The Pony Club 11 Years Earlier

SOMEONE BELLOWS, deep throated laughter.

The music, loud, generic Doobie Brothers turned into elevator music, blast’s along the red velvet walls, rouge leather booths of the club. Men, mobsters mostly, layer along the ornate bar, smoking, drinking, laughing, lounging in booths, in what looks like a French Whorehouse gone bad.

A neon sign, reading The Pony Club pulses, blue, green over the back of the bar. On stage, grinding to the music, several chorus girls, not so young, chasing the Fountain of Youth. They are topless, g-stringed, adorned with feathers, sequins, fake titty jewels.

The Follies Berge they are not.

AN obviously gay young man, bleached blond, tight T, even tighter dance tights, wearing ballet slippers pounds his hands in cadence on his thigh, watches in disgust, second tier dancers, stumbling to the music they are trying to assimilate. Terrified eyes, they keep ticking frantically at a ten years younger, forty pound lighter Anthony Uruguay, stuffing his face with pasta at his favorite red booth.

Tony mouth is full as he screams and food flys everywhere.

“NO! NO! NO! WHAT THE FUCK. I WANT MORE FUCKING SKIN...SKIN. DO YOU HEAR ME!”

Words, barely out of his mouth, he lowers a cigar and, then begins a brutal attack on a rack of ribs as two huge men, black leather jackets, sit on either side of him, hand guns on the table. Wiping his face with his jacket sleeve, Tony points with a rib, here and there at the clearly terrified boy.

“Come on. Come on. Dance, like I saw in Vegas.”

The effeminate boy walks over to the mercurial Mr. Uruguay, hands on his small hips, waiting for another impossible request or for the scary fat man to execute him.

Tony slugs down some wine, sprays food everywhere.

“It ain’t like I saw in Vegas. What’s wrong with these broads? FUCK, somethin’s wrong. You tryin’ to make me unhappy. Is that it?”

His eyes glaze over like a feeding shark, clear as he stares at the aging hoofers on the stage and, then back at his choreographer.

The boy, a nervous wreck, runs his hands though the bleach, meekly smiles at the New Jersey thug who is morphing into a quashie George Ballentine before his terrified eyes by the minute. Wringing hands, he wants Broadway, very bad, start at the bottom, he wrings his hands, somehow, make the unreasonable Mr. Uruguay understand and it had taken little time for the kid, to realize he had temporally lost his marbles, taking the job.

A career move, in the beginning something, anything, he was talented, but it had become a continuous rolling nightmare.

He first thought Mr. Uruguay was his big break. That quickly faded, as The Producer turned into a frightening revolting ogre. A square peg into a round hole and show biz is a sketchy biz. Wade his boy friend got him the gig. Within this production, when they say break a leg they meant it, literally.

Fists stitched to his leotards the boy tries, AGAIN and tries to plead his case.

“Mr. Uruguay Please. Like I have mentioned before, unless we pay top dollar, we won’t get top talent. A lot of these, well, girls are ex strippers. Not exactly the kind of talent we can build our new show around.”

He nervously smiles and repulsed by his mentors eating habits, he hopes the words will sink, THIS TIME into the thickest skull, literally he has ever seen. He is an artist, an ex dance instructor from Arthur Murray; there is still hope in his Twinkie blue eyes for a career.

No response, from Mr. Uruguay, the kid, an eye witness to a molar attack on a rack of ribs. The boy almost retching, Tony extending his hand to a monstrous thug sitting next to him, garbles. “Gimme.”

The failed ex number 3 draft pick of the New York Giants hands him his silenced handgun. The chorographer gulps, fear, leers in his eyes. Tony, the prankster, racks the chamber, waves the automatic at the boy.

“Caliber of girl. How about this caliber?”

“PSSSST”.

A bullet whizzes past the kids head shattering glass on the bar behind him.

Giggles from Tony, his men, abject terror on Todd the director’s face, he stutters.

“I...I’m so sorry...I...I We’ll get it right Mr. Uruguay...I promise....Really.”

Shoulder slumps, his thin, fragile body seem to reduce, to a puddle. Tony hands the gun back to his man, pats the seat next to him.

