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Pretty, Pretty Please
Tuesday, September 27th
11:00pm
Chicago, Illinois
96 days until the Narco-Attack
Twelve hours after Amir’s arrest, Jerry the County Jail Guard sat alone at the main bar of Chicago’s newest nightclub: Club Mea Culpa—the hottest spot from Chicago to New York City; East Side, at that.
Two-hundred people milled about in their first stages of inebriated ecstasy, and this was just the warm-up inning. By 1am the dance floor would be pounded with hot sounds and packed with the sexy crowd. They would mix, mingle, flirt, and flaunt. The dancing would be wild and the touching wilder. Club Mea Culpa was a show of beauty, wealth, and social power. Yet, for Jerry the Amateur Coke Addict, that is all it would ever be: a show to watch, each and every night he was there.
Which—were most nights.
Demonized from downtown Chicago’s revered Catholic Church of the Immaculate Conception, the Mea—newly ordained as the Church of the Decadent Pleasures—was the perfect expression of American hedonistic irreverence. The confessional booths were now pee stalls. The pews still stood in place, but they were now topped by a dance floor of inch-thick plastic. Brilliant strobes of piercing light; bartenders of flashing charm; and waitresses of dazzling beauty—the club was just downright fucking hot.
The Masses of Exuberant Exhibitionism revelled in their nightly rendition of ‘dancing with the Devil’, yet it was the Altar of Decadent Pleasures that pushed everyone over the top. There, the minions of hedonism would take to their knees and pray: please, bartender—grant us communion with a fuck-all high. Pretty, pretty please.
Meeting Ms. Wanna-Do or Mr. Gotta-Have? That was not even on the map of dance floor concerns. Like, duh—everyone was beautiful, or they wouldn’t be in the club. Well, except for Jerry, and he was allowed only to watch, each and every night he was there.
Which—as no one bothered to notice—were more than most nights.
Several protests of noticeable nature were planned when the club first opened. The owners, Mea and Culpa, had arranged for such. It had been a simple matter to send an anonymous letter to various Catholic congregations:
We must stage a Great and Holy Protest! Our beloved Church of the Immaculate Conception, now—a sacrilegious disgrace! This cannot be allowed!
A convenient meeting time was suggested:
Let the faithful among us meet in protest at 6pm in front of the Church. The nightclub. Whatever it is these unholy blasphemers have created! Just come and bring your Bible!
The ploy worked perfectly. Three days after the First Pre-Grand-Opening Party, a crowd of Hostile Believers stationed themselves outside the club. The demonstration, led by Dwight David O’Mally, a sincerely upset parishioner, proceeded with much zest and zeal.
Yet, no one had bothered to explain to the Believers that protesting from 6pm to 8pm wouldn’t do much good. The Mea opened at 10pm, and the only club personnel to witness the demonstrations were the Romanian cleaning staff: the Eastern Orthodox Romanian cleaning staff, to be specific—and, they thought the Catholics were crazy even before they saw the signs of protest written in a language they could not understand.
Others, however, could read the signs quite clearly; hordes of media news crews—chief among them. During Club Mea’s Second Pre-Grand-Opening Party, the whole sordid mess hit the lofty heights of nationwide news.
Culpa was ecstatic. The cocaine he snorted nightly also had a little to do with that. Well—a lot to do with that particular high of hedonistic delight.
When the first wave of protests and media coverage started to wane, Mea announced he was the one who had written the letter insisting the club be protested.
The protest letter! It was Me(a)! I wrote it! Oops—my bad! But, what fun is a religious crusade without some well-orchestrated fallibility?
It was then, the Catholics, true to soul, but not particularly adept at checking sources, figured out they had been utterly manipulated. Culpa giggled for three hours straight when near riot-level protests returned to the club.
Not surprisingly, the original copy of Mea’s Great and Holy Protest Letter then found its way onto the front page of a seamy national tabloid. The rights-to-print check sent back in return: $100,000.
Culpa wanted to buy a larger Altar cross. The current cross was a bit on the small side: a mere fifteen-feet tall and eight-feet wide, hand-to-hand.
Mea overruled the notion. Placing a gold cistern of Holy Water at the entrance to the club would be far more useful. This was not, however, Holy Water in the biblical sense; this was 151-proof alcohol in the grain sense. Three sips here, five swallows there, and the congregation of the Church of Decadent Pleasures screwed themselves up early and hard.
