Fear and Loathing in F19 (Part IV)
I figured Imari already knew about Roadhouse 41 ‘cuz he had lived here before. I had only ever been in there on business delivering pizzas. Strippers actually make great tippers. They understand all the unwritten rules of the service economy.
Unless you forget the (albiet plastic) silverware.
Just don’t forget the (plastic) silverware.
‘Cuz if you do, they get pissed! And boy do they hold grudges. I had hoped that by bringing them a doomsday supply of plastic forks and knives that they’d take the hint and hold onto some. You know, help us both out. Negative on that.
But these weren’t amazing stories. Everyone (should) know these facts of life already. So then I hit Imari with the crown jewel: Punta Gorda’s own whore house!
Most people I know always seem shocked to find out that a lowly place like Charlotte County even rated a whorehouse. No one ever seemed to know about it. (Which could just be another indicator of the type of people I generally hang around.) Everyone seems shocked to find out Punta Gorda had a whorehouse; even more taken aback to find out it was right on US 41.
Now this wasn’t one of those lame ‘lingerie/modeling’ business fronts either. Just a run down shack with what looked to be mattresses covering all the windows. Gaining entrance involved tougher scrutiny than entering the courthouse at the time. (This was before 9/11 changed all that. Unless the whorehouse beefed up their security too.)
You’d ring the doorbell then wait as you were checked out from ninety different angles. Then the door would open a crack and they’d ask you, ‘who is it?’
In case the stench of pepperoni wasn’t a good enough indicator! Did they think they could trip up a lowly undercover agent with that? ‘Ah, geez, what am I posing as again? Oh, yeah, the pizza guy! I’m the pizza guy! See, right here!’ [Pointing to the pizza box.]
The whores tipped like champions though. And, for fun, you could skip that delivery so that your sixty year old boss’ ex-wife would have to run it.
That almost made up for the tip money you lost out on!
‘Uh, Tim, what, uh, was that place?’
It had no address. It was just about twenty feet back from the giant vegetable stand on 41 on your way to Burnt Store.
Imari and I were practically platonic soul mates at this point. The hours just fly by once the walls of decency have been completely torn down. There was no place left to go other than wherever we wanted!
Ian didn’t have any strip club/whorehouse stories. (That he’d admit to, anyway!) Just a few tales of playing Scandinavian death metal tunes at high school talent shows to unreceptive crowds. He could talk your ear off about Porcupine Tree though. Or about how he hated bands that write songs about politics. Which is related to he loved Bad Religion’s music, but not necessarily their message.
He’ll be missed.
(Is it wrong that I’m totally psyched by the fact that God will have to file this missive under: “Most Poorly Executed Tribute to a Mormon Ever?” ‘Cuz clearly it is.)