by Brendan Strong

>very burroughs, I think…

They line up and fill out the bars. They are repositories of true genius. If a man could crack open them heads and spill out that knowledge, Jesus, a fortune he’d uncover. A fuckin’ fortune. They’re tuned to the ether, these boys and girls. Don’t bother flashing your Gold or Platinum card if there’s no credit or cash shoring it up. They know. They smell money. That, or they use photographic memory and telepathy to run a quick credit check before coming over to you with rock hard abs or super tits and you only get one chance. If you blow it, that’s it for you in this establishment. They leave a watermark on you: Useless. And anyone with that kind of money needs something that isn’t money to make them feel good. These boys and girls are it. They’re running the show. Why was your boss such a cunt this morning? He was branded as useless last thursday in the bar. Sure, he’s got a wife and kids; big house; bigger car: but all of it means shite. He needs to feel human, and for him, this is as close as it gets. And he fucked it up. So you pay the price.

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