Monday Night Meatmarket

From the window to the wall, ACME's tight, and the Kreme clique's aiight.

"Not yet tonight," he says. "I'm still on the prowl."

We move on, and let Brian keep prowlin'. The party here is jumpin' off like a Friday night, with wenches up on the bar gettin' low, people doin' shots. Everyone's ripped. We return to the bar for another round, squeezin' through the mass of bodies as best we can.

"Them bitches earlier were right, Kreme," laments the Jettster after our conversation with Brian.

"You fellas only want one thing: that funk, that sweet, that nasty, that gushy stuff," she says, quoting some Jay-Z.

"Oh my Lord," I exclaim. "I can't believe my elephantine ears! You're the biggest horndog in the county. Don't tell me now that you've tried the stick, you actually want a (gulp) relationship?"

"And what's wrong with that?" she asks defensively. "I wouldn't mind a little love connection sometime."

"Next thing, you'll be telling me you've converted to Mormonism," I cheeze. "Reckon I'll have to get you one of them bicycles and a black tie."

"Oh, shut up, fool. Let's go talk to those gals over there."

True enough, nearby is a trio of femmebots, dancing and drinking, partying like Tuesday'll never come. The first is a sizzling-hot mamacita with long, luxurious brown hair down to her waist by the name of Jessica. Next to her is her home-girl Francesca, who's cute and has a short brunette bob. And finally, there's Melissa, a gal with curly blond hair and a figure that could stop a Humvee in its tracks. They're each in the financial industry in one form or another, and they tell us they're here with a much larger pack of 20 chicklettes dispersed throughout the throng.

"We come here like every week," relates Francesca. "They've got a lot of people here, a fun atmosphere, and good music."

"You gals are as fine as white wine in the summertime," observes Jett. "I'll bet all these rough riders out here are hittin' on you."

"Yeah, guys are jerks," says Francesca.

"We hate 'em all," spits Melissa.

"She's our role model," Francesca says of Jessica, who's been laughing as the other two talk. "She's married. We're trying to find a guy like her husband."

"Your hubby's a lucky guy," says Jett, enviously. "How long have you been together?"

"Three years. I met him at the pawnshop! I should've known then he was bad news," she chuckles. "I was driving by one when I saw him."

"What did he do to attract your attention?" I wonder.

"Just smiled," Jessica says. "He's a very good salesman. He really knows how to sell himself. He's a good guy. You wanna meet him?"

We reply in the affirmative, and they call out for Marco Gallindo, a dude with his head shaven military style who's wearing a white sweatshirt. When Marco steps up, we ask him about meeting his honey, and inquire as to what exactly he was going into that pawnshop to sell.

"No, no, no, I wasn't selling nothing," he swears. "My friend runs the place. [Jessica] saw me, did a U-turn and came back. Who knew that day I was looking at my wife, that we'd be married three years and she'd have my kid?"

"Get out," I exclaim. "Congrats on the ankle-biter."

"Thanks. We have one daughter. She's two and a half years old. Her name's Johni. She's gonna be my little clothes designer one day. About 20 years from now, you'll be looking at a shirt saying, 'Hey, that's a nice shirt, what is it?' And they'll be like, 'It's a Johni.'"

Jett looks Jessica over: "You really don't look like you've had a kid," she compliments her.

"Yeah, I keep her real busy, if you know what I mean," grins Marco.

"So what did you say to win her over that day, Marco? Come on, share some game with us," I urge.

"I said, 'Think I could come kidnap you?'" he laughs. "Write that one down. It worked for me."

"So why do you two still come out to the club, after three years and a baby?"

"We're actually out on a date right now," says Marco. "We got to have some fun once in a while and keep the relationship alive."

Now that's truly a beautiful thing. By this time, even ACME's patio is too crammed and intense for us to do much more than try to communicate in sign language to people. So Jett and I ease back inside, get our groove on a bit on the dance floor and exit stage right.

"See, true love is still possible," I say to Jett, as we amble back to the Impala after our Monday night of revelry. "In fact, if you play your cards right, I might treat you to a night of romance myself."

"That's okay, Friar Needs-a-Tummy-Tuck," sighs the sultry switch-hitter. "If I ever get thatdesperate, screw becoming a Mormon, I might as well get myself a penguin outfit, a chastity belt, and sign up for the frickin' convent!"

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