The Crazy Russian

Tiger and Rat pulled up to the chain link fence surrounding what was formerly The Crazy Russian. As is the case with most strip clubs, there were no windows, just two front doors covered by tattered awnings, and a set of back double doors painted to blend in with the walls. A faded coat of scarlet red paint covered the building, punctuated by graffiti throw-ups. It didn’t appear that anybody was keeping watch over the property. Even the “For Sale” sign was drawn over, marked with chaotic layers of spray paint and stickers. Rat fished a Sharpie from their pocket and scrawled a crude pair of breasts on one of the “Keep Out” signs.

“Rat!” Tiger chided, disapprovingly.

“It’ll be mine anyway. Chill.”

Rat hobbled around the building, searching for an opening in the fence. Tiger followed closely behind making sure Rat wouldn’t get themself stuck again. Near the back, Rat found an area where someone had cut back the chain link. Rat used one of their crutches to nudge the opening, testing to see if they could create any additional space.

Tiger stepped in, gently blocking Rat, “No.”

“What are you doing?!” Rat shouted, irate.

“Keeping you from being stupid.” Tiger clicked their teeth.

“How am I gonna know if I wanna buy this place if I don’t look inside?”

“I’m not letting you crawl under a fence. There’s broken glass all over, bitch.”

Rat looked down. There was in fact broken glass scattered all over the ground by the opening.

“True,” Rat conceded, scratching their sprouting chin hair, “Don’t you have a leather jacket in the trunk?”

“I am not putting my nice leather jacket on the damn ground of this nasty-ass parking lot.”

Rat frowned, “Don’t be like this.”

“Why don’t you just schedule a tour like a normal person?”

“Because I’m here right now.”

“Then you can find someone else to drive you home,” Tiger said, walking back toward the car, “I am not enabling you.”

Rat scowled, staring once again at the gap in the fence. It was still bright out, which meant sneaking in would be sketchy, but it wasn’t like anybody would care. Clearly the building wasn’t being strictly monitored, considering the amount of graffiti and broken bottles littering the ground. The bigger issue was the cost of getting a car back home if they pissed off Tiger. The trip down Pulaski Highway had taken nearly 45 minutes, and Rat didn’t have a lot of money to spare if they intended to throw down for the club. Rat felt a Mini Roid Rage building up behind their temples as their face reddened with frustration.

“Frick!” Rat swore, as they punched the air, “Friggin, poppycock, fiddle sticks!”

Rat had always been a quietly angry person, but after several months on a low dose of T, they found themself less and less capable of containing their outbursts. They wanted to slam their crutches into the ground, but they held back, instead, throwing one against the fence. They watched it bounce and clatter onto the ground, but found that the display had left them no less irritated. They gingerly lowered themself down to pick up their crutch. The metal was scratched, but no major harm had been done. Rat continued walking around the building, cursing under their breath. They kept an eye on Tiger, making sure she wasn't about to drive off.

Further along, Rat discovered there was a proper opening. Whoever had set up the fence had left a gap where two posts were unconnected. Rat yanked the posts further apart and squeezed themself in.

It was meant to be, Rat thought.

Rat tried the back doors. No dice. Rat continued, circling around to the front of the building. They gave the front door a forceful tug and nearly fell as the door opened, already unlocked. Maybe someone else had gotten there first.

“Hello?” Rat called out into the darkness.

No answer. Maybe they were alone. Rat turned on their phone flashlight and began exploring. There was debris all over the floor: from bits of chipped tile to takeout bags and empty beer cans. A dense must permeated the air. Rat covered their mouth, trying to hold in a cough. Neglect-enabled decay aside, the place was still charming. A red, diamond-shaped bar top dominated the center of the room with a dancing stage set in the middle of the bar. There were a handful of stools still in place, tucked in as if a regular might arrive any minute now and take a seat. Rat checked one of the sinks to see if there was running water. Surprisingly, there was. Rat wondered if the electricity was still on too. They shone their flashlight around the walls, searching for a switch until they heard a loud bang coming from another room.

“Hello!?” Rat shouted, more frantically.

“If you mother fuckers don’t get outta here, I will call the cops!” A man’s voice boomed.

Rat felt their soul leave their body. The light flicked on and Rat was blinded for a moment. As their eyes adjusted, they managed to get their bearings. A wild eyed man in a tan polo shirt and khaki pants stood in front of Rat with a cellphone in one hand, and a taser in the other.

“There’s no crack in here,” the man spat and the taser crackled.

“Shit, it looks like y’all make crack in here,” Rat retorted before realizing what they were saying, “However, that’s not why I’m here. Now, who are you?”

Rat regarded the man skeptically. The man blinked, caught off guard. He turned off the taser and tucked it into his pocket. It was clear Rat was not a threat.

“And who are you, Miss Thang?” he asked, “Ms. Breaking and Entering and Asking Me Questions.”

“I’m the new owner of this building.”

He snorted, “Oh are you?”

He stifled an amused little grin as he shook a cigarette from a pack he kept tucked in his shirt pocket, and lit it keeping his eyes glued on Rat.

“Or at least, I will be once the owner sells it to me.”

“Well, I’m the property manager, and I’m the only person supposed to be in here until we auction it off.”

“Why not just sell it to me?”

The man gave Rat a once over. Admittedly, Rat wasn’t dressed for a business meeting. They were in a tattered cable-knit sweater over a pair of sweatpants covered in paint splatter.

“You look like you too young to drink, let alone buy a place like this.”

“What’s your name?” Rat pressed, ever the salesman.

“Terrance.”

“‘Terrance,’ good name. Look Terrance, I have about two-hundred-thousand dollars saved. Is that enough for you to start taking me seriously?”

Rat was bluffing, but not by much. $150,000 was *almost* $200,000, if you rounded up.

Terrance giggled, “Child, don’t go telling people you have money like that! I’m about to take you to an ATM and rob you.”

Terrance pulled out his phone and checked the time.

“I’m gonna need you to leave before I have to call somebody.”

Rat dug in their heels, “I’m not leaving until you talk to me seriously about how I buy this place.”

“Honey, there are better buildings to buy in this city, and they won’t give you the headache this place will.”

“I only want this building. Please, Terrance. This place may look like a dump to you, but one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

“You know, the mayor’s set on shutting this place down for good.”

“Why?” Rat asked, horrified.

“She don’t like these kind of places. She tryna gentrify the area, make it more like Towson. Bring in professional White folk. You know how it goes.”

“She can’t do that!”

“She can.” Terrance fished his keys from his pocket and gestured for Rat to move out, “She will if she buys up the property.”

“But, I’m buying the property.” Rat said with finality.

Terrance put his hands on his hips like a teapot, waiting for Rat to budge, but it was clear Rat had no intention of moving. He paused, then grabbed a pad and paper from his back pocket.

Roger Wilkins

410-xxx-xxxx

“Roger’s in charge of the auctions. If you want your name on the list, you gotta talk to him. Now, that’s all I can give you for right now, Miss Thang. I need you to move your little butt out of here.”

Rat snatched up the paper excitedly.

“Thank you, Terrance. You’re a real one. Remember me. One day I’m gonna own this place.”