I had to call Bandit back at his velvet-walled Bikernet penthouse office three times before he stopped hanging up on me.
“I’m serious, you stolen-plate runnin’ bastard! And stop hanging up on me!” I shouted into the phone.
“You want me to fly you out there and pay you to cover Miami strip clubs?” came the suddenly sober, controlled response. A snigger followed. Then a fart. Then Bandit erupted into deep belly laughs, again. “I wouldn’t pay you to cover my fuckin’ birthday party, you illiterate lout.”
“I could tell our loyal reader that your office has a sterling silver bidet that spouts Jack Daniels and that you’re rumored to use it after every board meeting to, and I quote, ‘wash the corporate stench off your rear fender.’”
Three days later I vaguely recall bailing out of a moving cab piloted by a shouting Jamaican and sending a desperate email to Bandit reading, “I have reason to believe I’m in Miami.” Moments later my right pocket began to vibrate. I frantically tore my pants off and slung them across Biscayne Boulevard, suspecting Bandit had somehow had a bomb planted in my luggage. Then I heard a phone ringing. I answered a nearby pay phone, but got only a dial tone.
“Hello? Hello? What’s happening?” I shrieked, panicky, feeling a warm, humid tropical breeze on my knees.
A nearby Cuban hooker took a swing at me with a busted umbrella.
I realized my pants were ringing in the ditch on the far side of the street. Running across the busy street, dodging four-wheeled motorcycles, I retrieved the gin-soaked trousers and answered the phone ringing away in the front pocket.
“Hello?” I noted that when I was sure I was about to die how my voice sounded like that of a young girl’s.
“Special Agent Zebra? Are you in Miami?” Bandit’s voice asked harshly from the other end.
“Who is this?” I demanded, making a failed effort to lower my voice.
“It’s Bandit, you idiot. Who else has this phone number?”
“The FBI? Okay, ‘Bandit’, what’s your bidet made out of?”
“Sterling silver,” came the pride-packed reply. “With a diamond mounted starboard.”
“And what does it spray, flat or sparkling?”
“It sprays Jack Daniels Black Label, 12 years aged in oak casks. Give me a break. This is a class outfit, pal. We don’t even use water here to wash motorcycles!”
“Really? What do you use?”
“Champagne. French. Dom usually.”
“You’re overpaid,” I remarked.
“Perhaps,” Bandit admitted. “But I sure know how to have fun.”
It was Bandit all right. I hung up at once so he couldn’t use my cell phone signal to track me. Then I sent him a text message, reading, “I have reason to believe I’m in Miami. What’s it gonna be, grease ball? Bidet feature, with action photos, or the Ultimate Assignment?”
A moment later a reply came reading, “Approval granted on Operation Ultimate Assignment. You have a spending cap of nineteen dollars. Trotta will hook you up with a scoot. Do not crash or otherwise destroy Trotta’s bike. Say again, no harm shall come to Trotta’s motorcycle. And no, you may not repaint it a ‘less Puerto Rican color’. Get busy, goddammit. Bandit. And put your pants on, for Christ’s sake you’re representing a fine literary journal! Out.”
How did he know I wasn’t wearing pants? Was it just a lucky guess based on a high mathematical probability? Or something more? I glanced around in mounting paranoia.
Don’t show fear, I chanted internally, don’t show fear.
I calmly put my pants back on and hailed a cab. The assignment was simple, yet fraught with artistic brilliance. I was to cover the finest strip clubs in Miami and Miami Beach and report back my findings to our loyal reader.
The idea had come to me earlier, while trying to register a “suspect” builder title at the AAA offices in Los Angeles. I knew never to take such a mess to the real DMV. They would have laughed me out of the building. Or arrested my ass. But AAA has DMV windows as a “courtesy service to members.” That’s right, they even take outlaws. And they tend to overlook things like whiteout, erasures and homemade titles.
While I was there I was offered a few helpful pamphlets.
“Sir, while I process this title for your motorcycle, would you like to take a look at some helpful AAA pamphlets? They’re free to members, Mr., uh, Bonaparte? You’re French?”
“Oui,” I replied nonchalantly, twirling my silver cane.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that you never try to register anything with your real name, when your real name regularly triggers automated computer directives to take cover and call local law enforcement at once.
“Oh my, we don’t get many French members,” the DMV “specialist” said, breathlessly, fanning herself with a stack of forged paperwork.
