Club Paradise

Club Paradise

By Robert C Price

 

 

Blood and spit trailed West’s chin in one long continuous train. He wiped it and smeared the fluid on his gloved knuckle. His right eyebrow arched and a smile inched on his lips as he chuckled, “You hit like a chick.”

Rashad flailed his right hand in pain and cursed his decision to take on West. At six-foot two, height was his advantage. His opponent measured in at five foot eight, but built like a miniature Humvee. Decisions while drunk will lead to stupid acts of pride.

“My girl hits harder,” taunted West.

Outside the club, the streets choked with onlookers. Most from inside Club Paradise who saw the ruckus start in the VIP section and spill out to the sidewalk. In the middle of it all, West Sanders, top bouncer in all of Philly, and the most unprofessional. Now, two men face each other over hurt feelings and a woman who loves attention. Rashad reached in the back of his baggy jeans and pulled out his nickel-plated .45 automatic. The crowd dispersed in every direction as people screamed, “Gun!” like the old town crier in history books.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and began to trickle down on opposite sides of his cheek. His hand trembled holding the pistol grip as he gave a cold glare. Determined to hide his real face; the scared shitless face.

“Just like a little bitch. Can’t even fight like a man. That’s exactly why your girl was all on my shit. Needed a real man, punk ass,” said the bouncer.

“You talk a lotta shit with a gun pointed at you,” said Rashad circling the stout man. With each step, West’s eyes followed his adversary’s movements and waited for him to slip up.

“Damn, yo, just shoot me already. Step the fuck up like a man and handle your business,” yelled Sanders with his arms folded and shoulders slumped.

“I ain’t scared of you, muthafucka,” bellowed the thug as he raced toward the bouncer, gun held straight out. West grabbed Rashad’s wrist and spun around elbowing him in his stomach. The gun dropped to the concrete and bounced under a park car.

Rashad fell to the ground on all fours gasping in short breaths unaware of West Sanders anvil like fist bashing his temple in. The thug sprawled out on the ground like an oriental rug.

Chappy Lewis, the owner of the club, finally appeared in the doorway where the other bouncers stood by and watched the scene unfold. Lewis stepped out into the night air with knitted brow as he heard the oncoming police sirens. As usual, they’re late to the party.

He sauntered over to West, who leaned against an all-white Cadillac Escalade, and told him, “Get the hell offa my truck.”

“I’m great, boss. Thanks for asking,” replied the bouncer rolling his neck around easing out tension.

“All this shit happened because of your dumb ass flirtin’ with that silly ass broad. Ronnie saw it all. Now, I’m gonna have cops and liquor board breathin’ down my neck. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“She had great tits. Whatcha want me to do?” as West shrugged.

Through clenched teeth, Chappy replied, “You are so freakin’ fired.”

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