PMC: Pony May Cry

One…two…three…four…

The shots went down easily: so smooth.  It was rare when Dante could afford the good stuff, as opposed to his normally shitty vodka, not that he stopped to savor it: different road, same destination.  There were girls around, of course, but he wasn’t yet actively involved with any of them yet.  They were simply background decoration; something that was there because they were supposed to be there.  He’d get to them in time.

The other men were all focused on the girls, or their drinks.  No one talked, not really; no one came here to talk.  Conversation in here was rare, and usually just used to kill time, but that didn’t make it any less annoying to hear a prick chime in to interrupt his train wreck of thought.

“So, come here often?”

“Fuckin’ prick…” thought Dante.  He didn’t want to dwell on him, and just wanted to get back to not thinking, but he just wouldn’t stop talking.

“I come here pretty often.  Jenny is the best girl here, I think.  Sarah is pretty good too, but then there’s Candi-“

“Look,” Dante said, slowly raising his head from his drink, “do you think that I come here to talk?  Because I don’t, especially not to men.”

“Fine, asshole,” the man said as he left; heading to another area of the bar.  What signal could he be giving off that told anyone he was a potential conversation buddy.

Five…six…seven…eight…

Many of the men in the crowd had empty eyes, entranced by the girls on stage or at their tables.  Many of the girls had wings and horns, or did they?  They never seemed to still have them if you looked again.  Dante didn’t notice, or he didn’t care; he was used to weird shit.

“So, come here often?”

“Now that’s a little more like it.”  Dante turned to see the features on the enchanting voice that spoke to him, and they did not disappoint.  He was quite pleased with this catch.  “I come in here occasionally.”

“My name is-“

“Not important,” Dante interrupted.  He ordered a drink for his lady du jour, and started looking to find another; these encounters were always better with more friends.

Nine…ten…eleven…?  Fuck, lost count.

Dante took both of his eventual toys out the front door, an arm around each waist, and headed back to his trailer with them.  This night would be the most fun he wouldn’t remember.