“I’m sorry,” I said, taking on a strong French accent. “I’m speaking English only not so good. I am familiar more with the language of love.”
“Oh my!” the lady nearly screamed, smiling, typing in information without even looking at the screen anymore.I shoved the pamphlets into my pocket, along with a couple blank titles.
When I got home on my bike, now registered in Bandit’s maiden name, I pulled out the titles and noticed the pamphlets. “Approved Hotels”, one read. I flipped through it. It had little pictures of the outside of each hotel. It was helpful, easy to read, and answered all my lodging questions. Except one. What about strip clubs? Proximity to strip clubs is the number one item of importance to me when I’m on the road for business.
Moments later I was on the phone to Bandit.
“I have an idea for the next story…”
I was back in my old stomping ground, South Beach. I needed money, a motorcycle, a gun, beautiful nude women and an accomplice to blame everything on if the operation went south, which it likely would. Not hard things to scare up in a city like Miami.
“Jing, chu cocksucker, what are you doing here?” Marko asked when I strode into his offices. “And why are your pants on backwards?”
“Huh? Oh. L.A. Latest fashion. Strip clubs. Where are they? I want your gun, your bullets and I need to break $2,000 cash into ones.”
“What? You walk in here, no warning and ask of me these things, but you never once call me Godfather?”
“Are you quoting THE GODFATHER?” I asked.
“Yes. You are impressed, aren’t you? Not bad for a wetback, eh?”
“Idiot. I need you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“What did I just say? Jesus, get with it, man. The sun down here has fried your brain. We’re going to strip clubs. It’s a matter of national security.”
“Jing, it’s fucking noon.”
“Better late than never.”
“Ay, yi, yi, chu can really be a pain in the ass, you know that, cowboy?”
“Just like Bandit. Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
Marko stopped in his tracks.“Wait a minute, Jing, are you telling me Bandit is involved in this somehow, this thing you’re wanting me to do?”
“No. I never mentioned that scumsucker’s name. What are you talking about?” I could feel a breeze on my backside. Must have my fly down, I thought.
“But you just said, Bandit.”
“No I didn’t you deaf goddamned border jumper.”
“Jing, listen to me, yes you did. What the hell is going on?”
“I’m to cover every strip club in Miami and Miami Beach and report back in full detail in order to allow our loyal reader to know where they can find reliable, courteous, quality gentlemen’s entertainment in order to make sensible lodging choices while enjoying America’s highways and bi-ways. America, it’s your heritage. Take advantage of it with the auto club leading the way. Twenty-percent discount to seniors.”
Marko starred at me blankly.
“I have discovered a startling lack of helpful traveler information in the gentlemen’s club category. You, shall be my accomplice.”
“Bandit is paying you for this silly shit?”
“Certainly.”
“Really?”
“Of course. And he’s elated to have access to such a celebrated author, I might add.”
“Ay, yi, yi,” Marko said. “Come on. Jesus, I came clear across America to get away from you and Bandit and your stupid stunts. I’m a respectable film director these days you know.”
“Oh please. You make outlaw biker films like FTW. Everybody knows outlaws are not to be trusted. They’re the scourges of humanity. Villains in the ultimate sense.”
“Jing, what are you talking about? We’re outlaw bikers.”
“I most certainly am not. I’m an upstanding citizen. I merely immerse myself into various worlds, niche groups really, fringe societies, in order to report back to, what I like to call, decent humanity, the interesting, often freakish ways of those on the outside. Like yourself,” I added, noticing a nude, female mannequin hanging from the roof of the Warehouse by a noose made of leather.
The Warehouse is Marko’s home. As well as that of about half a dozen other nomad outlaws who occasionally show up and flop there when they’re ducking the law and want to come to the one place on earth where old Mr. Long Arm never thinks to look (well, until now). It’s located in the middle of Overtown, a fine ghetto suburb that remains unspoiled by attempts to clean up urban blight. At the Warehouse you can stretch out, have a beer, shoot your pistol, enjoy a brawl or just plug in your laptop and download the latest missives from the badly misunderstood Bandit.
“Zebra, Bandit here, call at once. Bidet flooding offices. Know nothing about plumbing.”
Sigh. Delete key. Bandit all gone.
“Okay, this is my USP Tactical .45, Jing. Don’t fucking lose it. Unless you shoot some asshole with it. Then for sure lose it. You can ride my old kicker knuck. It’s a piece of shit, timing is off, takes about forty kicks to get it running. So keep that in mind when you start a fucking fight, like you always do, that you’re going to need time to get the hell out of there.”
