text: [Themes: modern, anti-hero, psychological, thriller]
  
  Heavy bass, flashing lights, and naked women.
  
  The Rhino Room isn't the most respectable establishment, even as far as strip clubs go. Its walls boast noticeable thinning paint in more than one area. In their defense, though, no one is staring at the walls. That money is better invested in a higher class of dancer, some pretty girl needing community college money or needing to make it as a single mom in a man's world. Or both.
  
  The drink numbs your senses, dulling your mind into a timeless void. You're aware of everything in front of you, the girl dancing on the stage, topless waitresses taking orders—but you're finding it hard to focus on one thing, a result of more than a few. Johnnie Walker Red Label, just what the doctor prescribed, not that you hadn't been ordering it over the counter since hitting the tender age of 21, or at least that what the fake driver's license said.
  
  The drink numbs your senses. Like slapping a Little Mermaid bandaid over a fatal wound! From the Appalachian to the City of Angels, to various towns in the shitty state of California—you couldn't get far enough away from your hometown. They say problems follow you no matter where you are, but damn, if you aren't going to leave them in the rear-view mirror.
  
  The drink numbs your senses.
  
  Can't hurt if you can't feel!
  
  [Author's Note: An alcoholic writer. His career going nowhere. The daughter of a business tycoon. Author's note: This story is dedicated to Jay in response to their constructive feedback left on Unbroken. Thank you, truly, for being the inspiration behind the title. Enjoy.]
  
  > approach the stage
  There's no point in visiting one of these establishments if you aren't going to depart with a few singles. No one likes the asshole that doesn't donate to an open guitar case, even more so for the creep that hangs in the back of a club, watching, sipping his drink, never contributing to the fun. Glass in hand, you meander to the stage.
  
  It's pressed against the far wall. The entire place is arranged like a classroom, rows of chairs all facing center stage where the teacher instructs on the ways of the world. Only these chairs are built from cheap leather, the kind that look nice until you're sitting on it for more than two minutes.
  
  Taking a glance at the naked woman spinning around the pole center stage, her legs gripping the pole in a loose figure-four arrangement, you decide sitting a few minutes in an uncomfortable chair isn't so bad. Not when you got a front-row seat.
  
  Avoiding making eye contact with the gentlemen that sit on either side, you collapse heavy into the seat, the booze adding to the labored motion. There's not an official rule when it comes to strip clubs, not like the men's restroom anyway. Leave one open in the middle—that's the gay urinal! No, there's no such thing. Sit down, ignore the man next to you, and do your best to hide the growing erection in your pants. Simple as that.
  
  The announcer calls her Lizzy. It's a stage name of course. Her real name is likely something boring like Anne, Sarah, or the dreaded Brittany. Brittany, as basic as it gets. This chick's the perfect amount of beauty. And she is. She lies on the upper scale of attractiveness—barely—enough to excite a man without paralyzing him. She has a symmetrical, boyish face. But her smile, her smile is something else. She quickly flashes it to the crowd, and you find yourself wanting to whatever it takes to make her smile again.
  
  She spins around the pole again, her pale skin lessened by the dimly-lit room, masked by flashing red and blue light pulsing with the music's bass. She doesn't have large tits. They're quite small, especially when compared to their previous state housed in a lace push-up that now lies in a pile of single-dollar bills. Still, ain't no one complaining, you among them. Small tits and a round ass, athletic, likely a runner. No, the customer complaint box is staying empty tonight.
  
  Lizzy approaches the stage right in front of your seat, crawling on all fours wearing nothing but a thin black string that passes as underwear nowadays. Her eyes meet yours, begging, wishing for you to do as she pleases. You know what she wants. It's up to you if you'll give it to her.
  
  > give it to her
  It's the reason you came to the edge of the stage, isn't it? Now's as good a time as any. As Lizzy crawls by, you lean forward, making sure to flash the dollars with the motion. In response, she stops, and flashes you one of those perfect smiles. It's the feeling of self-pumped altruism multiplied by a million.
  
  You tuck a dollar into the black string at her hip, feeling the warmth of her skin simultaneously. Without looking, you know every eye is on you at that moment. Lizzy's, sure, but the other spectators as well. Their jealousy rises high in the air, a heavy cloud as the object of their desire is giving you all her attention. But it's not you. In a second, the same will happen to the next asshole with a few dollars in his hand. But damn, it feels fucking good in the moment.
  
  And just like that, as quick as she approached, she's gone, leaving you sitting alone next to two others who are probably just as turned on. Nothing quite like being sober, huh? There are still a few dollars left in your hand, but it's better spent elsewhere. Like at the bar. After a subtle shifting of your manhood, tucking it against your waistband as tight as a fucking bomb-strapped terrorist, you leave the leather chair open for another asshole, figuratively speaking.
  
  You pass by several wandering waitresses along the way. Sure, you could order a drink from one of them. Certainly there's nothing wrong ordering a whiskey from a topless waitress, but the bar calls your name. Unlimited booze, a seat, and steady counter to rest your elbows on, yeah, nothing wrong with that either. The doctor will see you now.
  
