"Jesus, Mick, you're shaking again."
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 you'd been living on ramen and protein shakes for two years straight.
"Just get the oil on, Tommy," Mick muttered, rolling his neck. "And don't skip the chest this time."
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, you know her? 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. "Real beauty, real talent, not like the fake garbage they make now. That's what I'm aiming for, you know? That level."
Perfect body. Perfect proportions. Two years of saving and he was almost there. Dr. Andrew's office in Miami had the best surgeon for enhancement procedures. Another month of weekend shows and Mick would finally have the eight grand he needed.
"You really think you could make it that big?"
"Why not?" Mick caught his reflection in the cracked mirror. "Right look, right moves. Sky's the limit."
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? Oh, by the way, I spilled some oil near the barbell during my set. Meant to wipe it up but forgot. You might want to watch your step."
"Right." Mick studied his face. They'd never been friends, but they'd maintained professional respect. Tonight felt different. "Thanks for the heads up."
"Don't mention it." 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 supply boxes, getting ready for inventory. Club manager for the past three years, she kept everything running smooth while the owner focused on the main strip club downstairs.
"Liam's just stressed about bookings," she continued, setting the knife down on a nearby table next to her clipboard. "Come here, let me check your costume."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Equipment check. We had a guy's costume fail last month at the downtown club. Owner's paranoid now." She moved behind him, tugging at the velcro closures and elastic bands. "Liability issues, insurance, all that fun stuff."
Her fingers worked at his waistband. Mick kept his breathing steady. Two years of being careful in the showers, changing in bathroom stalls, timing his arrivals. Nobody had noticed. Nobody would.
"Everything good?" he asked.
"Yeah, you're all set." She stepped back. "Just making sure nothing's going to malfunction mid-show. That would be embarrassing, right?"
"Career-ending," Mick agreed.
She smiled. "Exactly."
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 and grabbed his prop barbell from the equipment rack. Foam core, light as hell, but it looked impressive under the lights. "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 what made the hunger worth it, the cramped room, the mac and cheese dinners. All temporary. All part of the plan.
He set the barbell down stage left, exactly where he always did. Then he moved to center stage and began his routine. The bass pounded through the speakers, drowning out individual voices in the crowd's roar.
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. "Three hundred more than you made last week. Owner's already talking about giving him Friday and Saturday nights."
"Our nights."
"Not after tonight." Mara turned in his arms, her voice dropping even lower. "I did it while he was talking to Tommy. Three strategic cuts in the velcro stress points, one in the elastic band. Looks like normal wear and tear, but the second he falls and struggles..."
"You're sure about the placement?" Liam's eyes never left the stage.
"I watched him rehearse for two months. Same routine, same ending. He always steps back to that exact spot for his final pose, right where you 'accidentally' spilled that oil." Her eyes glinted. "I made it look completely natural. Just a wet spot on dark flooring."
Liam's hands tightened on her waist. "And you're absolutely certain about... you know?"
"His dick?" Mara's smile was cruel. "I saw it two weeks ago when his towel slipped in the shower area. Tiny. Maybe three inches hard if he's lucky. The crowd's going to eat him alive when they see it. He'll never work another club in this city."
"What if he doesn't fall?"
"He will. I measured the oil spread. He hits his mark, he's going down." She reached up and kissed him, hard and quick. "Then he gets humiliated, quits, and we get our Friday and Saturday nights back. An extra two grand a month, baby. That's rent and then some."
"What if someone gets hurt?"
"He might bruise his ego and his ass," Mara said. "That's the point. We're not trying to kill him, just make him wish he'd never come here."
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. He counted the bills in his peripheral vision. Good night. Real good night.
The music built toward the crescendo. Time for the finale.
He guided his dance partner through the final spin, then helped her back into the crowd. The women were on their feet now, screaming for the pose they all came to see.
His signature move. The one-handed barbell lift and flex.
He turned toward stage left where he'd planted the prop. Three steps back, grab the barbell, hoist it overhead, hold the flex for a ten-count while they threw money. Simple. Clean. Perfect.
He stepped backward into position.
His heel hit the oil-slick spot exactly where Liam had left it.
The world tilted. His foot shot out from under him. His arms windmilled, grabbing at air.
His other foot slipped in the spreading oil.
He went down hard on his back. The impact punched the air from his lungs. His head bounced once against the stage floor.
The crowd gasped.
And then his costume failed.
The velcro at his waistband gave way with a harsh ripping sound—three stress points snapping in sequence. The elastic band popped.
His pants slid down to his knees. Then his ankles.
Dead silence filled the room.
Harsh spotlights illuminated everything.
Mick's hands shot down to cover himself, but it was too late. Two hundred pairs of eyes had already seen.
Then the laughter started. One woman first, sharp and surprised. Then another. Then the whole room erupted.
"Oh my GOD!"
"Is that IT?"
"All that muscle for THAT?"
"I've seen bigger on a middle schooler!"
Heat flooded Mick's face. The burning, soul-destroying kind.
He tried to pull up his pants. His hands were slick with oil. The fabric kept slipping through his fingers. His feet couldn't find purchase.
"Baby dick!"
"Three inches!"
"What a joke!"
A red plastic cup sailed through the air and exploded against his chest, splashing vodka across his skin.
"Get off the stage!"
"Refund!"
Mick scrambled backward, away from the lights, away from the eyes. His only thought was escape.
His feet hit the oil slick again.
He went down backward. His skull tracked toward the metal bar of the prop barbell.
He tried to twist, tried to catch himself.
The back of his head struck the metal bar with a wet crack.
White light exploded behind his eyes. Something ruptured inside his skull.
He hit the floor and the world went sideways. The laughter seemed to come from underwater now.
Blood pooled under his head, warm and spreading.
The laughter had stopped. Someone was screaming. A woman's voice calling for an ambulance.
His eyes found the gap in the curtain. Liam and Mara stood frozen, faces white with horror.
Mick's breathing grew shallow. Each gulp harder than the last.
One more month. That's all I needed.
A woman from the crowd pressed something against his head, trying to stop the bleeding. Her mouth moved but he couldn't hear the words.
His vision narrowed to a tunnel. At the end of it, Tommy pushed through the crowd, face twisted in panic.
The tunnel collapsed.
Mick died on that stage with his pants around his ankles and his blood mixing with baby oil. Two years of sacrifice. One month short.
Everything became nothing at all.