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   The new girl here tonight is Stacy, whom, if I recall correctly, comes from the Bazookas off of 17th and Main after a nasty twist landing.  She's on-stage completely pilled-out.  On Percocet.  Advil PM.  Possibly Oxycodone.  Stacy's on this shit; these performance-enhancing drugs, trying to make it through her set while the DJ plays "Machinehead" and the MC mentions something about quarter lap dances that makes me wish I had brought more change.
         The peeling black-lights reign down on Stacy stumbling, trying to make it to the pole before she topples over.  Hands shaky and desperate, fresh off a three-dollar manicure.  Her little plaid skirt frayed and stringy and jagged at the bottom from uneven scissor cuts.  She peels off her oxford button-up with the pale yellow pit stains, the filth-ridden collar.  Stacy throws this thing behind her and attempts to grab the pole with her good leg.
         Not the one with the knee brace.
         The one with the Velcro and vinyl air-boot.
         She tries to grip the pole with the back of her knee but can't get a hold of it because the guy on wipe-up duty is doing white lines with the other dancers in back.  The other bottom-feeding exotic injured. 
Secondhand strippers.
         A guy sitting stage-side lays his head down with a dollar bill stemming from his yellow teeth.  His chapped mouth.  And Stacy gives up on the pole, limping over to him, and squats down.  Riding him.  His entire face.  The dirt and oil and sweat rubbing off his forehead and nose.  His chin.  It all comes off between her legs with these fresh stains layered above the preexisting ones.  The skids of cum and lip balm.  Little blue patches from tongues licking the fabric after too many Bahama Mama shots and mountain coolers.  Stacy smashes this guy with her cunt and pelvic bone.  Her clit, and when the song finally ends this guy is smiling and bleeding.  From his panty-burned nose.  But Stacy thinks she just started her period so her first reaction is the natural one:
         Relief.
         And I think I hear her say something to the effect of, "Well that's $400 back in my pocket," in a slur before trudging off the stage with her blood-soaked dollar, the air-cast making a peeling noise as it sticks and rips away from dirty linoleum flooring.  She limps off and I order a drink, a vodka well.  It's the kind of vodka that comes in those large economy-sized plastic jugs you can pick up at Sam's Club or Costco with minimal label art, so in other words, the bad kind.  You could swear you're drinking straight poison it's so bad, but already one of the dancers is approaching me and I hold up two fingers at Marv, the international sign language for, "Make me another one," and he nods because when you're ordering a drink here, you're usually ordering two.
         That's the first rule.
         If you're by yourself and want company, order a drink.  This isn't really any different than going to the dog park with steaks tied to your ankles or smoking a crack pipe in a D.C. project.  Sooner or later, something will come along wanting what you have, and right now that something is Tina.
         The half-blind.
         Little Miss glass eye.
         I always forget which one is which so I always end up staring at her tits, and even those aren't 100% organic.  She thanks me for the drink with one eye on Marv and the other on me, asks me how I've been doing, and I have to suppress the corners of my mouth from rising when I say, "Eye can't complain."
         "Oh, Frank," she smiles, teeth glowing dirty and neon.  "You always say that," and one of the eyes flutters over me.  Gyrating at high speed.
         Another new dancer approaches the bar, this one blonde and attractive, but deeply vacant looking.  Soulless.  She props her elbows on the counter, leaning on the bar, saying, "Tonic vodka ice drink double double."
         Adding robotically, "I'm on in five.  In five.  I'm on in five."
         She says, "Five minutes.  I'm on," and Marv throws together her order sparing no ice and very little booze while this chick fidgets with her nails, scraping the cuticles so far back the bases end up parenthesized in blood.  She's mumbling, "Five minutes.  I'm on in five--no, four minutes.  Tonic vodka ice drink.  Double double.  I'm on," she keeps mumbling until Marv finally slides her a red plastic Solo cup.  She says, "Much so much thank you much," before stalking away, and I'm like, "Dude," trying to get Marv's attention with Tina snickering with no regard next to me.
         I slug my drink and rattle the ice in the cup, beckoning Marv to come back, and I'm asking, "Is that chick spun or something?"
         "No," he says, dumping the old ice out of my cup and refilling it.  His fingers briefly gouge into his beard, scratching compulsively, a few flakes of mystery falling to the countertop.  He leans into me something secretive and whispers, "I'm pretty sure she's autistic, man," which brings us to our second rule:
         There's always going to be something wrong, and therefore, less expensive.
    This isn't really any different than buying name brand soup for 50% off because you found a few dented cans hiding in shame at the back of the shelf.  The more worn or damaged something is, the less you have to pay, and these dancers are no exception.  They are, in fact, the example.   
Whether it's Stacy's bum leg or Tina's glass eye, there's going to be something off.  Something defective or broken.  Something they don't want at the mainstream strip clubs.
         Onstage it's Roxy's stomach looking like tan hamburger meat after three kids and four miscarriages, her two C-section scars layered on top of each other dried out and calloused.  You could light a match on them.  I know this because I've done it, and so can you for a couple bucks.
         And the new girl stricken with autism.  Real name: Melanie.  I can see her stage left mumbling, "Two minutes.  I'm on.  In two minutes.  Minutes," still fidgeting with her cuticles, her hair and face.
         I'm asking about her and Marv explains to me, "I tried to tell her what a stage name was but she started crying and threw one of her shoes in the toilet," looking concerned, I guess.  He says, "And this was after we finally got her to stop trying to catch Holly's tattoo in a jar."