  "Johnnie Walker. Red," you say, finding the comfort of a hard barstool as the bartender places a coaster in front of you. Not as expensive as Black. Despite that, it has a bolder flavor in your opinion. One of these days you'll try the higher-end labels, Green, Blue. Ah, "one of these days," a common excuse for the common man.
  
  "Rocks?"
  
  "No need," you answer, waving your hand in dismissal.
  
  "Coming right up," the bartender says. She leans over to grab the bottle from the shelf behind her, briefly giving you a full view of a surgical scar. From it's position, no doubt the result of the fake tits she flaunts. Who needs a tip jar when you got two tip jugs?
  
  A lowball glass is placed in front of you, and you offer the rest of your dollar bills. It's not much, but it covers the tab. Last one of the night, and damn if you won't enjoy it. You drink from the glass in small sips, ignoring the setting around you. Heavy bass, flashing lights and naked women...but most importantly, whiskey.
  
  Can't hurt if you can't feel.
  
  > Continue
  You stagger outside, final amounts of your cash spent. Whiskey taking hold, movement is a blur. Your head is caught in a spin. It's like being a kid again, allowing your friends to spin you to kingdom come on the tire swing. Twist the rope, hold on tight. Let Billy give you quite the fright!
  
  Only this time the spinning is of your own making, and the absence of friends is noted. Vision coming in and out, the Challenger appears a dream in the distance. It's parked between two flat tops, a symbol of American muscle nestled by the common man's vehicle. It was your grandfathers, the only piece of family history still remaining, the people themselves long gone as well.
  
  You're drunk. You're well aware of that fact. Not the drunkest you've ever been, and certainly not as drunk as you'll ever be. Spend enough time at something and you end up getting pretty damn good at it. 10,000 hours, they say. That's how long it takes to master a skill. Hell, you've put a solid chunk of time in over the last couple of years. After all, you started two years with a fake. Freddy Harkless was your name. 5'11, 160 lbs. The photo of Freddy looked fairly similar to you, brown eyes, dark hair. You were only prevented entry one time, and that was because an asshole acquaintance called you by your real name. Ol' shit-for-brains isn't on your friend list any more. Probably for the best.
  
  Your hands reach for the keys at your back pocket. Fumbling, you pull them out. They slip from your grasp and land in a crash. It reminds you of a drummer slamming a stick down on the high hat. A giggle accompanies the thought as you bend down to pick up the keys.
  
  "Doing alright there, cowboy?"
  
  A woman's voice fills the night air. It's soft and sweet, dripping with honey as your Sunday School teacher might say. It's sensual, comforting. Instantly, images rush into your mind, ones that shouldn't be so closely connected to thoughts of church. It's the voice wise men avoid. It's the voice leading ships astray, siren songs of the sea. It's the voice you desperately want to continue speaking.
  
  You find the woman standing at the edge of the parking lot. She's wrapped in a dark coat, traveling down just past her knees, her bare legs sticking out from there, feet strapped in high heels. The buttons of her coat are unbuttoned just low enough to show ample skin, and a pair of breasts that causes the mind to wander. Her blonde hair is tied high in a loose bun.
  
  You close the distance a few steps. "Doing just fine, milady," you answer, mirroring her approach, although you may have put too much medieval into it.
  
  She laughs. It suddenly feels a lot warmer outside. "Hah! Leaving so soon? I've still got a few dances left. I'm sure a polite man like yourself wouldn't leave a lady all on her own."
  
  "Lady, I've been spreading good manners in this place for the past four hours. I'm about all out of manners."
  
  "I know," she answers. "I saw you in there. Are you willing to hear my professional opinion?"
  
  "I don't know if my insurance covers that."
  
  Again, she laughs. You wish it wouldn't stop. "This one's on the house. Next one, though, will cost you."
  
  "Alright. Lay it on me," you playfully say.
  
  "You look sad."
  
  That's it? Not how you expected the flirtatious conversation to unfold. You look sad. Hell, lady, that's just my face. Not all of us have the capital for rearranging it, making a perfect nose or puffy lips. No, you're stuck with this one.
  
  If that's the way you come across, it's slightly worrying. Even if you are sad, you have the common decency to hide it from the rest of mankind. Only those desperate for attention broadcast it. Before deleting Instagram from your phone, you saw it all the time. Topics like depression, anxiety, discrimination: people use it for their own gain. Feel sorry for me you sorry fucks. Don't forget to like, subscribe, and donate to the channel! The topic of manners was brought up by your sudden conversationalist; you're continuing to show them by keeping your problems yours, and not burdening others with them.
  
  "I hope your pillow talk is a little better than that," you answer brushing off her serious tone. She bites.
  
  "And what makes you think you'll get that far?"
  
  You take the chance to use her words against her. "Because I'm sad, and you're not going to let a sad, inebriated good-looking fellow like myself spend the night alone, are you? Good manners goes both ways."
  
  You're met with another patented laugh. "You're direct. I like that. I much prefer that to the 'let me buy you a drink' spiel, as if we ladies don't know when a man is trying to get us drunk."
  
  You shrug. She continues.
  
