Cockfight

Cockfight. Is there any other way to describe two assholes with more hair gel than brains circling each other, trying to assert their manhood over a perceived slight? Both full of booze and testosterone, each trying to prove who has the biggest dick. They don’t know yet, but it’s me.

I'm tempted to pull out a ruler, just to get it over with quicker. I see this every night of the week. It's my job to separate these ass-hats, and throw them into the street before they do enough damage to potentially make the club liable.

Better to let them kill each other, in my estimation, but lawyers and insurance agents being what they are, I signal the boys to separate them. As usual among their kind, the cockfight is over arm candy.

She plays dumb, but knows the game. This is Caveman Og writ large for the twenty-first century. She needs a provider, and either of these greased up, pseudo-evolved apes will do. She’s no Helen of Troy though; the only thing her face has launched is a plastic surgeon’s career.

“Okay girls, time to break it up and go home.” If I were a big burly guy, this would prompt the two of them to turn on me. The fact I’m five two in stilettos gives them pause; the glittery eye-shadow and cleavage distracts their pea brains with thoughts of shinies. They back down.

“She’s the best boss we ever had,” one burly bouncer whispers to another.