Strip Clubs

Strip clubs weren’t a venue of choice; it was too easy to get distracted by a change in the music or the way the disco spotlights would twirl.

That night, however, as he sat and waited, he watched the ice cubes in his drink melt to their slow demise, mourning them in an abstract way. I didn’t ask for you, little frozen pieces of water. I’m sorry you had to die this way. Condensation dripped down the side of the glass, and he glanced up just in time to see the introduction of the newest girl.

She was lean and lithe and small, not tiny, just petite, a head full of chestnut waves and huge brown eyes that begged every man in the room for a good fucking. Or maybe they just dared them to try.

He tempted fate to bring his mark out right then, because he went to visit the men’s room so he could avoid watching her curves as they wrapped themselves around the chrome pole that was allowed the touch of every dancer.

Splashing water on his face, he stared at his reflection in the mirror and it was just then that he noticed the target come in behind him. Already drunk.

Two bullets were quick, and there wasn’t too much blood with the wounds being small and death being instantaneous. Gunshots were muffled by the silencer and loud music, and in under a twenty-three seconds, he was back at his table, watching the end of that girl’s dance.

Watching her closely enough that he ended up drinking a watered-down scotch.

And enjoying it.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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