The club was named Anarchist’s Cocktail, and it opened directly underneath Corey’s apartment. I decided to check the place out, having heard a few good things about it. Corey was apparently chummy with the owner, who went by the name of Butcher. Cute, no?

I had barely managed to walk in the door when I heard a booming voice behind me.

“Hey, blue-hair! What do you think of my place?”

I turned to the voice, straining to hear him over the distorted Trent Reznor. It took me a moment to focus on the face, the smoke machine and nightclub lighting impairing my vision considerably.

He was large, furry, wearing a beret of some kind, had two earrings, two nose rings, and they were all connected with barbed wire which ran along the side of his face.

This was Butcher.

Given the situation, I said the only thing I felt was appropriate.

It’s fucking great!

“Good! Lemme buy ya something to drink.”

Christo and I walked into a bar, expecting to sit down, and perhaps have a few drinks.

We did not anticipate the large man in drag named Shirley at the door, calling bingo numbers.

We took it in stride, best we could. We laughed, and played along when she started to poke fun at some of the patrons. We chuckled quietly when she took someone’s cell phone away, and started talking dirty to the other party. We were still amused when she started to comment on my hair, or refer to Christo as Jesus. In fact, even after she learned that Christo was a massage therapist, and announced “he’s a hooker!” to the amused patrons of the bar, things were still under control.

I think the situation went downhill, however, shortly after she asked me about my genitals, gave away a ten-inch vibrator, and demanded that some poor poor man take his pants off.

(P.S. - To the raver girl who yelled “What’s up, sexy bitch?” to me as I walked past her today: I just thought you should know that was perhaps the most kickass pickup line I may have ever heard.)