Fifteen stories below a non-descript high-rise, at the corner of Sepulveda and 6th, in downtown Los Angeles, rages the wildest party of the year. But things aren’t what they seem in this City of Angels, where starlets shimmer for eternity and hope springs eternal. Here, every man and woman can chase their dream of fame. Yet so few are seen from ever again. Well tonight dear reader something is afoot. A foulness fills the air as concerns rise. The concern you ask? Yeah, I’ll tell you, but you’ll never be able to forget it. Last chance dear reader… If you’re a God-fearing, morally incorruptible citizen then put this down. The following is a labyrinth of nightmares feeding on the underbelly of a city’s vices.

Good, you stayed. This may be hard to read but it’s God’s work to protect those less fortunate.

This year marks the 418th annual event of debauchery so wicked that all the choir boys go “doo, do-doo, do-doo, do-do-doo”. This, is the annual North American Gala for Dracula’s Charity for Sexy Strippers that Inexplicably Go Missing.

Every year, in some forgotten floor of an underground garage, or a bankrupt business, Dracula holds a party to raise funds for all the sexy strippers that go inexplicably missing in the city. I know what you’re thinking. It’s so obvious that it’s a stupid waste of time. Where could the sexy strippers possibly go? D’uh! Even Abbot and Costello couldn’t bundle this caper. But you’d be wrong. If it were so easy then why, after constant community outreach programs and bold federal stimulus packages to promote career growth in the highly lucrative field of sexy strippers, do so many sexy strippers go missing? When they first formed the “Serious Situation of the Misplaced Sexy Strippers” task force at downtown HQ, we all patted ourselves on the back. Sure, we were proud of ourselves. And why not? We were the best of the best, a hormone and gun-oil fueled collection of rookie hot shots, jaded detectives, sexy stripper reporters, a judge on 24/hr speed dial, a chief of D’s married to a sexy stripper, and even a few sexy stripper aficionados who smelled like vanilla/lavender perfume on account of they just finished their shift at the sexy strip clubs oggling the sexy strippers.

That was four years ago now, four miserable, gin-soaked years. This job really takes a toll. You tell yourself that you make a difference, that you’re the shield against the fetid shit of this world. Sure, you even stop a murderer, or a jay-walker sometimes, and you even help a late 20’s sexy stripper cross the road, or you pick up the dollar bills that fall out of her mini skirt because even in this cursed world decency matters. So you fight, and day-in and day-out, you carry the weight of what this world can do to you. And that weight brother, it’s bigger than you. They never tell you that in training. They never tell you that you’ll get divorced, and lose your kids, and marry the bottle, because another sexy stripper goes inexplicably missing. Jesus Hornblower Christ… those poor sexy strippers with no one to protect them. God Damn this Miserable World!!!!

It was over twenty years ago now that we first started noticing that sexy strippers were going missing. It started when Synnamon Candi, a popular sexy GILF stripper from the Venice Beach area, went missing on Feb 4, 1994. She was a 39 year old, mother of 10 sexy stripper at The Amuse-Bush on Inglewood Blvd. Her favorite hobbies were trading penny stocks, building wooden Christmas ornaments in the shape of snow-tipped eggplants, and giving charity strip shows for the homeless and vagrants on Skid Row. She was a real doll, a peach, and everyone loved her. Who wouldn’t? Free strip shows for the less fortunate was such a revolutionary idea that she became one of the brightest stars among a constellation of many in the City of Angels.

I first saw Synnamon dance when she performed her charity act at my Jr. High school in San Pedro. Even at thirteen I could tell, all the boys in that auditorium knew, she had a special talent. A year later and that beautiful, shining star disappeared without a trace. We were crushed. I was crushed. My last memory of her was watching her throw her bra from the auditorium stage… right at me. It was fire-engine red, lacy, delicate, soft, and smelled like vanilla cinnamon (her trademark I came to learn once I joined the task force decades later). I grabbed that bra from the air, hugged it close, then noticed she’d written a note inside the left cup just for me. It said…

They call me Mr. Tits!

I’m gonna be honest. I don’t know what that meant, and still don’t, but it stays with me, like it’s a secret riddle I haven’t figured out, like life is just laughing at me. Another sucker in an eternity of suckers. And there’s Synnamon, maybe dead in her unmarked grave wishing she gave some smarter kid that clue. But so far I let her down.

Until tonight. Tonight, with a little help from a few unlikely sources, and maybe a few dirt bags too, I’ll find out where these sexy strippers have been going.

