"Jesus, Mick, you're shaking like a leaf."
Mick flexed his fingers, trying to steady them as Tommy rubbed oil across his shoulders. Six months he'd been doing this gig, and his hands still trembled before every show. Not from nerves but from hunger. The kind that gnawed at your gut when rent was due in two days and your bank account had exactly forty-three dollars.
"Just get the oil on, kid," Mick muttered, rolling his neck. "And don't forget the chest. These ladies pay good money to see me shine."
Tommy worked quietly for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Hey, uh, Mick? Can I maybe borrow something from your locker after the show?"
"Borrow what?"
Tommy's face turned red. "Just... you know... one of those... magazines?"
"What kind of magazines?" Mick grinned, enjoying watching the kid squirm.
"The... the porn ones," Tommy whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm too embarrassed to buy them at the store. The cashier always gives me weird looks."
Mick laughed. "Kid, you're nineteen. You can buy whatever you want. But yeah, take whatever you need from my stash. Just leave the Angela Rose collection alone."
"Oh shit, Angela Rose?" Tommy's eyes lit up. "Dude, she was incredible. That blonde hair, those curves... man, what I wouldn't give to meet someone like her."
"The greatest who ever lived," Mick agreed, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "Real beauty, real talent, not like the fake garbage they make now. You know what, Tommy? That's the dream right there. To be like the male version of her. Famous, respected, making millions doing what comes naturally."
"You really think you could make it that big?"
"In the right world, with the right opportunities? Hell yes. Imagine having fans everywhere, men and women both wanting a piece of you. Being remembered as a legend." Mick caught his reflection in the cracked mirror. "Someday I'm going to satisfy everyone who watches me. Leave them all begging for more."
The backstage curtain rustled. Liam stepped through, sweat still glistening on his chest, a towel draped around his neck.
"How'd it go out there?" Tommy asked.
Liam's jaw was tight, his usually perfect smile nowhere to be seen. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank deeply before answering.
"Same as always." His voice was flat, emotionless. But his eyes found Mick in the mirror, and something cold flickered there. "Crowd seemed... restless tonight. Like they're waiting for something better."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Mick turned around.
"Everything alright, man?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Liam's smile was razor sharp. "Just another night in paradise, right?"
"Right." Mick studied his face. They'd never been friends, but they'd maintained professional respect. Tonight felt different. "You sure you're good?"
"Perfect." Liam moved toward the corner where his street clothes hung. "Break a leg out there, Mick."
Something about the way he said it made Mick's stomach tighten, but there was no time to think about it. The crowd noise was building.
"Don't mind him," came a voice from the doorway.
Mara stepped in, clipboard in one hand, a small utility knife in the other. She'd been cutting tape from the cash box, getting ready for the night's count. Club manager for the past three years, she kept everything running smooth while the owner focused on the main strip club downstairs. Professional, organized, and completely devoted to her boyfriend of two years.
"Liam's just having an off night," she continued, setting the knife down on a nearby table next to her clipboard. "Your waistband's bunched up, by the way. Makes the fit look sloppy."
"Can you fix it?"
She moved behind him, tugging the fabric with quick, efficient movements. Her fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary at his waistline.
'Why is she taking so long with this?' Mick thought, but said nothing.
"There. Better."
"How do I look?"
She stepped back, eyes scanning him from head to toe. "Ready to give them what they want."
The music outside shifted, building toward his entrance. Through the thin walls came the sound of women's voices, excited and expectant.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed, "the man who makes dreams come true... Mick the Mountain!"
"That's my cue." Mick cracked his knuckles. "Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck," Mara said. "You've got talent."
He pushed through the curtain into blazing spotlights and immediate sound. The small room was packed, women of all ages pressing toward the stage. Their voices rose in a wave of appreciation.
"Good evening, beautiful ladies!"
They screamed back, waving money, reaching toward him. This was his element. This was where all the gym hours and practice sessions paid off.
