Monday, April 18, 2005

Lowest Common Denomonator, pt 1

"Cherry" was on stage, her second time up since I walked into the club and took a seat a few feet back from the spot-lit brass pillar of shangri-la. A pouty-lipped waitress dropped off a cola, took her tip and made way to the other surrounding tables to do the same. Cherry spun around her reflective anchor, beautifully maintaining her fictional interest in the hair-metal ballad of years past that blared through the club's sound system. By the second verse her silk shirt gave way to the awaited view of her requisite fake tits, skin uncommonly smooth and tanned for one in her profession. With legs akimbo and auburn hair trailing in vaguely rehearsed arcs, she set forth to appease gravity and spiral downwards to the stage base, ending her decent with a graceful twist to a prowl towards scattered dollar bills. I edged up from my seat and reached forward to flip down a fin, letting 'ol Abraham relay the message that George won't: come and see me when you're on the floor. The message was acknowledged with a wink and Cherry disappeared back stage with her crumpled shirt and a fist full of cash, ludicrously high heels clocking soft echoes along the way.

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