Things have taken a turn for the ugly at the club lately, on several levels I might add. The money's been down, problem customers and fights have been up and our dayshift is like a Carnival of Horrors, heavily seasoned with 'scary drug clown'.
Not good math in other words.
This past Thursday was a hallmark example of this. We threw more people out of the club this past Thursday than we do on any given insert local NFL team's name here home games, which are like a St. Patty's Day but with more jerseys and other kick ass officially sanctioned NFL gear.
Our tally for a single night shift was eleven people. We threw eleven fucking people out of the club that night. Normal for a home game is 5-10 and on those nights we're really busy. Tonight we never had more than thirty bodies in the club at any given time.
This is also not good math.
It all started when our Floor Bastard, Boris, overheard some sort of eastern European dudes talking shit about him in the bathroom. They had no idea he was Russian and that he understood the mish mash of jagged, discordant consonants that comprise whatever language they were gargling out. At least enough to understand they were insulting him. Had it been me in the bathroom instead of Boris they could've said anything they wanted and I would have never comprehended a damn thing.*1
So, much to their surprise, Boris calls them out and tensions escalate from there. He alerts me and the Manager, Sir Humphrey von Warjibber II, that he is about to commence hostilities in the men's room and that we may, if we so desire, join him in glorious combat if we're quick about it, but that our presence wasn't mandatory unless we brought mops and tarps.
Now I don't know what sort of frightening Bratva/ Spetsnaz history or training Boris has. He doesn't talk about it at all and we have ceased to ask questions we probably don't want to know the answers to anyway. What I do know is that although Boris is gruff*2 in the face of rude customers, he is possessed of a very patient demeanor until such a time as things have become irrevocably stupid*3 or suddenly violent.
Then maybe Boris not so patient, comrade. Da?
When I heard Boris declare war, I rushed to the bathroom not to help him against some former Soviet Bloc D-bags, but to help them against Boris. It may take a great deal of effort to get my Russian co-worker to snap, but when he does he gets very enthusiastic and matter of fact about it. Boris is so precise and crippling when he starts throwing various body parts at people that I have never seen him need to hit someone twice.
Once is quite enough, hvala.*4
My Mission was to get to the bathroom in time to save some Eurotrash cunts from grievous bodily harm and/or sudden death, or failing that, to help Boris
Thankfully I arrived quickly because I was lingering near the patio anyway watching a couple of potential Lawn Darts*5 talk about throwing their unsuspecting buddy onto the stage. I ran in just as Boris was flicking an internal switch from 'Dour Russian Floor Guy' to 'Blurry Killing Machine'. I was able to wrap up two of the little buggers and keep them safe from Boris but unfortunately he happened to the other two.
When all was said and done the two that I had saved were able to guide their less fortunate companions to their Land Rover. They didn't want to call the police, their lawyers or the state prosecutor's office, which is what is usually threatened in these situations and they refused our offers of an ambulance for their wounded.
I imagine it will all culminate in gunfire and I hope I'm not scheduled that night.
Strippers beget strippers.
It's true. Tragic, misbegotten and poorly thought out as it is, most clubs offer some sort of bounty on new strippers. I'm not talking about just cutting off their heads and dumping them on a table in some forgotten warehouse somewhere, you sick bastards. No, some clubs offer free house fees to a stripper that brings in another stripper who manages to make it for more than a week. This seldom produces anything useful but goddamn it, every now and then it fucking pays off.
Just not tonight.
Look, here's the intrinsic dilemma: birds of a feather flock together. Say what you want about the phrasing, but it's a social truth. This is not an absolute of course, nothing is with humans, much less strippers. But if, for example, you have a very trailer-iffic stripper working for you and she says she has a cute friend that wants to audition, it's OK to assume the friend is gonna be a bit trailery herself. One wind storm short of homeless so to speak.
This held true for us tonight when one of our 'rural' strippers, Winne-Bella, brought in her dear friend, Trucka-Sarahus to grace our stage and join our team. Trucka-Sarahus told me she drives a truck and trailer for a living. I completely hid my shudder of terror and wondered to myself, "Then why the hell are you working here?"
She will not make it in this industry. I'm making that call right away. Time will prove me right and if it doesn't I'll lie about it and you'll never know the difference unless I write 'Plight of the StripperHerder: Deathbed Confessions'
Well that's about all I feel like doing tonight. Fuck the pictures.
-The StripperHerder
*1 Like many English-only speakers, I always just assume when someone slips into another language in my presence that they are talking about me and have nothing nice to say.
*2 He's actually gruff with everyone but since he's Russian, this is considered being pretty fluffy.
*3 Irrevocably Stupid [noun]: The critical point in any verbal or nonverbal interaction between two or more parties when it becomes obvious that further discourse in any length will result in no further change in the present situation.
Irrevocably Stupid [adjective]: Characterized by tedious repetition without any meaningful advance in logic or solution.
*4 Hvala is Croatian for thank you. For some totally unjustifiable reason I always assume the heavily accented miscreants I'm dealing with are Croatian. Not sure why this is.
*5 This term is actually misleading since the club has no lawn anywhere near where theses idiots are going to land when we toss them bodily out of the club.**
**Pavement Darts would be much more accurate but doesn't sound as good nor bring to mind a pleasant summer memory.