“Ah, H&K, the weapon of choice. I feel more relaxed already.”
I rubbed the cool steel all over my face. “Hello darling, my name is Special Agent Zebra and tonight I shall be your escort. What’s that? Marko? He treats you poorly? Poor dear. You’re safe with me my fine poly-alloy lover.”
I crammed the pistol into my belt. “That bike, on the other hand, is a real beater.”
“Yeah, well, Jing, you get what you pay for, asshole,” Marko remarked as he checked the gas.
“It won’t be shown in the magazine. It’s too ugly,” I told him. “I don’t want to make our loyal reader puke.”
“I prefer it isn’t,” Marko said. “I don’t want the guy who this license plate belongs to seeing where it is.”
“Well don’t worry, because it won’t be,” I countered.
“Fine, fuck you, Jing, you don’t even have to ride the cocksucker if you think it’s too ugly for your pretty little faggot L.A. ass,” Marko snarled.
“Careful. I have your pistol.”
“Fucking white boy.”
“Unarmed beaner.”
“Jing, how many times I got to tell you, people from Argentina don’t eat beans as a staple food source?”
“Oh please, spare me the social studies lesson,” I said, leaping on the kicker. “What should I call you? A bread-er? How derogatory is that?”
“Well, if you want to insult me, call me a fucking communist or something that makes sense in conjunction with the history of my country.”
“You are a communist,” I said, still leaping like a fool on the kicker. “A bean devouring commie pinko greaser.”
“That’s more like it. Now I’m offended,” Marko said.
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I added, leaping high, over and over.
“Fine.”
“Fine!” I kept kicking.
About half an hour later I walked into the Warehouse to find Marko reading a “Playboy”, sitting in a tall, green velvet chair in the middle of the expanse of choppers, lowrider cars and tens of thousands of photographs glued to every flat surface depicting the general lifestyle of outlaws; pussy, bikes, boats, and more pussy.
“Want to take my truck?” Marko asked, nonchalantly turning a page.
“That bike never was going to start, was it?” I asked.
“No.” Page turn. “Not until somebody replaces the coil I took out last week.”
“I gotta call Trotta,” I said to myself, digging around for my cell phone.
I called Trotta and left a message, “Eddie, Special Agent Zebra. I need a motorcycle. Something big. Something flashy. Something exotic. Something that runs. Got anything that not only looks good, but actually runs?”
“Ready?” I asked Marko.
“Jing, you stupid redneck cowboy, I was born ready.” Marko pulled a .44 bulldog out of an ankle holster and gave the cylinder a twirl-n-peek.
“What?” Marko asked, addressing my slitted stare. “Chu din’ think I give a fucking cowboy my last goddamned gun and walk around unarmed in front of him? What if he tried some whiteboy shit on me and I had to plug his Casper ass?”
A Guide to Better Strip Clubs of Miami
Courtesy of Agent Zebra, Especial
Take One
Location: Biscayne and 79th Street, Miami
Parking: Ride your worst bagger, it’s 50-50 whether it’ll be there when you come back out. Otherwise, ride your most over-insured bike, buy all the lap dances you can and call a cab.
Cover: No cover. And frankly, who would pay to get into Take One?
Dress Code: No need to wear a dress. A short skirt will do. The air conditioning, like the beer cooler, appears to be on the fritz indefinitely.
Clientele: A family hotspot. As in Cuban mafia family, with a noteworthy sprinkling of Brazilian dope runners.
Door search: I got a .45 and two blades past the sweaty fat man patting folks down, so don’t let the idea of a search deter you from trying this charming strip club located in the heart of cozy Overtown.
Music Rating: Baffle Award. Hang the D.J.
Drink prices: Reasonable, for Beverly Hills! $7 a beer (order a bottle, it’s cleaner and you’ll need the glass when the brawl breaks out).
Lap Dance Prices: Does your health insurance have a catastrophic injury provision?
Dancers: One dance table, small, behind the bar, but obviously constructed of robust materials, as it never collapsed. Often this table is manned, and I do mean manned, by a woman of staggering size and girth, capable of gyrating in multiple directions at once, all of which you will wish she was not gyrating in.
Fruit most often used as a name: Peaches.
