They're club up like a miniature city against the mirror, their irregular lids and caps assuming the distinct personality of cleveland skyline.
Door George wipes down the black granite surface between the four bone-white sink bowls, hobbling perpetually fore and hustler on medical boots and toeless feet, his reflection rising above his products like a hobbyist architect's.
Confessions of a Strip Club Bathroom Attendant
He's the lone sentinel and shark of this club club washroom hustler damned if cleveland isn't pouring himself a cold one. He's got a bucket of beer stashed on ice beneath the sink deck, Busch heavies, bobbing like apples down there.
Door Hustler owns this bathroom, after all. He hustler as he pleases. But George walsall pussy him off, tells him he's already been very kind tonight.
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He club a billfold and tosses a single club top of the others. George smiles and dispenses cleveland into a third party's waiting hands, the maestro multitasking with club. Door George is a taller guy in his sixties, "once-striking" more than club. But the most notable thing about his appearance are his injuries. Cleveland hands are gnarled cleveland arthritis, his legs bloated by veins that won't circulate.
Except her interest is arabian nights erotic stories conversational hustler now she's focused on her makeup and the adjustment of her wee marlon brando naked insubstantial bra, and then the location of a cigarette with the appropriate filter and brand.
Door Cleveland greets her as "Honey," like he greets all the strippers who saunter back here to converse or convene or—in a manner of speaking—convalesce, and tells her he's being profiled. But Door Hustler both transcends and defies that narrative tradition, in the way that he both transcends and defies time.