line of collegiate guys all high-fiving and hollering to be let in. As we approached the door the guys started making fun of us.

“Oh man! What’s with the silver face? You the Silver Surfer or something?”

“No way these guys are getting in! They look like homos on Halloween!”

“Woo! I like pussy!”

We approached the door to which the big bald man by the red rope said, “Sorry guys. We’re full to capacity.”

Destro walked up to him and flashed the black AmEx card.

“Sir, I am going to get your name and tip you a hundred dollars if you let us in. No questions asked,” he said with fire and determination.

The doorman’s eyes widened and said, “My name is Paul. And I only take cash.”

Matt reached into his wallet and produced three 20s.

“You get the other 40 when you send three of your finest and stacked ladies to our table,” Matt said.

The doorman was hesitant for a moment but then unlatched the rope and let us in, much to the protest of the frat boys.

“Hey!”, one of the guys shouted. “That kid is wearing jeans! We’re wearing jeans! Let us in!”

Paul the doorman turned to him and said “You got a hundred dollars for me bitch?”

The frat boy pretended to feel his pockets for the phantom money.

“All right then. Shut the fuck up!”

The interior of the Pastie Pagoda was mix of upscale pleasantries and back alley smut. On fine woven carpet strolled well tanned and waxed ladies in platform shoes with heels at least ten inches high. Pictures of beautiful vixens with cantilevered cleavage and wet lips hung on velvet walls as the sonic boom of the main room music wafted through the club. The place reeked of both money, body oil and sweat. Men of all calibers roamed the halls in search of the next lapdance or to see their favorite performer. And once we hit the main room we noticed the place was far from being maximum capacity. Half full at best so we found a table and sat down.

“This is awesome!”, cried Matt. “The door guy didn’t even look at my I.D.! I’ve always wanted to go here!”

“Just keep quiet and let’s move to the main floor,” I said pushing Matt a bit.

Looking over at Destro who was at an ATM removing as much cash from it as possible, I noticed a slight dourness to his already terse face. As the flow of 20 dollar bills fluttered neatly out of the little chute, Destro gave me a look that indicated shame and regret. As Matt and I made our way down the dark hall to the main room, I looked back and knew this was a mistake.

The main room of the Pagoda was something out of a Vegas stereotype of what an upscale stripclub would look like. One main stage and 3 smaller ones decorated a vast and electric space of blue curtains draping over booths filled with men and their lapdancing ladies, high definition plasma television screens lined the walls and flashed images of sports and naked women, tables of gawkers were strewen in front of the main stage and around the three private stages, all of which were commanded by women that were straight out of a glossy skin mag.

Matt and I grabbed seats next to the center small stage, which, like the other two, were circular. The lady dancing was a thin blonde with average proportions, but her gyrations and undulations made up for her average build. Plus she was knock out gorgeous and Matt threw down a $10 to get her to come close.

“I thought you didn’t have any more money,” I screamed over the loud dance mix, hip hop music.

“I’m out of twenties,” he shouted back. “But I have plenty of tens and fives.”

I smiled as the lady came over and straddled young Matt much to his underage delight. I tossed in a five to get the same. She complied with a similar but not as erotic barrage of glitter and swagger, then returned to the stage to do more for the other men.

Destro finally arrived, sat down with a slump, handed us each a stack of twenties and hailed the cocktail waitress over.

“Three double tequila sunrises and three shots of Jager please.”

Matt and I both shivered at the amount of alcohol that was coming our way.


...to be continued...