Chapter One - Part one - Tango In The Dark

Could not believe it, my first night off in two months and I was called into work to fill some sick bitches shift. I just can’t believe it!

My raging hands fought with my eyeliner pencil as I tried not to poke myself in the eye.

I couldn’t tell at this point if I had smeared my eyeliner, or if I was just so tired that I was starting to develop the traits of a panda, either way it wasn’t an attractive look.

Continuing to grumble to myself, I tried to think of something to do with my hair.

It wasn’t the easiest thing to tame, it was such a deep red that against my pale skin it looked like I had just murdered someone and dipped my hair in their blood. This was the cause of the stares I received when I went anywhere.

My mother must have screwed a punk emo man, who had died his hair blood red so often that it had become encased in his genetics.

That’s the only way that I could have gotten this stupid hair colour. 

I guess I’ll never know what happened though, my mother wasn’t exactly what they would call mother of the year, she was about forty percent off a regular crack addict mother, so I guess you can just imagine the child hood I had. I left when I was sixteen, right about the hundredth time I rolled her onto her side to stop her from drowning in her own sick, I’m sure she wasn’t too fussed, she only had to feed herself then, more money for crack.

In the end I realised that I was more use to her as a drug mule than a daughter.

Finally I decided to try and fix my face rather than worry about my hair after all it always ended up a tangled rats nest anyway.

I just can’t believe this!

Way too many times has this happened to me, some bitch calls in sick and I get called in. Apparently they have no one else that could fill a shift.

I mean I need a night off; after all, my job isn’t easy. Swinging around on a pole all night, not what I would call a nine to five job.

By the end of the night your all sweaty and sticky, your hands are red raw from gripping a pole, which would have very questionable hygiene issues and it takes a good month of intense washing to remove the stench of cigar smoke from my hair.

Oh well it was a paying job, the first one that I had been able to keep in over four years, besides if I ever really wanted to take the night off all I had to do was say that I had gotten my period, that was pretty much the end of any conversation right there. There were never any questions after the word ‘period’ left my lips.

Must have been a male thing, ‘period’ just seemed to shut any guy up.

I cant really blame them either, I’m sure that the thought of blood trickling down their already unhygienic poles wasn’t what they had in mind when they opened ‘Black Cats’.

Personally I wouldn’t be using it as a sales pitch either.

‘Come see our girls as they bleed all over your laps’. Not something that I can see many people enjoying, although I have had some freaks come sit and watch me work before, so I mean maybe they could add that as a ‘special deal’.