In a modest effort of reconciliation with those who had a different interpretation of Holy Water, Mea had the booze blessed by a former Episcopalian priest they occasionally let into the club. He was a Junior Varsity Catholic, but maybe a blessing might help.
It didn’t. When the Protesters of Catholic Outrage found out the gold cistern they had purchased for the nightclub was filled with 151-proof Holy Water, the insanity of well-meaning zealots peaked.
Using alcohol as Holy Water was a sin. Alcohol—wine, to be specific—could only be used as the Blood of Christ.
This time they checked. Yes—transubstantiation. That was definitely a rule.
Then, came the death threat calls. They were duly recorded and played back nightly as a screaming background to the Deejay’s pounding music. The crowd went into pandemonium. Culpa just laughed—he was the one who had called in the threats.
Finally, the Catholics of Holy Protest decided their message had been thoroughly delivered to God, the national news media, and a few Romanian maids who should have been Catholics to begin with. It was time to move on to more useful work. Communion wine was expensive and protesting did not fill the coffers. The demonstrations ended in favor of a nice Sisters of the Covenant bake sale.
The Religious Works of Protest did not go without their just rewards; they just rewarded the sinners. By the Third Pre-Grand-Opening Party, the club had been transformed into a venue only the most beautiful and wealthy could enter. Average-looking girls stood in line for hours. Men without the cards of gold, platinum, or black didn’t stand a chance.
The hospitality offered to those who qualified as highly-desirable was far different. They were welcomed with compulsively exclusive manners; fondled with faux compliments; and soothed with tip-demanding services. Those of beauty and power paid a fortune for a full glass of public misbehavior and a sidecar of Catholic-taunting thrown in just for the hell of it!
One, however, was neither dazzling nor daunting. Friend Jerry, the Wayward County Jail Guard: he was below average-looking, given to no measurable wealth, and damn—what was it with those stupid-looking guard shoes? Yet, even with such exclusionary issues, he was allowed entry into Club Mea Culpa any night he might so choose.
Which, as the bouncers noted with fond snickers, was way more nights than was even close to normal.
Jerry’s entry ticket was stamped in recognition of his useful station in life. Funny-looking shoes, witness thereof. More than a few of the Bouncers had been arrested in their journey from head-smashing at seedy clubs to the elevated status of Granter-of-Entry to Club Mea Culpa. They knew having a Guard Friend might ease issues with the Police when an unruly line-waiter experienced no-entry by choke hold.
So, Friend Jerry was admitted to Club Mea and with no-wait-in-line privileges at that! There was, however, a condition of entry: no ugly women could come in with him. After countless invitations to the non-ugly sort, Jerry learned that his chances of beautiful companionship averaged somewhat less than zero. Even his No-Wait-In-Line Pass could not overcome below-average looks, little money, and those funny-looking shoes. So, Jerry entered alone each night he might so choose.
Which was—oh, hell; the dip wad never missed a night.
Jerry had one friend, though: a female he downright worshiped. Sarah: the hottest bartender between Chicago and New York City; East Side, at that. Built of beauty, forged by confidence, she was the one who made her hot-body male customers ask nicely for their next drink. May I have another round? Please Sarah. Pretty, pretty please.
The almost-perfect female customers curried her favor. Sarah knew the hot guys. What’s his name? Is he single? Please tell me, Sarah. Pretty, pretty please.
The top-of-the-line girl-fluff simply hated her. She was more beautiful, more desired, and, most of all, they hated her because she was the High Deaconess of the Holy Powder. Slinging drinks was but a sordid hobby and a fucked-up reason to be in the club. Her position of true merit: Sarah supplied all of the cocaine sold within the nightclub—courtesy of an exclusive contract with Mea and Culpa. Well, courtesy of Mea and Culpa’s sex drive; for, in the list of coke-dealer qualifications, Sarah knew what it took to get the business.
She made them ask nicely. Please Mistress Sarah. Make us do it while you watch. Pretty, pretty please.
It was hers—the responsibility of procuring the White Powder of Ecstatic Experience. It was hers—the task of distributing a nightly supply to the twenty dance-floor dealers. Most importantly, it was hers—the necessity of making sure they were steaming-hot chicks.
Mea’s logic was clear on the matter: the Chicago Police, the FBI, and the DEA—none of them could possibly have young-girl-hotties on their payroll. How could they? A beautiful-one working for sweaty, average men? No way! They’d be at the Mea, where high wages were paid for their beauty and deep compensations were offered for their attention. Sarah also knew this. Hiring uber-hotties to sell coke on the dance floor was her idea in the first place.
