An Unhappy Ending for a Sad Little Man

Do ya’ll remember George? It’s a toss-up between him and Jim Bob as to who is The Worst Client Ever, but George is definitely a strong contender.

Or was, because George is no longer a client. I grew tired of dealing with his racism, misogyny, homophobia, and childishness, not to mention his absolute refusal to respect my boundaries, so I stopped dancing for him. I decided his drama dollars weren’t worth the Irritable Bowel Syndrome he was giving me every weekend.

This doesn’t mean the drama stopped entirely. Being racist, shallow and very entitled, George only likes skinny white girls with large breasts who will spend a lot of time cooing over him at the poker tables. Whenever George has felt he has received sufficient attention, he will “reward” the dancer with a few dances, subject to her to whatever excrement is floating through his stinking swamp of a mind at the moment, promise her more dances later and head back to the poker tables. This leaves the poor girl with no choice but to spend almost all her time fawning all over him in the hopes of receiving more dances and making it worth her time. And fuck your life if you’ve got more than one regular client in the club that night; one of them is gonna end up mad at you because George hates competition.

There are two flaws in George’s otherwise perfect strategy for extracting maximum attention from gorgeous women. First, the amount of money that he spends on dancers is not proportional to the level of bullshit he dishes out, so dancers will not tolerate him for very long. Instead, George must constantly cycle through an endless stream of new dancers who don’t know any better, training and retraining them to his preferences.

Second, almost none of the dancers check all of George’s boxes. There’s me and one other regular dancer, who also refuses to play George’s game, so George must settle for less than everything he wants. He is clearly unhappy about this, because lately he has taken to tipping me every time I’m onstage and telling me how “fucking hot” I am every time I walk past him. I know he’s hoping to lure me back to the poker tables, but if I had to stroke his back and coo at him one more time, I’d probably just vomit into his ear.

George had a pacemaker put in a few months before I stopped dancing for him, and I’ve watched over the past year and a half as he’s grown ever more frail and rickety. Nevertheless he has doubled down on his club attendance, drinking himself into a stupor every weekend and requiring an escort just to leave the club. I suspect George has become an alcoholic if he wasn’t already. All of the other regulars at the poker table are united in their belief that George is a Grade A asshole.

I am skeptical that karma comes for all of us in the end. Wealth and power seem to provide an excellent shield, and even if it does, the punishment rarely fits the crime. Nevertheless, karma came for George last Saturday night.

I don’t know how it happened. Perhaps George fell and hit his head. Perhaps someone hit him with a car. Perhaps someone punched him in the face. All I know is that when I was leaving the club last Sunday morning, George was limping between two men who were supporting his weight. The left side of his face was unrecognizable, crumpled like a bloody napkin, most likely requiring facial reconstruction surgery. It was extremely disturbing to see.

Watching him as I walked to my car, I wished I could have felt feelings of glee, the sweet satisfaction of vindication. Instead, I felt nothing but pity. I suspect we’ll be seeing very little of George from now on. His life will likely end the way most lives spent indulging in vainglory and selfishness usually end: quietly, without fanfare and with no one there to mourn his passing. In fact, everyone at the poker table may buy a round of drinks to celebrate.

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