On the weekends I make extra cash working at an upscale nightclub.  It’s the type of place where all the men sport their ties and blackberrys, and all the ladies have coach purses and heels.  To say it is yuppie would be like saying the ocean is damp.  And at this club, I’m the guy everyone loves to hate:  The List Guy.   I pick who gets in and who doesn’t, and sometimes I am required to “ask” people to leave.  The other guy who works the door with me is a 6’9”, 350 pound black dude with tattoos on his neck. Meanwhile, I’m the 6’2” 180 pound white guy who passes the judgment (read: yuppie ambassador).  So, needless to say if anyone has to be “asked” to leave, they are more likely to listen to the big black guy than me.  Let’s say this guy’s name is T…

Late last Friday night, T and I were at our posts when this little twerpy short dude in khaki shorts and a polo shirt sprints out of the front door, running as fast as his skinny legs can carry him.  The little guy looked like he was running for his life.  The little dude had a totally shaved head, and would come up to my chest if he were to stand next to me.  T and I just looked at each other, and by that point little dude had made it across the street.  We turned to go inside to see what had happened and in the doorway was the brother of the club’s owner.  After asking what that was all about the owner’s brother (let’s call him Blake) told us to hang on, and that we would be “asking” someone to leave soon.  He told us to let little dude back in the club when he returns.  Moments later, little dude sprinted back, and I held the door open for him.

It turns out that just before little dude made his mad dash across the street, he had been running around the club asking everyone who would listen to him if they had any cocaine.  He asked several people until, not knowing who he was, asked Blake if he had any.  Blake, thinking quickly, said, “Sure, it’s $200, do you have the cash?”  The little dude didn’t have the money, but he knew where the closest ATM was.  Then the little dude takes off, through the front door where T and I stood, and across the street to get the cash.

Meanwhile, Blake tells one of the guys in the kitchen to quickly put some cornstarch in a baggie, and then he comes to the door to tell us to let little dude back inside.  When little dude comes back, amazingly not out of breath and wide-eyed, he finds Blake and says that he now has the cash.   The little dude exchanges the $200 for the cornstarch, while T and I stand a few feet away watching.  As soon as the exchange happens, Blake goes ballistic: 

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CLUB!”

Before little dude even knows what hit him, T scoops him up and starts to carry him outside.  The little dude looks at me like a deer in headlights.  I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was about to piss his pants.  I just shrugged, and the owner’s brother and I followed them outside.  When we got to the curb, T set the little dude down on his ass and then Blake told him to never show is little bald head near his club ever again.  The three of us walked away laughing, with 200 dollars of the twerp’s money in Blake’s pocket.

It would have been a good night for us if the story ended there…

A couple of hours later, Blake, T and I are sitting with the owner’s girlfriend (let’s call her Leslie), and a few other employees while throwing down Jager bombs.  At this point the club is closed and we are the only ones left.  We were laughing about the little bald dude and after another round we started to leave.  Leslie, Blake, T and I walked out the back door together to our cars when suddenly we heard a loud bang.  Coming across the street were two thugs, one of them yelling and ripping his shirt off a la The Hulk.  The loud bang was the sound of one of the guys kicking over a newspaper vending machine.  Then we noticed the little bald dude walking behind them, ever so careful not to get too close to the action.  I ask them, “What’s up?”, and as they’re walking closer to me I notice these guys are severely ripped.  The two guys were about my height, but in much better shape.  It’s at this moment that I notice that they have shaved bald heads, just like their little buddy, and tattoos.  The tattoos are swastikas…

“I’m here to get my boys’ money.”

“What money?” Blake says.

“The money you fuckin’ took from my boy, we’re gonna beat that fucking money out of y’all!”

T and I look at each other.

Then the skinheads start in on the owner’s girlfriend, Leslie.

One of the skinheads then says, “We’re gonna fuck you in the ass when it’s all over baby, what’s up?”  Then he snaps his head back and pumps out his chest.

Then T says, “Listen, we don’t want any problems, just walk away and we won’t have to hurt you.”

The skinhead says, “I ain’t afraid of you, nigga!”

That’s when I knew there would be blood.  T lets out a giant roar then turns to slam his fist so hard into the metal door on the back of the building that he leaves knuckle prints in it.  The two skinheads start coming closer to us with their naked chests pumped out and arms straight out to the sides.  At this point I’m starting to realize either one of these dudes could easily kick my ass, but I would just have to last long enough with one until T could bail me out.  Then out of nowhere, a police car pulls into the parking lot and the lights come on.  Little dude takes off like a scared little mouse, and the skinheads try to look tough even though they know they’re busted.  As it turns out, one of the other employees that was still inside the club called the police when they saw what was happening outside.  The two cops put the skinheads in cuffs after Leslie told them the whole story.  After talking to the police for a while, and without little dude there to give his side of the story, the police took the skinheads away in their police car (one of the guys had a warrant for his arrest, imagine that).  At this point it’s 4 in the morning (bars and clubs close at 2am in this city). T and I start giving Blake hell for causing that entire mess.  To make up for it, Blake takes us to IHOP.  I almost got my ass kicked for pancakes.