He said, "Strippers. What we need right now are strippers. "

We walked into the bar from the cold night air. The aromas of stale cigarette smoke, staler beer and cheap perfume hung heavy in the air. After what we had been through, the strip club seemed like just the place to unwind.

On stage, a sister duo was strutting their stuff. The one was named Rocket, and boy, could she ever. A six-foot tall blonde with the perfect legs, perfect ass, perfect tits and lips that seemed to call out to every desperate, lonely man in the bar. And her sister, man, was she a sight to behold. One arm, a club foot, an eye patch and nipples that could gag a goat. She went by the name, Jet Lag.

And as we watched the men roll their dollar bills for her, we knew we were on the wrong side of the tracks.

Jet Lag stumbled and fell on the stage. Poor girl.

“Wow, man. Look at the way she shakes her ass!” Murphy said as he leaned over to me.

I whispered back, “Dude, she’s having a seizure.”

A bouncer quickly ran to her and picked her up in his arms. She came out of it and shook off the cobwebs. He helped her back to her… foot. Wobbly on her one stiletto, she grabbed the brass pole and spun around it in the only direction God gave her to spin in.

What a trooper!