What happens when a bartender suddenly finds himself acting as the manager of a club? Martin would tell you, "If you don’t go wild now, you’re getting old!"
In the club staff’s break room, Martin received a text from Elena and pushed open the door to the changing room.
Led by Hart, the male dancers were preparing for the evening's performance.
Martin banged on the door loudly and shouted, “Are you ready, superstars? I’ve got some great news for you—tonight, we’re expecting a huge crowd! If you perform well, the club’s business will boom, and your tips will be rolling in!”
Hart asked, “Can it really be as good as you say?”
Martin, brimming with confidence, replied, “At least double the crowd, and double your earnings!”
Another dancer, Carrington, whistled and teased, “Man, you better keep your word, or we’ll drag you on stage to perform!”
Martin responded seriously, “You can question my character, but never my credibility! Carrington, you’re toast. I swear, Big Bruce will throw you into the Atlantic.”
The others burst into laughter.
Martin raised his voice again, “Guys, you’ve been rehearsing your dance for so long. Tonight, show them what true strength is, like Popeye! If you fail, I’ll have Bruce tell everyone on West Street that the Beast’s Den dancers are nothing but a bunch of losers.”
Hart grinned, “Relax, we won’t give you the chance.”
Martin flipped them the bird behind his head as he strode out, heading into the hall where Monica stood at the bar.
She was Elena’s friend, a voluptuous Latina.
Martin asked, “How’s it looking?”
Monica quickly replied, “With such a great free opportunity, the people I brought won’t miss it. It’s free, after all.”
Glancing at the quartz clock behind the bar, Martin said, “Ten minutes.”
As Monica left, she blew Bruce a kiss.
Martin noticed Bruce watching her intently and said, “You’ve got your eye on her?”
“I’m a gentleman,” Bruce said, downing a glass of cold beer.
Martin emphasized, “I know, you’re a gentleman!”
…
About ten minutes later, Elena and Jennifer bought two tickets and entered the Beast’s Den together.
Seeing Elena, Martin signaled for the dancers to take the stage. As the pulsating music blared, the male dancers delivered a vigorous performance for the entire crowd.
The place instantly erupted.
Jennifer noticed many people losing sight of their familial responsibilities, throwing money onto the stage in a frenzy.
Decadence and moral decline—Atlanta’s societal values were plummeting into an abyss.
Jennifer and her like-minded companions had long been struggling to hold the line, refusing to let the fall continue. Yet the moral fabric of America was fraying by the day.
After less than half an hour, Jennifer turned to Elena and said, “We’re leaving.”
Elena followed her out of the Beast’s Den.
Jennifer said, “You go on ahead. I have some business at the Atlanta headquarters.”
Elena nodded, and after Jennifer drove away, she got into Martin’s Ford.
Not long after, Martin emerged from the club and got into the car.
Elena said, “She’s furious and went straight to the headquarters.”
Martin patted Elena’s shoulder. “Keep in touch with her.”
…
On Saturday afternoon, Martin was practicing his facial expressions in front of a mirror when Ivan called to say people were starting to gather across from the club.
Grabbing his car keys, Martin first checked with Elena and then quickly notified Bruce and Little Goldie.
When he arrived on West Street, Martin saw a diverse crowd assembling along the sidewalks, converging on the wide pavement across from the club. Many were holding posters and signs.
Jennifer and the core members of the Methodist Association were seasoned pros at this.
Standing on the porch of the Beast’s Den, Martin tossed his jacket onto a chair and asked, “What’s the situation?”
Bruce peeked out and said, “More are coming. I’d guess around 200 people.”
“Whose phone has a call recording function?” Martin asked.
Ivan replied, “Mine does. So do Goldie’s, Hart’s, and Carrington’s.”
Martin made a quick decision, “Old Bruce, pull out all the hotline numbers we’ve collected. Call the media reporters and tell them there’s big news happening here. Make sure to record the calls, and don’t let anyone cheat us out of our whistleblower rewards!”
Ivan’s eyes widened, gleaming with visions of cash. “I’ll gladly call you Boss Martin!”
Bruce grabbed Martin by the shoulder and reminded him, “There’s no reward for fake news.”
Martin pulled out his phone, “Old man, you underestimate the modern world’s definition of civility.”
He scrolled through his contacts, found Fat Andrew’s number, and made the call. The line connected quickly, “Mr. Andrew, it’s me, Martin. I’ve come across something on West Street, so I’m calling it in.”
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