Heavy bass, flashing lights, and naked women.

The Rhino Room isn’t the most respectable establishment, even as far as strip clubs go. Its walls boast noticeable thinning paint in more than one area. In their defense, though, no one is staring at the walls. That money is better invested in a higher class of dancer, some pretty girl needing community college money or needing to make it as a single mom in a man’s world. Or both.

The drink numbs your senses, dulling your mind into a timeless void. You’re aware of everything in front of you, the girl dancing on the stage, topless waitresses taking orders—but you’re finding it hard to focus on one thing, a result of more than a few. Johnnie Walker Red Label, just what the doctor prescribed, not that you hadn’t been ordering it over the counter since hitting the tender age of 21, or at least that what the fake driver’s license said.

The drink numbs your senses. Like slapping a Little Mermaid bandaid over a fatal wound! From the Appalachian to the City of Angels, to various towns in the shitty state of California—you couldn’t get far enough away from your hometown. They say problems follow you no matter where you are, but damn, if you aren’t going to leave them in the rear-view mirror.

The drink numbs your senses.

Can’t hurt if you can’t feel!