Candy always seemed like a good start to a new romance. Seriously, who can honestly say that they don't like candy? Okay, so there are the few freaks of the world, but in general, candy is the universal happy-place, Charlie's Golden Ticket into the heart of your chosen beau. And it's cheap, too, which is a double bonus- you never run out of funds to buy the candy, yet no one ever stops to consider that you're only giving then ninety nine cents of sugary goodness. I mean, no one will sit down after receiving a bag of candy corn, whip out their calculator, and say, "Thank you ever so for the five-cent-per-piece investment, take me now!" It's just not done. Instead, you present the sweets, their eyes will go big and puppy-like, their hands will involuntarily start to reach out, and you'll have a new best friend. Keep it up, buddy-boy, and you just might have a financial leech to call your own within the week.

No one's really quite sure why bloke after bloke drains his savings for the tramps that catch his fancy, but it's been a fact of life for centuries. Quite a paradox- nature dictates that the female chooses the best equipped mate, the one who can provide her with the very best, yet it's through the courting process that He loses all financial stability, not to mention any self respect he once had for his pathetic self. The chicks seem to dig that, though, draining a man of everything until she's all he has. The cruel ones leave a string of masochistic blokes in their wake, too, and brag about it to all their little skank friends at the Club night after night. Schadenfreude at its finest, those little tramps are, the sadistic bitches. Schadenfreude indeed.

Now, you might be wondering why a guy like me, who understands this shit, would waste his time on someone so pointless as Tiffany. No real answer other than I enjoy punishing myself by listening to her gossip and PMS-induced bitching, really. It passes the time, if noting else. Doesn't mean I like the bitch, but for a couple of hours a week, I can pretend like she's someone else, someone better, someone perfect, someone who doesn't exist, quite happily. Before you go off hating me, the stupid slut knows that's how I see things; hell, she gets off on knowing that I'm with her against my will. Plays into her lame little power fantasies, if nothing else. And as long as she keeps up her side of the deal, makes it worth my time, I'm quite willing to give her whatever the fuck she wants. I don't care about "emotional stability" or any of that shit; I'm in this joke of a relationship for one thing, and one thing only. I'll leave your twisted perverted brain to fill in that blank.

Enough about the dysfunctional relationship I pretend is love. It's all a joke anyway, muttering sweet nothings into the bitch's ear, buying her pretty diamonds with my life's savings, giving in to her petty requests, just so Tab A and Slot B can fulfill their bloody primal needs and get some goddamn relief. That's all it is, and anyone who tells you otherwise should just break one of their pathetic little emo CDs and slit their goddamn wrists. Anyone who says love is anything but Slot B and Tab A is just trying to fool you into doing it anyway. At least some of us are honest.

I guess this is the part where I back off, apologize for my "vulgar and unnecessary" language, introduce myself, and pretend to be a fine, upstanding guy. Fuck that. If you want to know who I am, look around you. I'm the realist in every crowd, the guy who stands back and fucking laughs at the rest of the world, or at least the ones who think they're living. Anyone, who thinks they're living is a joke- it's the ones who have no idea that really are. Take a look at the people around you, the ones running around like fucking Chicken Little. They're the joke, and if you understand that, then you're the reality.

I'm getting out tonight. You ever tried? It's easier than it looks. Pack up, get everything you could ever need into one little backpack. Makes you realize just how pointless it is, just how small and worthless you are to that big cosmic joke, "society." And once you have it all together, you're set. Just walk out one night, when the fakes are all asleep, walk out and never look back. Sure, the spy movies all have idiots who take new names and shit, but if you move far enough, do you really think that anyone's going to care enough to fucking stalk you? The sluts will find a new Tab A; the bosses will find a new source of slave labor. Don't think that you're fucking important enough for anyone to care; you're not.

I've got it all planned, even- take the light-rail to K Street, walk to 31st, catch a ride as far as I can, and just bloody travel. I've got plenty of cash; unlike most stupid bastards, I know better than to do this broke. Sure, I'll pretend, but I plan to start up a new life wherever I end up, and I sure as hell don't want to start new. Maybe I'll stop by and see Krista, the little broad who's seen me through the last two times. She isn't like the normal tramps, Krista; diner gals are a rare breed, a special breed, tough and sturdy and a hell of a good option when the night gets long and a bloke feels like whispering lies of that great cosmic pun. Maybe I really go see Krista; maybe I will.

Because of that stupid idea that guys should be nice and loving despite being cool and tough, I can't go until Tiffany gets back. Probably should go to the Club and see her dance one last time; always good for the soul to see Slot B's owner doing a dance for a hundred other Tab A's, at least when it comes to letting go. It's not that I like her, just that it's easy to get used to anything, even a stupid airhead like that slut. So I have to go see her one more time before I go out into the "great unknown," or, as the pathetic losers call it, the "real" world. God, what a joke... the place out there is just about as "real" as those bastards are. I guess I'm glad I'm staying; might as well pretend like I'll miss it here or something. It's nice to pretend like I care- keeps everyone on their toes. Hell, keeps me on my toes.