Yet, for all her connections and social power, Sarah spent her moments of free time with Jerry. Begging male customers could wait. Snitty, demanding girls could piss off. A county jail guard, sitting in his permanent station—second stool from the cigarette vending machine; he was her favored company.
Sarah’s conversation often confused Friend Jerry. Often, she suggested he might not come in every night. Perhaps there were other things he could do. Could she help him find a nice girl on the outside and settle down?
Dumbass Jerry refused all of Sarah’s well-intentioned advice. Instead, he asked her for the personal favors in which she specialized.
“Got a little free blow tonight? You know I don’t make much money as a guard.”
“Sure, Jerry. Just for you. Me? Oh, no, I don’t do coke. Makes my nose run.”
Each time he did a line, a tear formed in Sarah’s eye.
That night, however, it was Jerry the Addict who carried the power of Holy Powder. In his shirt pocket: five two-gram bags of the UltraPure; in his back pocket: a promise from that quirky little Muslim—this cocaine was the best blow on the planet! Just to be sure, Jerry did one line before he entered the club and, sure enough, the confirmation damn near blew his head off. Good stuff that UltraPure—way better than Sarah’s!
There was a problem, though. The Club did not allow anyone to bring in their own coke. Mea and Culpa considered that infringing upon a well-run family business.
Jerry fondled the five bags and considered his options:
Do it all himself. No, not a good idea. He’d be headless and even more unpopular.
Give it to hot chicks. Not a good idea, either. Then he’d be thrown out. Going home early was worse than being unpopular. Finally, he decided upon a strategy: return the favor to Sarah. His explanation was simple: “I met a supplier in jail. ‘Happened to score a few bags. Seems to be very good stuff—the best ever, actually. Wanna’ try some Sarah?”
Sarah didn’t want to try some. Coke made her nose run. But, she was always willing to chat about a new source of cocaine—particularly from contacts Jerry had met in the County Jail. Some of the big-time distributors hung out there from time to time.
Twenty minutes later, Mea and Culpa lined up a gram of the UltraPure. Silver straws were retrieved from an ornate box; the one that once held the Altar Bible.
Sarah stood back. Friend Jerry cowered in the corner. Two lines disappeared. Then came two shivering breaths and one tongue-whored kiss. Culpa responded through a tingling nose, “This new ‘UltraPure’ was sure to be a big hit!”
The Deaconess of the Holy Powder smiled. Indeed, there was a new coke supplier in the Church of Decadent Pleasures! And, what good luck—he was a county jail guard! Who ever heard of a county jail guard working undercover as a DEA agent or informer? Mea and Culpa immediately agreed with the logic.
Guard Jerry, they knew; Friend Jerry, they controlled; and, best of all—the dumbass was willing to deliver the UltraPure in whatever quantities Sarah required.
The next evening, UltraPure Dealer Jerry returned by way of a silver-straw invitation. Dressed in the best of his upscale discount clothes and newly-shined guard shoes, it was debut night for the club’s new drug supplier.
He was ushered in the moment he arrived. “Yes-sirs” flowed like the free Champagne he would soon be served. Two minutes after his car was valet parked, a quarter-key of UltraPure, conveniently packaged in two-gram bags, was moved to Sarah’s locker. Twenty minutes later, twelve of the most beautiful chicks in the club had their supply to sell. Ten did a test-bump. Five swore to themselves they would have sex later that night. The other five decided to start right away.
It was the hottest night on record. There was sex on the dance floor; sex on the stage; and sex on the Altar. At 6am, when Club Mea finally closed, there was sex in the upstairs office—with Sarah in attendance, of course. Well, it was more ‘in control’, than ‘in attendance’. No longer was she Sarah the Bartender. After 6am, she was Mistress Sarah—the demander of the tongue-whored kiss.
Her bosses begged. Her bosses pleaded. “Please make us do it, Mistress Sarah. Pretty, pretty please.”
She did, and Culpa coupled with Mea. What Mea/Culpa did not know was Sarah also had an entirely different set of bosses. They didn’t call her Sarah. To her other bosses, she was Danielle Demondi: an undercover DEA agent and the hottest shooter from Chicago to NYC; East Side, at that.
Yet, her other bosses begged and pleaded just the same.
“Nail em’ all Dani! Please.”
Pretty, pretty please!!
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