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Tom walked down the main street, just as he had when he was a teenager. The two seven-foot-tall men standing outside LapDogs had their foreheads crossed and recrossed by pulsing neon. They handed Tom vouchers for free drinks at the bar. On a plaque above the door the licensee of the premises was named as Vlad Mikula.
There were only a few patrons present, congregated around an early show soundtracked by Lady Gaga. The girl on stage had the bored, surly look of a checkout chick. She gyrated around a pole and put her arse in men’s faces without changing the expression on her face. Her G-string was lined with five-dollar notes.
He took his vouchers to the bar where a girl in a bikini served him a half glass of warm beer. A trail of bright red spots ran along the inside of her arm. Two o