Zebra’s comments: I found myself spending a large amount of money to get the women to put their clothes back on. Take One just escaped my lowest rating, thanks to one Jamaican import, who made a showing as we were leaving. Jamaica is on the must-visit list now.
Zebra’s Strip Club Rating: One Wheelie, a low wheelie, a pathetic Bandit-style wheelie.
The Trap
Location: 135th & 441, Miami
Parking: Ride Bandit’s bike, it’s a goner.
Cover: No door cover. No front door for that matter. Aptly named.
Dress Code: Body armor recommended. Dress light, two pistols should do it, but it wouldn’t hurt to have spare magazines as tasteful accessories.
Clientele: Fun for the whole family, bring the kids.
Drink prices: Three bucks for a beer. Order the beer in a bottle. (see next category)
Cleanliness: Tijuana Dishwashing Award. Dunk-and-flick style in a tub of what appeared to be used engine oil.
Dancers: Get cable, then you’ll be able to change the channel.
Lap Dance Prices: How much does a double-knee replacement cost?
Dancer Rating: To quote Marko, “Ay, yi, yi…”
Music Rating: Muffler Razzie. Castrate the D.J. so he doesn’t reproduce.
Month of the year most commonly used as a name: April. As in, “What’s your name, little girl?” “Tee-hee, my name’s April.” “How do you spell that, little lady?” “Tee-hee, A-p-p-l-e, silly.”
Zebra’s Comments: One more boob joint like that and I’ll be siding with the Mormon Church on the whole strip club issue.
Zebra’s Strip Club Rating: High-speed Front End Wobble Award.
Tootsie’s
Ives Dairy Road & 441, Miami
Parking: Ride your 2nd best chop, it’s likely it’ll be there when you return.
Cover: $10 per man. Women are free. (Does that mean men get in free at Chippendale’s? Bandit, are you listening, you flit.)
Dress Code: The sharper you look, we noticed, the cheaper the lap dances. They start at $20 and go down, pun clearly intended, from there.
Awards: They allege, and this was not verifiable and we believe it to be a bald-faced lie (but why would that stop me from printing it?), that they were voted 2003 Strip Club of the U.S., by somebody.
Stages: One large stage, usually with two dancers.
Dancers: A couple girls could stand to jog to work, but most didn’t go all to hell when they got naked and started jumping around. A few were worthy of putting on a back fender.
Mythological figure most used as a name: Phoenix.
Lap Dance Prices: $20. With the blowjob, add $40. Unless you promise to mention them in “the article”. Then they pay you $100.
Music Rating: Straight-pipe Award. Clone the mofo on the turntables.
Gymnastics Rating: Olympic Stripper Silver to the young lovely who made an attempt slide lasciviously down the gold electro-plated pole from the ceiling (15 feet), only to lose her grip with her thighs and shoot herself headfirst into the floor with a beer bottle bouncing thump and had to be carted off by bouncers. Kudos to the manufacturer of the boobs—the big fatbobs held.
Zebra’s Comments: The U.N. of puntango. According to the D.J., they boast women hailing from, and I quote, “China, Indonesia, Opa -Locka…” Women from over twenty different countries strut here (curiously all the Eastern Bloc nations were represented and when I made a snide remark in Russian, all three doormen laughed). The “Parade of Champions” is worth watching, when 65 women stroll past nude. It’s what everybody wishes the Miss Universe contest would be. Lap dances were pretty decent, groping is allowed, though, as Marko showed, sodomy is still not permitted in this somewhat conservative local favorite.
Zebra’s Strip Club Rating: Three Wheelies. Lookin’ good, Tootsie’s. Try not to get shut down by the law anytime soon. Apologies for the window.
Solid Gold
Biscayne & 167th St., Ft. Lauderdale
Parking: Ride your finest chop. You can park it securely between the Lambos and Bentleys.
Cover: $10. Very reasonable, considering what you get for the cash.
Dress Code: Spit out the June bugs and cover the blade. The ladies here are blue ribbon.
Drink Prices: $10 a beer. Come drunk. No ass is that good.
Stages: Three stages, four-breasts deep each, feel free to sit close, somebody taught these girls how to use a razor. (Bushwackers, take note).
Music Rating: Header Award. Big, tough sound, but very good.
Dancers: Bring all the $1 you can carry. 90% of these women are worth abducting and the remaining ten are definitely worth a two-hour joy ride. We each took two, in spite of good-natured attempts by the bouncers to stop us.