  "Besides, vices come in all shapes and forms."
  
  "Yeah they do," you answer, exaggerating the motion of checking her out.
  
  "Funny. But you know what I mean," she answers, lightly touching one nostril with her pointer finger. This dame's got a nose on her, if you know what I mean. "I left my keys inside. Would you be a gentleman?"
  
  "Sure," you say closing the little distance left between you two. "There may be a small rental fee though..."
  
  "Sharing is caring," the woman replies. Her hands dig into her pocket. As she does so, you notice her nails are painted long and bright red, like those on the fingertips of a Barbie doll. Interesting. She has the means for a bump without a set of keys. Dip a pinky in the powder and find yourself a scoop. Does that mean she is the one who needs company? She may have called you out, but it may just be a matter of projecting. Easier to see problems if they wear another's face.
  
  "What's your name?" you ask as she pulls a small bag of white powder out.
  
  "Daisy."
  
  Surely that's not a real name, but it would be rude to assume. It's just normal enough that it could be real, and exotic enough to be used on the stage. You don't press further. She reaches out with a painted fingernail hand. Bright red flashes in the night. You hand over your keyring to the Challenger, the only thing remaining of your family. She dips the car key into the bag, pulling a sizable lump onto the key tip.
  
  In a sound not unlike a breath of air between a good cry, Daisy snorts the white powder clean from the key, even giving it a lick to ensure nothing goes wasted. Next she passes both to you. The plastic bag is small. It's like the one that a pair of cufflinks would be sold in. In front of you, Daisy sniffles, the drip affecting her already. When life gives you lemons...
  
  > Key bump
  "Don't mind if I do," you say. Your car key dips into the bag, fumbling a bit due to the amount of drinks consumed. After several seconds of struggling, Daisy takes over. Both get snatched from your hands as she completes the task for you.
  
  "Typical man, afraid to ask for a little help," she mutters under her breath. You chuckle, then stop. If it wasn't meant as a joke, then you certainly don't want to offend her. She holds the key out in front of you, a small mound of white at its tip.
  
  In that moment you almost refuse. If there was a time for that, it's in the past now. Train's left the station. Next stop, Snowcap City! Plugging one nostril with a finger, you move the other to the key, holding your breath. While you don't make a regular activity of partaking, you know enough not to breathe during this part. Nothing pisses off a coke dealer more like accidentally sending the precious merch' into the air with an unintended exhale.
  
  The blow assaults your sense in a rush. It's the feeling of the first sip of coffee in the morning times a million. It's the difference between watching a movie in black and white versus color, a dry throat after a gulp of ice-cold water, the edge compared to post-ejaculation.
  
  "Fuck that's some good stuff," you comment. As far as statements go, it's not the most polished. For the current moment, however, it fits like a well-tailored suit. Energized, affected by the coke, you continue. "Daisy, are you done working for the night?"
  
  "I've still got a few dances left, yes."
  
  "Oh."
  
  It's silent for a few seconds, a rare thing between two users.
  
  "But I'm not on for about thirty?" Daisy's words appear as more of a question. The implication is clear. The deal is all but closed. It's on you to sign at the bottom line.
  
  "I don't mean to presume," you say. "But I have a bottle in my car. Always do in case of emergency. If you're thirsty..."
  
  "I could use a drink," Daisy finishes for you. "Besides, I'm tired of drinking at the bar here. Even off the clock, guests will try to take me out back."
  
  "Yeah, I'd never think about asking you for that," you say with a smile, the sarcasm dripping from your lips, matching the one starting in your throat.
  
  The two of you walk back across the parking lot. Possibility runs through your mind. It's hard not to in a situation like this. What will happen, what is she expecting, is this more than a casual conversation, does she think I'm attractive, will she fuck me, will I get turned down... The list is endless. You try to rein the thoughts, assuming that Daisy is having similar ones. If there's any consolation, it's that you both have no idea what is about to happen.
  
  And that's the beauty of it. If things are certain, then there's no excitement. Every good movie has the element of uncertainty. The hero won't complete his quest, the girl might not fall for him. Chaos, darkness abounds, the heroic actions of an individual hang on a knife's edge, their efforts may result in victory or defeat. It's the same with Daisy. If it's a slam dunk, then it's almost not worth it. Oh, sure, you'd still fuck her, but it wouldn't be as good. Fucking, like coming across a twenty dollar bill, is somehow more enjoyable when you least expect it. Whatever happens, happens. That's all there is to it.
  
  The two of you enter the Challenger, the only piece of your family still remaining, your grandfather's car. The car itself isn't going anywhere for awhile. Whatever may happen between you and Daisy is still up for determination. That's the thing, without knowing for certain, the possibilities are endless. That thought alone is almost enough for you to rush into things. But still, you take your time, cracking small jokes and making Daisy laugh.
  
  The woman isn't anyone to start a life with. The relationship between you two will end tonight. Like the Challenger, like your life, it's going nowhere. At least you'll have the comfort of companionship for a few minutes. That's more than some can boast. You shut off the incoming thoughts, focusing just on Daisy. Time is short, and damn if you won't enjoy the present. The future is another thing entirely.