         "The butterfly or the fairy?" I'm asking.
         But Marv shrugs as if to say, "Does it really matter?"
         Because no one is perfect…especially these girls.  It's the minor leagues of their profession and their playing field reflects this much with their scuffed, potholed runway and cracked vinyl seating.  The pole on-stage is dinged and dented and (at some points) cracked from plus-sized dancers exceeding the limits of its fixation while a once mysterious line of darkened storefront windows that offered silhouettes of intrigue in its former fame--now replaced by warped chipboard planks and iron bars, the final result of a few jealous clients and jilted ex-employees, though I can't imagine how anyone could be fired from here.  The NOW HIRING sign has been up so long it's framed in moistened grime. 
Besides a few of the "unfixables," as they're called, there's always new talent rolling in here, but these girls aren't so much hired as they are recycled.  This is active rehab.  A broken leg or a few missing teeth could very well mean another dancer limping into this place: The Cooter Hole (not to be confused with The Cooter Show).  We're all reaping the benefit of their pain and suffering.  A new injury means a fresh face (as bruised as it may be), because it's not like any of these girls have health insurance.  They don't pay taxes or have a dental & vision plan.  And you can't pay medical bills in blowjobs.
    It's the sad truth and the third rule:
    Shit happens, and then it ends up here.
    Keep that in mind when you read in the paper about some stripper taking a crowbar to the knee and you see her here a couple nights later.  It's not necessarily job security but it's close.  When the chips are down for these girls, this is where they can mend their wings.
    And Marv says, "I got a really hot blonde coming in tomorrow night…just came out of a coma."
    "How hot?" I ask, rattling the ice of my expired drink.
    "Like Pam Anderson," he smirks, taking the empty and pouring me another.  Adding gruffly with a mild frown, "But…y'know…with stitches," he shrugs.
    I saw that coming.
    I've adapted to it to the point where it's barely noticeable, but that doesn't stop these girls from trying to hide whatever injury they've incurred, so I can pretty much guarantee the new girl tomorrow night won't be doing any hair flips the same way Tina never goes on-stage without her sunglasses.
    You can tell a lot about a girl by what's wrong with her.
    If you can see past the flaws then everything's flawless.
    And I'd like to think I have that down, but then Melanie comes over spouting robotically, "Sixteen minutes.  Double double vodka triple ice drink.  I'm on," she shakes her cup at Marv.  "I've been ba-a-a-d so-o-o-o-o-o-o ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-d—I'm hot for teacher," Melanie belts, fidgeting.
    "She sings?" I ask Marv as he serves her, assuming nothing I say registers in that mind of hers (and it doesn't).
    "Fifteen minutes," she chirps, tapping her medical bracelet like it's a watch.  "I'm hot for teacher!"
    "She just repeats that one line over and over," he explains to me.  "It's the only song she'll dance to."
    I squint.  "So are you telling me I'm gonna have to hear that song eight more times?  You can't put some headphones on her or something?"
    "I tried," he shrugs.  "The little retard bit me," he pulls the neckline of his shirt, revealing a perforated prune oval to which Melanie exudes no regret (or recognition, for that matter) as she chomps on her ice.
    "Seven girls here tonight and I get bit by the only one who has all her teeth," Marv snickers cynically.  "Some fuckin' luck I have," and I shrug empathetically, turning my eyes to the stage now.
    To Heaven Leigh.
    Or Mrs. Tyson if you're in the know.
    Either way, it's a phony name.
    The fourth rule: you'll always get a fake ID.  No matter how many times you come in or how much money you spend, you'll never get the real name.  Ever.  Even if one of these girls does give you her real handle, chances are, it's just an old fake she used at some other club.  It'll be some normal-sounding designation like Megan or Nicole or Jill thrown out there as reward for your effort and bait for the next big secret.
    These dancers know the fourth rule better than anyone, because not following it lands you in a place like this.  Not following it gets you beaten or raped, or in Heaven Leigh's case—an ear bitten off, but pay enough money and you can have pretty much everything else.
    That's the fifth and final rule:
    Everyone has a price.
    Everyone.
    A blowjob is $5.
    A half and half is $15.
    Anal runs about $25.
    That's just the tip of the iceberg, though.  There are plenty of things these girls are willing to do if the price is right.  When desperate meets lonely, anything is possible.  When a Barbie doll gets broken, she'll do everything in her power to make sure she can keep up with those Corvette and Malibu Dream House payments.
    And Ken?
    He's not calling anymore. 
    He's been replaced by guys named Scooter and Trey that seem to carry their careers with them wherever they go: motor oil tracing fingernails and the smell of gasoline, farmer's tans with dried-out, calloused hands, ironed-on nametags or the coats of grease that come with being a line cook or janitor or factory worker—it all adds up to you being in the lowest-income bracket.  You and the dancers you pursue—you're both broke, but in adjacent ways.  We're all looking for an escape but can only afford the next town over, and I'm no different.
    Except for that one sizeable divergence, I fit in quite well here.
    By no means is this the best place in the world.  I can name countless other clubs I'd rather go to, but it's my place…our place, I should say.  A place where our women can feel just a little bit glamorous again, and the men are afforded that special attention they can't get anywhere else, even when they're paying for it.  We are the socially abstract and jettisoned, but we accept each other because the options are slim.  This is our peaceful refuge from the world, and you could almost go as far as to say we're happy, but then Milo came in and disrupted all of that.
    If you want to point the finger at someone, he's the reason all these girls are dead now.