Zebra’s Comments: There is a MC club called The Bushwackers, which originated in Havana. With most clubs to get in you have to perform some public service, like kill a member of an opposing club. To get into The Bushwackers, according to “Jack Hammer”, who was traveling with us this evening and who is a long-time patch-holder, “a prospect must be able to shave a big-twin into a bad bush so well that a member can tell what engine and year he’s looking at upon inspection.” Nobody’s in a real big hurry to get colors as a prospect. First club I’ve seen that gets along with everybody.
Zebra’s Strip Club Rating: Four wheelies. A rating that’ll go to five the minute they do away with that ridiculous rule that forbids climbing up on the stage.
Doll House
Location unknown (too drunk to read the street signs) (somewhere in Miami)
Cover: No cover if you tell ‘em you’re the editor of “Rolling Stone”.
Drink Prices: Free drinks if you actually get them to believe you own “Rolling Stone”. Otherwise get ready to cough up a ten spot for every glass of corn water.
Lap Dance Prices: Lap dances AND blowjobs are free if you were clever enough to have mocked up phony “Rolling Stone” business cards on the Mac prior to departure. Bless Steve Jobs.
Stages: One long stage that’s more of a model runway. Or, as Marko proved, a landing strip.
Household pet most often used as a stage name: Kitty.
Dancers: Well, the one from Amsterdam that thought “Rolling Stone” was actually “Playboy” was awfully entertaining. The other THREE were relatively stiff. Hire some dancers, you cheap bastards! Jesus, surely one of you has a sister or two.
Dress Code: Some people were actually wearing suits. They were killed later in the parking lot.
Music Rating: Loose Muffler Razzie. This guy clearly ran heavy artillery in the Corps prior to becoming interested in music.
Zebra Comments: They claim, and we were unable to verify this, that weekends are far better. We’ll see. Zebra advice to owners, hire the entire female population of Amsterdam. Those girls are a whole lot of fun.
Zebra Strip Club Rating: Two wheelies. One for every dancer working that night.
Miami Gold
(We diverted away from Miami Gold when multiple strippers told us the Drug Enforcement Agency had paid them a visit the day before. It was rumor that we could neither confirm nor deny, so we hit high gear. After all, Marko already had all the drugs he needed.)
Scarlet’s
Address unknown. We stumbled into it trying to find an all-night diner.
Parking: Ride your finest goose-neck, get-gone machine. Doormen outside to guard the scoots. And if they’re gone, you’ll know who to shoot first.
Cover: $10 cover per man. No cover for couples. I couldn’t get them to believe Marko was my mail-order bride. Even when he curtsied.
Drinks: $10 per beer. Do your drinking elsewhere, these guys are too proud of their barley.
Music Rating: Two-into One Award. Tight, well-mixed, high-performance beats.
Dancers: This, is why you always wear eye protection when you ride.
Lung Rating: This club received the Zebra Running Rich Award, due to all the fake smoke they constantly gag the customers with until it feels like you’re in the burnout pits at Sturgis.
Inanimate object most often used as a name: Tiara.
Lighting Rating: This club received the Fog Light Award for being dumb enough to angle their lights to flash directly into the eyes of the men every two seconds, leaving you feeling like a flash-blinded movie star entering the Oscars. Having your retinas slam shut every second or so makes it hard to enjoy the lovelies.
Zebra Comments: Lose the blinding strobe scheme. We were running lights all the way home due to spastic optical nerve syndrome.
Zebra Strip Club Rating: Four wheelies. Damned fine lineup of lovelies. Would have been five if they didn’t Ray Charles a man with their lights and try to smoke him out of his comfortable chair next to the stage with flying baby powder. Gas mask and torch goggles recommended.
The Alley Cat
3875 Shipping Avenue, Coral Gables
Parking: Ride something you can part with. Nobody watching scoots in the blind parking lot.
Cover: Ten bones.
Drinks: Ten bones. What, is wheat suddenly scarce in America?
Stage: Four jugs deep each.
Music Rating: Blown Head Gasket Award. Fire the D.J.
Lap dance: $25 (yeah, we laughed, too.)
Table boogey: $15 (Why not just sit by the stage?)
Dancers: A real uneven pen. Some flat out beautiful, especially the few mulatto ladies, some you’ll damn sure want your welding visor down for. Apparently the guy doing the hiring is bipolar.
