The Boys are Back in Town

My little brother Sami recently went to Chicago for a bachelor party/dude’s  night out. Being a first time tourist in the city, he said he had his head tilted backward looking up at the immense downtown from below.

“We ate a lot,” he said. “It was a good time.”

He told me about the club district that he and his friends went to. It was “crazy”, he emphasized.

“But you were there for a bachelor party?” I asked. “Who was getting married?”

“No one you know,” he replied evasively.

“And you went to the club district. What was that like? Was it like ours in Atlanta?”

“Look, Malaka. There are certain things about my weekend that I just can’t tell you.”

He implied that because I was a Christian woman with a family, I would neither understand nor approve and he just would NOT discuss that aspect of his weekend with me.

Oh really, Sami? Is that how it’s gonna go down? Well you don’t have to tell me anything, because I already know!

******** Haze and fade to black please ********

Sami is that Black dude that only hangs out with white guys. He is the anchor that gives a group of White boys some street cred. As such, when he and his buds hit the town, he is afforded the honor of choosing the pick of the litter when it comes to women. That weekend in the club district of Chicago, Sami encountered a woman that he would not soon forget.

As Sami and The Revolution (his band of male misfits) entered a seedy club known as Tantra, he encountered what would be his escort for the evening. A pack of ovulating women walked up to him, but there was one who stood out. She was a toothless Inuit prostitute with a peg leg who had moved from Canada to turn tricks in the Windy City. American dollars are worth far more than Canadian, you see?

Sami was immediately captivated. He shooed the other ‘ladies’ away and turned his attentions exclusively to the Inuit.

“What’s you’re name?” he asked suavely.

She violently grabbed the drink that was in his hand and began to gurgle.

“Gurrrrrggglll!!!”

Sami stared blankly at her.

“But you can call me ‘Digit’,” she added.

“Oh. Do they call you Digit because you have a wooden leg?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s because I have a third nipple.”

She lifted her shirt to reveal a cherry color nipple situated just above her belly button. It was pierced with a skull and cross bow and had the word vortex tattooed around it’s circumference.

“Come with me,” she commanded. “I shall show you wonders that you have never seen.”

The Revolution had been intently watching this exchange and wondered what would happen next. Big Blonde Dan sent two of the lesser band members to spy on Capn’ Black’n (as Sami was known by his crew) and come back with a full report. Digit led the Cap’n to a red room, covered with velvet drapes and paisley carpeting. In the corner was a fugly goat with matted goat hair. As soon as Sami stepped in, the goat spoke.

“Dude, Didgit. Not again!” he bleated balefully.

“Yes again!” she snapped back.

The goat began to buck his head and try to escape from his tethers.

“Excuse me one moment.”

“No, no. Take your time,” said Sami.

Digit grabbed the goat by his horns and took him behind a heavy curtain. As she let out a stream of curses, Sami could see their shadows wrestling violently on the ground.

“Uhhh…look. I don’t want any trouble,” he said nervously, while still trying to maintain his cool.

“It’s no…trouble…at all!!!” Digit screeched. The goat continued to bleat sinisterly, defiant in Digit’s attempts to usurp his will. Finally, he succumbed.

“Alright!” he said. “You win.”

When Digit and the goat emerged, she was clad in a sequined dress, reminiscent of old Broadway.  The goat was wearing a feathered boa and had a cane in his mouth. The Inuit instructed my brother to sit in a leather armchair, using her most seductive voice. Suddenly, there was music filtering into the room through hidden speakers in the room’s walls. Digit and the goat broke into a lively rendition of Gene Kelly’s Gotta Dance score from Singin’ in the Rain. They danced gaily around each other, the weary goat struggling to keep time.

At the end of the performance, Sami sat in silence, his mouth agape. Digit’s heavy breath filled the thick air of the room, sweat pouring from her brow. The  goat looked away in shame. As if woken from a trance, Sami began to clap cautiously at first, and then with much enthusiasm. The two cohorts from The Revolution who had watched the performance in horror from the key hole outside clapped wildly as well.

“What do I owe you for this evening’s…pleasure,” my little brother asked.

“No money,” said Digit. “You must only promise me that you will never forget what you have seen here and tell others. The goat and I came to America to seek fame.”

Sami left the velvet room immediately, promising the girl with 3 nipples and a wooden leg that he surely would not forget all that he had seen.

*********Haze and fade to the present*********

It’s ok, Sami. I understand why you didn’t tell me. It’s a story that’s hard to believe! I mean, who ever heard of a toothless Inuit living in Chicago anyway?