CLUB STREETWALKER

          “What do you do?” she smiled. 

          “Writer.” 

          “Oh… I see. Are you gonna write about tonight?” 

          “If there’s something worth writing about…” 

          “Well, how about me? Am I not enough?” she flashed another smile, then ran a hand through her hair. 

          “I don’t know… You sure look like you’ve just got out of the Pussycat Theater.” 

         “Do I really…? Well, no… I’ve got my own business, that’s why I’m here tonight.” 

         “Porn?”

         “You’re an asshole!” 

          The acrylics-Botox-extensions firecracker stormed off… Just another face in the crowd of strong, independent women there to talk business not ten seconds later. Those of her ilk were a dime a dozen inside the “castle” - a downtown, interwar mansion, now hosting what was meant to go down as sort of an Entrepreneur Fiesta. 

         Bums and tramps that fancied themselves business-owners (or entrepreneurs as they like to consider themselves) were creeping in through the mahogany doors of that marble hall to introduce their ventures to the awestruck audience and, hopefully, get a token of a job well-done. 

         Guys with undercuts, tattoos and beards talked about their contribution to this Land of Plenty, all while bragging about doing so with no proper governmental support (probably all the tax payers’ money were already shoved in the “big boys’” nightclubs or hotels, ventures with a way bigger ROI thanks to their real uses - drug-trafficking and prostitution…). 

         Strong, independent women turned the cameras off and let their sheets lose their heat for a few ours to step in front of the mike, there to talk about their skyrocketing businesses… 

         So, I guess there’s more than money-laundering, tax evasion, drug and human-trafficking, prostitution and racketeering that makes the moolah go round in Dracula’s backyard… There’s also the local entrepreneurs.