“Come here.”

Big man rises, towers over the shaking kid, Tony grins, says. “Todd, right. Come on, sit.”

Mr. Todd, wondering where he can get his own handgun, so he can shoot his lover Wade, swallows, moves to the booth, hesitates, thinking he might turn and run screaming from the just horrible Mr. Uruguay. Bad idea, pettily he nudges in, smells Tony reeking of garlic.

Tony wraps his huge arm on his tiny shoulders, hugs him, offer him a rib.

“Ya want a rib?”

Shakes of the head, no, he is terrified to death.

Relax, yer doin’ a good job. Heck, I ain’t gonna kill ya.” Cuffing him on his trembling chin, Tony hugs him more, giggling as he does,’” At least not yet.” Turns, giggles at his body guard, says, “Right Mickey.”

Big grin, a barbarian waiting to be unleashed, says. “Right Boss.”

Todd’s eyes, like one a those mechanical rabbits at the Miami track, one of Tonys favorite haunts, blip, skip, click everywhere.

Tony has killer on his right and another killer glaring at him. Mr. Todd he feels like a sick little Easter Bunny as he sorta mews. “Thank you Mr. Uruguay, we’ll make it work, I promise.”

Another cuff on the chin, garlic breath, wet bulbous lips, food on his clothes, chains, chest hairs, looks at Todd’s insipid eyes, shoos him away, says.

“Now, go make me a show we gonna all be proud of.”

Barely able to stand, he does, a turn on the ballet slippers, metal in his tiny spine, sashes to the stage and red faced, veins bulging in his neck, SCREAMS...”ANY COW DOESNT’T PERFORM, IS FUCKING FIRED. CLEAR.”

Mr. Todd, twists around, get a nod of approval from Mr. Show Business.

Todd hoping his roommate hadn’t trashed his American Tourister luggage, for he was going to need it very soon.

Music intensifies, outside daylight blasts into the room from the clubs front door opening. Ten years younger, Onetta Marnett enters, tagging along side of her is a gorgeous, thin, stunning blond eighteen year old girl. Door closes, room returns to neon, smoke and shadows, Todd screaming at the girl dancing on the stage, neon sign telling everyone that they have just arrived at The Pony Club.

Onetta, the flawless blond, leather valise in one hand, lit smoke dangling from the other, Onetta staring at Tony, he staring at the doll next to her, as they move across the room, and stand before him.

Fork of potatoes suspended in mid air, eyes gawking at the white treasure the old ex whore has planted along side of her. Black skin tight jeans, cowboy boots, tight red tank, leather jacket, smoke whispering out of a fairy’s nose. She is so fucking white and beautiful Tony is shaken to the core and he can’t even eat. If there was ever love at first site, this was it for the Mobster from New Jersey.

He was, in one word, a goner.

Onetta breaths deep and like a witch doctor appeasing some horrible spirit god she knows this girl virgin trick will placate the monster of the volcano.

“This is Mandal, our newest girl. I wanted your approval, before we hired her.”

She takes a step back, waits.

Pushing the few remaining strands of oiled black hair back over his pate, Tony smiles and, then pats the booth right where Mr. Todd was just sitting, says.

“Very nice Onetta...Come sit dear...Sit with Tony, let’s talk.” What a charming fellow.

Lifting her cigarette to her full lips, one last inhale, exhale as Tony’s eyes are riveted on pouted smoke, tiny nose, blue clear eyes as the girl then squished the life out of her smoke into an ashtray.

She smiles, fearless, knowing quite well how that smile works for her with men.

No hesitation, she moves her super lithe body into the booth, snuggles in tight against his girth, reaches out, no ask, takes his glass of wine and casually sips from it, almost as if they had been a couple forever. Anthony Uruguay, stoned in love, wraps his meaty arm around her, her free hand falls on his hand.

Looking on, Onetta smiles, as does Tony. “Good Onetta, very good.”

Tony smells her youth, her body perfume, peeks at her white skin, hair, he is stunned as his clogged heart flutters and he whispers. “Now my dear. Tell me everything.”

Mandal smiles, Onetta turns, moves into shadows, her duty to The Volcano King now once again completed.