Years ago, on the squad we had this idea, this theory, and it made a lot of sense to us back then, that these inexplicably missing sexy strippers were leaving their jobs for other jobs, like jobs where they didn’t take their clothes off. To be honest, when we first thought about that we shut that idea down pretty quick. Why would a sexy stripper want to leave stripping? It really boggles the mind, y’know? These women have high paying jobs with people who adore them and are only 90% creepy before Happy Hour. The job is athletic and builds soft skills and character while teaching grit. What’s not to love? But it turns out that’s exactly where we were wrong. Sure, phrases like “the male gaze,” “respect,” “sexual objectification” all sound like a riot in in 80’s comedy movies, but did you know that those things aren’t just plot points to get sexy strippers naked in B-movie slasher films, or B-movie ski school films. It turns out that not only can women grow up to be sexy strippers, but they also have feelings, and want to be treated with decency. Boy did we have things wrong then. Back then, two packs of reds and a menthol could’ve gotten you a square deal with the devil’s bookie.

To follow up on my lead about other jobs, I called up my friend. This guy’s a real space cadet, from planet X or some shit. I don’t know. But he’s got this knack with the ladies. It’s almost hypnotic. They just seem to do whatever he says. I met him while working on the case. He’s some defense lawyer for sexy strippers who sometimes go from stripping to polishing. Usually nobody minds and in the heart of the city we consider this God’s work, but every few months some farmer’s wife gets a little surprise about his trips to paddle at the farmers markets.

Anyway, this guy’s name is Dracula. Craziest fuckin’ name I ever heard, but no matter to me. He pays his bills and keeps his manners, and he don’t truck with those mother-crunchin’ garlic-heads from New Napoli. He’s got an off demeanor about him like polishing sour milk. Sure it might be shiny but it still stinks. In a dark city like this though you get friends where you can get ’em: at a diner, an investigation, or your wife’s bed. Dracula meets me whenever I have questions on missing persons cases. He has a terrible record for finding the missing people but always had some useful dirt on a gang or person who may have sent those souls along to the gods or devils of their faith. And each of those times we lost a soul worth keeping: a valedictorian, a  lawyer, a famous physicist. But now it’s getting serious; sexy strippers are going missing and our economy is teetering precariously close to stripperless doomsday. You know what’s funny though? In all the years I been on the force, we ain’t never had a dentist go missing or even hurt, not even caught one jay-walking. Mayors? Sure, but who cares about corrupt mayors? A preacher or two? Please, those are a dime-a-dozen ’round here. No one bats an eye when they don’t turn up, usually on account of the strength of our sexy strippers we like to think. Those patriotic, hard-working sexy strippers are the backbone of our economy and our liberty. If ever there was proof of a kind God our sexy strippers are that proof, and we’re a better city for it. I would trade all our dentists for just one sexy stripper. But maybe God left us because we got dentists galore.  

Tonight I catch Dracula at a sexy strip club called, The Rebooblican. It’s one of those high class joints where the men have more money than manners and the dames have more secrets than gams. Everybody loves it here though because the champagne flows right along with that new Double-Cheesy, Shrimp Burrito vodka. That stuff is great. It’ll kill bad memories just as fast as it kills small ecologies, new from The VNR Distillery: Large Batch, Double Cheesy, Shrimp Burrito Vodka… if it doesn’t kill you, try again tomorrow.

So there he sits, filing his teeth at a reserved table with a bottle of red. Not chilled. Never chilled. His feet up, shoulder relaxed over the back of the booth, slightly nodding along to the music, wearing Wayfarers, skinny slacks with a skinny necktie (all black), a red satin shirt, red crocodile-skin shoes, and a black satin cape tapping his polished walking stick to the beat. This guy’s gotta be Canadian.

I sit down next to him and feel the whispers of dirty deeds from dormant decades crawl up my skin from the shadows of the swanky skin joint. All class, no morals, save for those upstanding sexy strippers entertaining the business and financial whores running the commerce district. Dracula orders me a steak, rare, with all the trimmings and heavy salt, and a cognac. That’s when he leans over and drops the biggest bomb on me. The case of the sexy strippers might just blow wide open.

“I know vhat’s happening to your city’s sexy strippers. Come to my party later tonight. Every year I hold a gala for sexy strippers that inexplicably go missing. It’s so veird, every city I go to deez sexy strippers just go missing. I don’t know. So I set up a charitable gala, vonce a yeeahr to raise monies and avayrnesses for these sexy strippers. Come by tonight when you’re done vit your steak. I’ll see you there.”

With that, he stands up, almost levitating on the way up, and walks off, red wine in hand.

…

Story continued in part 2…