Satan's Cheerleaders

There's a whiff of brimstone in the air, or is it that I forgot to bathe? Sniff. No, it's definitely brimstone. The fires of hell lap around me, and there are a number of hot devil chicklettes naughtily flashing their pointed tails as I await the arrival of the Jettster, a Jäger bomber and Bud Light for company.

Maybe this is how it will all end, after I overdose on Oreos and Red Bull, and head for that hella-hot Hades in the center of the Earth, waiting for the J-unit to buy the farm so she can join me in an eternity of molten lava and licking flames. But we ain't dead yet. Instead, I'm chillin' at one of the many bars in Scottsdale's Sugar Daddy's compound for the first-ever Saints 'n' Sinners Ball, where folks are supposed to come out in white duds if they're a goody two shoes and crimson if they're selling their souls to Old Scratch. So far, as in life, the sinners way outnumber the saints, and I'm adding to the former, because you know I got my red shirt on.

The theme's perfect for the three-year-old club, which has a pre-Katrina New Orleans-Catholic feel to it, with flames painted on the walls, thick candles on mantels of antique-looking fireplaces, a Sistine Chapel-like painting on the ceiling of one room, and creepy touches, like an old-fashioned fortune-telling machine with a mechanical turbaned dude behind glass, whose plastic eyes move as you do. The lounge bar where my keister's parked opens out onto an immense patio strung with red and white Christmas lights. I'm checking out all the party peoples when I feel a tiny fist smash into my kidneys, followed by a high-pitched cackle.

"What's up, lard cheeks?" asks Jett, pulling up a stool as I rub my sore spot. "I ever tell you that you're the only person I know who can break a sweat sitting still?"

"Hardy-har-har," I say, mopping my brow with a paper napkin and taking note of her black dress and white halo. "I thought you were going to come suited and booted for the occasion."

"Whaddayamean?" she replies. "I swiped this halo from some other chick fair and square."

"Yeah, but you're supposed to be a devil-girl, like our mascot," I tell her. "And you definitely ain't no angel, unless it's a fallen one. The freakin' Minnesota Vikings don't see the kinda action you do on a regular basis."

"Whatever, Kreme." She tosses her pretty head. "Buy me a drink and let's get to work."

I'm so shocked to hear the word "work" cross the Jettster's lips that I order her a Jäger bomber-Bud Light combo pronto. We shoot back the bombers and head for the patio, where we run into these two extremely buff cats, Dennis and Danny, both of whom have just moved out here from Cali. Dennis is shirtless with red wings on his back and a red halo on his head, and Danny's got a retro-swinger thing going on -- in dark glasses and a red jacket, also baring his pecs for all to see.

"Since you're obviously not right with the Lord, Danny, have you got any sins you'd like to confess?" I ask.

"The last sin I can confess took place in Santa Cruz on the boardwalk where I had sex in the public bathroom," answers Dirty Dan. "I had just got done surfing over there, and it was in this nasty-ass bathroom with flies all over the place. I was all hot and sweaty, and so was she. If it had been a clean bathroom, it wouldn't have been as fun. It was more of a high because it was so gross and disgusting."

"Boy, you really are a sinner," Jett tells him. "So what do you do for a living?"

"I'm an aesthetician," he responds. "You know -- skin care, facials, peels, all that. I'm looking for a position in town right now, actually."

"Good luck with that, playboy," I say, patting him on the back, then turning to Dennis. "And what's your line, mon?"

"Well, I just got here four days ago," he explains with a smarmy grin. "But I am successfully charming to women of all ages, and I plan to start off making money in that genre."

"Ah, yes, romancing desperate housewives," I comment. "So how exactly can I get into that line of work?"

"Lose about 150 pounds of blubber and grow some male genitalia," cracks Jett. "I hate to break it to you, pardner -- you jiggle, but you ain't no gigolo."

We leave Danny and Dennis to their cocktails and stroll over to this trio of top-shelf dimes, Nicole, Jae, and Melinda. Nicole's in a red dress, high heels and devil horns. Jae's in a white top and micro-mini-skirt. And Melinda's in a red corset, carrying an Indiana Jones-style bullwhip. They're all models, of course. And Jezebel Jett's in seventh heaven.

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Stephen is a former staff writer and columnist at Phoenix New Times.
Contact: Stephen Lemons