It was the neonettic lights that first grabbed the attention of Jones, minus the flabby and poorly positioned letters that swung above the entrance to Neon Struts, a bar that could not ever seem to put away their illegal arms and violent personalities. Jones had come here many times in order to halt bar fights and sexual predators that lurked about much like rabid dogs, and he knew the area thoroughly well due to him living in the Springs since birth. The neon signs flustered in flickering rays of colours, flies and gnats buzzing around the letters in spasmatic clusters. Jones shivered, smelling nicotine and alcohol drift into his nostrils, prickling his skin much like rock salts grinding against vulnerable wrists. He could barely believe he was being paid to approach such erotic and messy places, but if it will stop the violence, approaching erotic and messy places he will do.
Creaking up the rotten wood that dared itself to be called stairs, Jones opened the door of Neon Struts and couldn't help but cough at the irritating smells that prickled at his nose hairs while making his skin crawl. Bustles of laughter sang out like a choir of screeching birds and it rendered Jones to feel like he was in the most uncomfortable position. Internally sighing, he walked towards the bar, pulling up his pants as they were saggy. He lacked a belt, which he much regretted, but Jones regretted a lot of things he did in life, like spilling his 3000 degreed coffee on his wife's baby goldendoodle while it was sniffing at his heels, literally. Jones never wanted that 'damn mutt dog' as he had appropriately named it, but his wife had the largest baby blue eyes that always aroused his senses to just give her what she wanted. He could say he regretted buying one of Jinkles' (a female co-worker) dogs, but then he'd be lying oh-so-thoroughly. If he said that to his wife Ekaterina she'd snatch up his lying tongue and pop his cheek with her small pale hands. She'd only done that once, but that was an incredibly long story.
Jones leaned across the bar's counter into something damp and sticky, which he quickly forgot about when the two-toothed male behind the counter placed two shots of cheap Victorian glasses on the counter. "What 'cha want, honey?" The bartender had a curved southern accent, perhaps Kentuckian, if Jones' knowledge was correct. His parents, personally, were from Wyoming, which is the main reason why he stood much like a gay cowboy (which was peculiar, yet universally attractive to females. It didn't help that he had a semi-big butt, especially when he wore the annoyingly tight police uniform), so he never grew up around the south yet always watched shows about those specific regions. The south fascinated Jones; the south was a place of pistol-wielding and an over obsession with confederacy, almost always bewildering Jones' mind to those certain situations.
Jones' didn't specifically know how to reply to the two-toothed bartender. He was in the police department, yes, yet he never very much knew how to appropriately interact with those around him. He honestly wished his wife could tag along with him during undercover missions like these, but it would most likely be against regulations even though it would help him get results quicker. "Perhaps one shot of whiskey?" He sounded way more verbally aware of his pronunciation of words than anybody else in the bar. Jones was never good at fitting in.
The bartender shrugged, whipping out a bottle and quickly pouring a whiskey shot into one of the Victorian glasses that lay in front of Jones. His pour was neat, with no splashes and perfectly aligned to the glass. None of the drink splashed onto the table, which awed Jones greatly. He could barely pour a glass of Floridian-bred orange juice into a plastic cup without spilling it over every inch of his house. Clumsiness was a genetic gift.
Jones nodded in thanks towards the bartender, hoping to fit in. Consequently, the bartender perked up an eyebrow as curved as the St. Louis Arc and went to cleaning off some Victorian glasses that were sprawled across the bar like a harlot. Jones, with dark brown eyes, gazed around the bustling bar to look at those who were most friendly to it. According to other external sources, most of those who attended Neon Struts were regulars and came constantly, fitting in time to drink and hit on poor college students that happened to stumble upon the place while searching for a regular bar to drink at. By regular bar, it's meant as more of an amiable place that you wouldn't get shot at by some hysterical vandal or angry pervert.
What caught the attention span of Jones was a young female who sat amidst a crowd of handsy drunktards who kept spilling their drinks and gently touching the girl. She looked about the age of a college student, which Jones took note of. Her hair was long and blonde, and she wore a bra and such short shorts that arguably were underwear. This upset Jones' greatly, yet not the fact that she dressed in such a way, only because of the way they grabbed at her and touched her so comfortably like they were adjusting their own pillows at home. It didn't matter if she was wearing nothing, they had no right to grab her; that was the law, and the law that Jones' preached as often as his own Bible.
"Who is that girl?" Jones did not hesitate inquiry to the bartender. The two-toothed bartender gazed up as he washed the Victorian glasses with a angelic touch of a white wash cloth.
Following the gaze of Jones, the bartender looked at the blonde girl up and down with monotone eyes. He clearly didn't care for her appearance. "I believe that's one of the waitresses or strippers." His eyes went to Jones for an answer, "Why? Want me to call her over her to comfort you?" His tease was nonchalant.
Jones couldn't shake his head any sooner, "No, no, no. That won't be necessary. She just seemed obvious, is all."
The bartender nodded. "She's the only one that stays for tips after hours. I think her name is Amelia Eisenhower or something. I'm not really allowed to interact with the strippers, so." He clarified, setting the glasses back onto the counter in the most softest of manners.
Jones let his head go up and down in response. "Strippers? I don't see any poles."
"They're behind that curtain." The bartender pointed towards a door on the side of the oak bar that reeked of nicotine and sputum. Really, the walls were practically dipped in cancer and liver diseases.
The curtain was beaded with green and pink, colours that Jones learned did not go well together at all (thank God he married two years ago or he'd still believe that any colour on the colour wheel was jointly justifiable). The beads sort of reminded Jones' of Mz. Ezmeralda's Fortune Shop right by the Hocky Pocky Bowling Alley that he and Ekaterina went to constantly, only thinking this because the beads seemed like a cliché, gypsy-wannabe's merchandise found at some snarky thrift store.
"Can I just walk in?" Jones has always been a good boy: never going into clubs, drinking alcohol publicly, or hitting on random college girls at a public dump for stinky beverages and social talk.
The bartender shook his head. "Nah, gotta request a spot and pay the fine for entry. It's a reservation type of thing." The two-toothed said, turning around to organise his extended collection of spirituous potation.
Jones didn't quite comprehend the secretivity of stripping, or its very nature. Then again he never sexually screwed around as a minor and patiently waited to find his spouse and get married, which was always the right path for him personally. "Oh, I see." Jones smiled, dark eyes as deep as the subterranean darted up to the chalk board that listed prices of drinks. He pulled out cash and dunked it on the bar, standing up from his stool.
The explosive laughter of men scrapped at his ears like that of nails on a shiny clean plate, and Jones gazed back at the collection of men booming like the boozehounds they were. The college girl that had snuck her way into Jones' vision looked frightened despite her verbal expressions of laughter and jokes. Jones shook his head, disappointed in society that such lovely girls had to go to such degrading occupations in order to earn money. It was something Jones never wanted his daughter to have to lean towards in career.
Jones got off of his chair, eyes catching onto that of the girl named Amelia Eisenhower, both seas of colour melting into each other's gaze of innocent simplicity. Jones sensed the innocence aroused from her, and understood that he was dealing with a controversial operation.
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