“Eighteen! I win suckaaaa!”

“Damn! I thought my sixteen from yesterday would be the new record for longer than a day! This has been a hell of a weekend,” Lupita said. Her chin-length black hair bounced as she popped back up from a VIP booth in the fornication area at work.

She looked disappointed, but she shouldn’t be. She should know by now I’m Sherlock friggin’ Holmes.

This was our morning ritual.

We played this nifty game where we searched the deep, dark, and quite frankly treacherous, depths of VIP. Every morning was a competition of who could find the most drug bags and/or money.

The loser buys the winner a breakfast shot. I preferred Jameson and Lupita’s poison was Crown Royal Apple AKA Crapple. That’s not to say that it was crap, it’s just a catchy nickname.

I currently held the new record as of today with eighteen drug bags and $200 one glorious Sunday morning a few months back.

We did the responsible adult thing and only sold four bags to some strippers — who from this point on will be referred to as “dancers” because it’s politically correct, or something.

We threw away the rest mostly because they were empty and, therefore, unsellable. Although some chicks just wanted to lick the residue right out of the bag and I would allow this free of charge.

Lupita and I proceeded to exit the danger zone when she suddenly stopped and I ran smack into her.

“My bad.” I apologized with my face in her hair still.

“Dude!” She pointed over towards the stage. “Look at the stage right there.”

I held my hands up to my face and looked out of my imaginary binoculars to scope out the scene.

“Holy shit!” I busted out laughing.

We got a closer look and, in fact, there were three lines of cocaine along the edge of the stage next to the notorious party table.

“Did someone just like … forget about that?” I wondered out loud.

Or was it out loud? I don’t know, I’m fuckin’ high.

Lupita dove down and retrieved a rolled-up $100 bill from underneath the table. We were on a roll today.

I tripped down the two stairs when I walked down from VIP back to the main floor.

It wasn’t a face plant but I did manage to get a rug burn on my knee. This type of injury doesn’t look so good in a Gentlemen’s Club.

Lupita knew about my clumsiness by now and it didn’t even faze her. She just kept walking to the bottom bar.

The club has two bars, the top bar on the upper level near the front door and the bottom bar on the lower level close to the stage.

During my shifts, only one bar was open since day shifts were way slower than night shifts.

Also, probably because I got way too reckless any time I worked at the bottom bar. It’s tucked away in the back near the kitchen and the bathrooms, where I can easily slip away unnoticed.

I shuffled around behind the bottom bar and as the game goes, I poured the two of us shots and put them on Lupita’s tab because she was the loser and I was the winner.

I repeat: I am a winner. Next time I win, I’ll consider running a victory lap around the club to celebrate my awesomeness. And then I’ll get behind the DJ booth and yell it in the mic.

“What’s up, Forest?” I was greeted by Kell back in the kitchen. “You hear about the chick who got fired last night?” He glanced up at me as he chopped onions.

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