He moved to the barbell at center stage, grabbing the weight and beginning his routine. The bass pounded through the speakers, drowning out individual voices in the crowd's roar.
As he curled the barbell, muscles straining under the lights, he lost himself in the performance. This was what he lived for. The moment when everything else faded away and it was just him, the music, and the energy of people having a good time.
Behind the curtain, Liam watched through a gap in the fabric. Mara moved up beside him, and Tommy was nowhere to be seen, probably already in the corner with one of Mick's magazines.
"You see how they look at him?" Liam whispered, his arm sliding around Mara's waist.
"I see it." She leaned into him, her boyfriend of two years.
"Six months. Six months and he thinks he owns the place."
"Not after tonight." Mara turned in his arms, her voice dropping even lower. "I did it while you were on stage. Right when the crowd was loudest."
"You're sure about the spot?"
"I watched him rehearse yesterday. Same routine, same ending. He always steps back to that exact spot for his final pose." Her eyes glinted. "I made it look like someone spilled baby oil during cleanup. Invisible unless you know where to look."
Liam's hands tightened on her waist. "And you're absolutely certain you saw... you know?"
"His dick?" Mara's smile was cruel. "I saw it last week when his towel slipped in the back. Tiny. Pathetic. The crowd's going to eat him alive when they see it."
"What if he doesn't fall right?"
"He will. I loosened his waistband just enough. When he slips, those pants are coming down." She reached up and kissed him, hard and quick. "That's why I love you, baby. Always thinking ahead."
"That's why I love you too," he whispered against her lips. "My clever girl."
On stage, Mick called for a volunteer. A woman from the front row climbed up, giggling as he spun her around. The crowd cheered, throwing money like confetti.
"What if someone gets hurt?" Liam asked.
"Someone will." Mara's smile was cold. "That's the point."
Mick guided his dance partner through the routine, building toward the finale everyone expected. The crowd was on their feet now, screaming for the pose they all came to see.
Time for his signature move. The flex that always brought down the house.
He helped the woman back into the crowd, then stepped backward toward his usual spot. Arms spreading wide, chest out, ready to give them the money shot.
His heel hit the oil-slick spot exactly where Mara had placed it.
The world tilted. His foot shot out from under him, his body twisted, and his pants, loosened by the slippery surface, dropped to his ankles.
Dead silence filled the room.
Harsh spotlights illuminated everything the audience hadn't paid to see.
Then the laughter started. Cruel, sharp, echoing off the walls.
"Look at that tiny thing!"
"All that muscle for nothing!"
"What a pathetic joke!"
"Small dick freak!"
Heat flooded Mick's face. He tried to pull up his pants, tried to cover himself, but his feet kept slipping on the treacherous surface. The laughter grew louder, meaner.
'This isn't happening. This can't be happening.'
Objects flew from the crowd. Cups, napkins, someone's shoe. A glass bottle spun through the air and exploded against his forehead. Blood ran into his eyes, blinding him.
'Six months of building this up. Six months of respect. Gone in ten seconds.'
He stumbled backward, panic overriding everything else. His feet slid again on the oil slick.
'Mara. The oil. She knew exactly where I'd step.'
The back of his skull cracked against the heavy barbell with a sound like thunder.
Pain exploded through his head, white-hot and all-consuming. His legs gave out, vision going dark at the edges.
'They planned this. Liam and Mara. They fucking planned this.'
He hit the floor hard, the taste of blood filling his mouth. The crowd's laughter seemed to come from very far away now.
'I trusted them. I actually thought... God, I'm so stupid.'
His breathing grew shallow, each gulp of air harder than the last. The stage lights blurred into bright smears above him.
'Is this how it ends? On this shitty stage, in front of these people, with everyone laughing?'
The laughter was fading now, replaced by worried voices. Someone was calling for an ambulance. Too little, too late.
'Angela Rose... if there's something after this... please let me find you there.'
The lights went out.
The voices stopped.
Everything became nothing at all.