Monotony is crap. That's what turns the normal blokes of the world, the ones who could amount to something, into the fake bastards they always seem to become. Monotony kills. Maybe not on the outside, maybe not in a way that most of the oblivious world can see, but it still kills every last person who dares fall into its trap. Living life day after day for the same purpose, getting up at seven to work out and eat a healthy breakfast of flavorless crap, going to a pointless nine to five, coming home to the same old television programs and the barking dog night after night... that's not a life. That's monotony. That's death. That's what guys like me avoid like the plague. You will never catch me living like that. You will never find me in a dead-end job with a wife and two-point-five kids and a house with a white picket fence and fucking pansies on the bloody front yard, pretending to be goddamn happy about it. No way in fucking hell will I fall that low. I'll kill myself first, I swear I will. No one deserves that kind of shit, except for the people who willingly accept it. And the idiots who accept it as a "good life" deserve to goddamn die.

Sometimes happiness is the ultimate downfall. Look at the things you're happy with in your life- are they real? Are they? Or are they maybe, just maybe, lies you tell yourself to sleep better night after fucking night? Life is Slow A and Tab B, sweetness. Your purpose is what you make it; no plans, no plots, no apologies, no regrets. Every single bloke in this world deserves what he fucking gets. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something, or looking to buy your soul, or worse.

Never trust the kind ones- they're all businessmen in disguise.

The club had been empty for almost an hour when she finally came out, makeup smeared and costume askew. She looked surprised when she saw him sitting there, drink in hand, calm and cool and collected like he always was. He shouldn't have been there. They had an agreement- She let him fuck around, and he stayed out of her career, her personal life. Funny, that her work was her personal life, not her boyfriend. Funny, in a way that made her want to cry.

"Hey," she said quietly, not wanting to startle him. He had been watching the news on the bar's TV, looking for all the world like a random college student at the university's café, not the bastard she knew he was sitting in a strip club.

"Hey yourself," he said, voice like taught satin. Standing up, he put his drink on the functionless little table and walked to her, sweeping her into a fierce kiss of dominance, not passion, one that bruised her lips and made her want to protest. But that was another part of their deal- neither one complained, ever. They both got their ways, at the right times. They both got what was due.

This needed to end though, and she knew it. When he pulled away from the kiss, she took a step back, cocked her head like the bitch he always said she was, and just looked. It wasn't a part of her role to talk, and so she didn't.

"Hope you're not bummed at me showing up, kid," he said, picking his drink back up and swirling its remains leisurely. "Felt like getting some reward for my cash, so figured I'd come see my favorite little girl. Good dancing tonight, I must say. Nice way to flaunt that ass of yours."

"Thanks," she said tersely, protesting inside, putting on a sexy smile on the outside. Play the part. Play the part, and you can break up later. One more day, and I'll let you leave, she told herself, knowing that one day would be one week would be one month would be eternity. She needed him, and she liked to fool herself into believing that he needed her as well. "I thought you didn't like it here?"

"Hell, this place is shit. I never said I liked it. What, you think I fucking want to be in a slum like this?"

"You're the one who came."

"Fuck right I did. What, are you trying to say I shouldn't now? Think your little rundown whorehouse is too good for me?"

"I didn't say that."

She didn't like the tone to his voice, not at all. He wasn't drunk, wasn't stoned, wasn't under the influence of any of his usual vices. She supposed that was why he seemed so dangerous, so on edge- he was sober. That drink in his hand was more than half full, and looked warm, like he'd had it all night. He wasn't safe when he was sober; it meant that he was planning, that he was plotting, that his mind wasn't impaired for once. That mind was dangerous when allowed to function fully. That man was dangerous when his mind was allowed to function fully.

"I saw you up there, begging for those bastards to come on stage and fuck you. Don't pretend like I didn't. What do you think you are, anyway?"

"A dancer," she said, trying not to raise her voice. "A dancer, the same as I was when you met me. We met here, remember? No one forced you here then. You can by yourself, and saw me dance. Remember that?"

"A momentary stray from the path I normally follow," he said, brushing off her claims. "Doesn't prove anything. You're the slut who works here, who's fucking proud to work here. What kind of goddamn slut would do that?"

"I'm not a slut."

"Like fuck you aren't."

"I'm not a slut!"

Instead of yelling back, he fell silent. He casually turned his back to her, sat back down in the chair, and started watching the news again. Sipping his drink, he looked as serene as if none of the argument had ever happened, like he had never even gotten up.

"I'm going home," she said finally. "See you there."

She made her way to the door, blinking back tears, when she heard a jingle behind her. Turning around, she saw him holding up his house keys, a bored look on his face.

"Take these," he said, throwing the keys to her. She caught them, then dropped them. He let out a cruel bark of a laugh, and made no move to help her as she struggled to bend down and pick them up without falling over her high heeled shoes, her tight dress making it nearly impossible.

She almost asked why, then decided against it. He'd be back soon enough begging her to let him in. Might as well humor him and take the stupid keys.

"See you around," she said, pushing the door open and walking into the cold night air. She thought she heard him say something, but the tears had come, and she refused to look back and give him the satisfaction of seeing that he'd won another battle in the war of their relationship.