Strippers, Cocaine, And An Altercation With The Crips: The Trials And Tribulations Of Bottom Tier Brandon

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Brandon and Wes stumbled out of the downtown “Ice Lounge” where Beta Gamma Omega was having their first mixer of the year with the new sorority on campus, Chi Rho. With ΒΓΟ still technically on probation and no fraternity actively seeking the company of the homely new girls on the block, it was a match made in hell. Ironically, the social event of the season was themed “Dante’s Inferno.” Off the record, of course. Neither the school administration nor the rest of the Greek community needed to catch wind of Brandon and his brothers drinking away their standards to contemplate porking a group of chicks that could easily be mistaken as the local roller derby team.

The dynamic duo that was Brandon and Wes were dressed in their last minute efforts at appropriate party attire, which was just a recycled outfit from the controversial MLK party earlier in the year that did the organization no favors during the university’s crack down investigation that dismantled this once promising fraternity. Decked in nothing but red from head to toe, the two burned heaters out by the curb as they pondered the possibility of going home with one of the many potato shaped princess.

“It all feels the same with your eyes closed,” said a smirking Wes.

“That’s all you, buddy?” responded a broken and beaten down Brandon.

“Come on. It’s been what, two months since Jenna broke up with you?” Wes brought up knowing full well this would provoke his friend.

“Something like that?” a slightly annoyed Brandon answered.

Wes peered back into the venue, spotting nothing but a sea full of creatures from the black lagoon.

“Let’s bail. I got a girl working at this bar on the other side of town. I say we check it out,” Wes propositioned.

Brandon took one last drag, flicked his cig halfway across the street, and shook his head in agreement.

Wes called for an Uber and a teal Nissan Altima with a fish decal on the back bumper driven by a prematurely gray haired stick of a man named Jonah pulled up within a few minutes. They opened the back doors and their nostrils burned with the overbearing aroma of incense.

“Jesus, that shit is potent,” Wes grimaced.

Uber driver Jonah glared back at the two through the rosary wrapped rearview mirror as if they were the spawns of satan.

“Can we open a window and get some fresh air for Christ’s sake?”

“Where am I taking you two?” Uber driver Jonah demanded ignoring Wes’s previous request.

“Booby Trap.”

“The strip joint?” asked a puzzled Brandon.

“Oh good, you’re familiar,” Wes shot back.

Jonah put the car in drive, turned a sermon onto the radio to drown out the dark lord’s message in the back seat, and proceeded to the route.

“What will it be like for a mother in heaven who sees her son burning in hell? She will glorify the justice of God.” the voice of a clergyman echoed throughout the speakers.

Wes and Brandon got out of the messiah mobile in front of the neon lit, velvet padded, oversized shack that was Booby Trap. Jonah rolled down the window and doused the two in holy water, screaming “May God have Mercy on your souls!” before burning rubber and peeling out of the parking lot.

“Won’t do us any good. God gave up on us long ago,” Wes responded without hesitation.

Brandon cracked his first smile of the night. “Ain’t that the fucking truth. Now let’s go see some titties.”

A mist, developed over years of cigarette smoke, constant use of a ’90s fog machine, and the general gloom of shame, permeated inside the mostly empty club. It was a simple setup: the bar located on the right, the one and only stage located dead center, and the “champagne” rooms to the left. A Kevin Hart clone dressed in all blue sat back in his folding chair throwing singles at a plump, tatted up, Hispanic performer working the pole.

“Is that your girl hard at work, Wes?”

“No. That’s her right there.” Wes nodded towards the bar.

Sitting on a barstool was a platinum haired, long legged, Russian minx in nothing but a lace thong and silk robe. When they approached her, she jumped up in excitement and straddled Wes as they mauled each others’ faces for a solid minute as Brandon stood awkwardly waiting to be introduced.

“Brandon, this is my girl Natasha.”

“It’s so good to finally meet you. Wes has told me everything about you,” said Natasha in a stereotypical thick Eastern European accent as she hugged Brandon with her sweater puppies popping out of her robe.

“Yeah…Natasha! He’s literally speechless when he brings you up.”

“Aw, really?” replied a blushing Natasha.

“There are just no words that would do you justice, baby,” Wes chimed in.

Natasha proceeded to suck the life out of Wes’ mug.

“So drinks, guys?”


“Drinks it is.”

Brandon proceeded to order a Jack and Coke. After looking back at his buddy tonsil Gretzkying Comrade Stilettos, he turned back to the bartender.

“Make it a double.”

As he turned back around, Brandon bumped and knocked over the Kevin Hart doppelgänger, spilling the child sized gangster’s drink all over his pint sized self.

“You motherfucker!” shouted the enraged miniature man.

“My bad, little guy. I didn’t see you there,” said Brandon while holding back laughing as he patted the stranger’s head.

Shocked at the audacity of this move, lil Kev responded. “Just wait till I get my boys. We gonna clack you up.”

He proceeded to storm out of the establishment in sheer embarrassment. An attentive Brandon noticed a baggie of white substance fall out of the comedic double’s back pocket and onto the ground. Realizing what he had just found, he turned to Wes and Natasha insisted, “Get me your finest looking coworker, and let’s have some fun.”

Wes and Brandon sat next to each other on purple leather benches in the champagne room as Natasha and Mercedes, an olive skinned, jet black haired fox, laid across their laps. The next hour was a continuous blur of railing lines off the strippers’ asses, crushing whiskey “whatevers,” and getting their dicks dry humped into submission on the house.

“Brandon, Natasha wants to get out of here. She says Mercedes is down, too. You in?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods? Let’s go!” responded an overly eager Brandon.

With an exotic dancer wrapped around one of their arms, Wes and Brandon strutted out of the establishment like two cock laying casanovas. Just as they were about to approach Natasha’s car, a tinted out Cadillac Eldorado pulls up. Lil Kev gets out, and this time he’s not alone. Three linebacker sized men clothed in all blue join him.

“There’s that Malibu’s Most Wanted looking motherfucker!” screamed Lil Kev.

“Brandon, who’s this?” murmured a frightened Wes.

“You ruined my favorite shirt, stole my coke, pet me like a fucking dog, all while rocking those threads on our turf and think I wasn’t going to come back?”

“I fucked up,” Brandon whispered back to Wes.

The three giants pulled out 9mm handguns.

“We’re going for a ride,” said a malicious Lil Kev.

The girls ran away in terror as Wes and Brandon are pistol whipped unconscious and thrown in the trunk of the Eldorado. Lil Kev and the crew drive off into the night like a bat out of hell. Seconds later, headlights in the strip club parking lot turn on. A teal Nissan Altima with a Jesus fish screeches out of the premises and follows closely behind.

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Dan Regester

Dan Regester @Dan_Regester is a Senior Writer, Podcast Host, and Video Guy for Grandex Media. He's Delco trash to the core and a UCF cinema studies graduate because he never got around to applying to an actual film school. Dan is a gambling man, crypto investor, and procrastinator. He enjoys long walks to the water fountain between bench press sets and is not a fan of the homeless, the elderly, or the Phoenix Airport. Email tips to

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