Luxury car most used as a name: Mercedes
Awards: Onboard Computer Failure Award for having a huge flat-screen showing, drum roll, please, an infomercial on car wax. Boys, the sexual innuendos aren’t working. I think the phrase is, pull your heads out of your asses.
Awards: Olympic Stripper Gold to the cutie who drunkenly backed her truckload of goods right off the unusually high stage and into Marko’s welcoming arms, thus causing him to dump his entire beer onto her polished ass.
Zebra Comments: My dearest Amina, telling us your real name is “a well-guarded secret,” while having it tattooed boldly just one shim above your, well, what makes you so dear to us all, is somewhat pointless.
Zebra Strip Club Rating: Three wheelies. Hire all the cousins to the gals under 125 and use them to replace those in the 200-pound class.
Bare Necessities
Address, Coral Gables, not far off U.S. 1. Look it up, you lazy bitch.
Parking: If ya can’t see the scoot to shoot, you can’t guarantee the scoot.
Cover: $5 Fri., Sat., free during the week. That’s right, gouge the working stiff on their one day off.
Award: Cheap Bastard Prize for having over 70% of the neon sign letters burned out and not spending a few bucks to have it fixed.
Award: Nobel Peace Prize for having the unspotted genius to concoct the “fishing chair”. A genuine luxury fishing chair (attention any yacht owner missing a fighting chair) with a set of monkey bars mounted on the wall above, allowing the dancer, or at this point perhaps I should say, performer, to do all sorts of exotic moves above the fisherman below. The best idea since the footpeg.
Award: Monkey Wrench Award for installing a working shower where one or several dancers can do all sorts of interesting things to themselves and each other, before the private audience on the other side of the glass, seated comfortably on a plush couch.
Award: Buzz Kill Award for having a bathroom attendant blasting “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” on a boom box in the head.
Stage: Inside the bar. Which is good. Because you can stare longingly at the bottles. Because you sure in the hell aren’t gonna want to look at these leaping potato chip testimonials. Which leads us to…
Noun most often used (and abused) as a stage name: Chastity.
Dancers: Okay, now there’s sexy, there’s ten-beers and a long-ways-from-home, and there’s wouldn’t-even-fly-in-Leavenworth. You boys are damned close to number three. Pull up! Pull up! Tower to Bare Necessities. Come in, Bare Necessities. Do you read us, Bare…(static).
Zebra Comments: Man that fishing chair with high-dollar hotties. Cut the rest. Offer discounts to yacht club members and guys who stink like engine oil. You’ll make millions. By the way, Steve, who runs the joint was very nice and caters to bikers.
Zebra Strip Club Rating: Jesus, how to you rate a club full of “big-uns” with a fishing chair? Two wheelies.
Stir Crazy
Polish your motorcycle instead.
Centro Espanol
Go to Stir Crazy.
Gold Rush
N.E. 11th St., downtown, Miami
Parking: None, but they will valet for TEN DOLLARS! Bandit’s entire motorcycle didn’t even cost that much.
Cover: $20. No, you don’t get to keep the woman for that money. We suggest rushing the door on your chop.
Hours: 24, except Sunday and Monday. Because they make so damned much on their outlandish cover they don’t even need to be open two days out of the week.
Drinks: $6/beer. ($20 cover.)
Stages: 2, four legs deep each. ($20 cover.)
Music: Straight Pipe Award. ($20 cover.)
Award: Hard To Locate Squeak Award to the D.J. who never shuts up. If you want to be an on-air personality, get on the air. And a personality.
Precious stone most often used as a stage name: Diamond.
Zebra Comments: The music got louder and louder all night until the billion-watt system literally had combat-deafened goons like Marko bitching. Hey, asshole, there are limits to everything. If guys can’t catch a rap with a dancer, they don’ spen’ no money, den you ain’ got no job. Savvy?
Zebra Strip Club Rating: Prices too high. Dancers are way too pushy about the $25 DOLLAR LAP DANCES ($20 cover.) and humping porn CD’s to customers and dick parking. Two wheelies. ($20 cover.)
Strip clubs I was unable to visit and rate, due to Bandit’s cruel and unusually low expenditure budget and outlandish deadlines:
Cheetah III
Cheetah II
Tease Lounge
Gold Finger
Pink Pony
*Disclaimer: Special Agent Zebra was drunk the entire time this story was written and is not accountable for anything whatsoever, unless it would ultimately lead to fame, fortune, free scoots or naked women.
