Sin City
It’s 2004, and the Super7 mission is just a glint in my eye.
I’m just back from a couple of years out. I’ve been ‘Living the Dream’ as a dirt-bagging, bin-raiding climbing vagabond, mostly based in Chamonix.
I need cash, fast; and Es Tressider hooks me up with work. Working as a Rickshaw driver taught me a lot of things, some of which I didn’t necessarily want to know…
Sin City
I’m riding Rickshaw No15 on Rose St at 3 am. Two slime-balls wearing silk suits flag me down and leap on board.
‘Okay gents’, I say ‘Where we off to?’
‘Take us to THE BITCHES.’ they leer.
I step off the bike and place my hand on the saddle. The taller one sports a thick black moustache of the sort that was worn by Freddy Mercury on Live Aid. He’s got thick black hair, and a side parting. His buddy has shiny hair, greasy skin and a pot belly. They sway drunkenly in their seats.
‘BITCHES.’ they leer, ‘WE WANT BITCHES.’
‘No problem Gents’, I say as I pull the seatbelt over them and insert the buckle. ‘You want a sauna, eh? I know the perfect place.’ I do the maths in my head. ‘At 3 am a journey to XXX Sauna is a £X plus the add-ons. I hit them with £X because they’re drunk. Another £X for the Gucci shoes and watches. Plus a further penalty charge for a) referring to women in a perjorative manner and b) for being a pair of complete sleaze-balls.
‘Right-o gents,’ I say, leaning back and placing my hand on the saddle.
‘That’s just £X each.’
‘No problem’ says the Freddie Mercury look-alike in a Canadian drawl ‘I’ll give ya double.’
Result!
The traffic is light at this time of night and the derailleur purrs softly as we cruise towards the xxx in the sodium yellow glow of the street-lights.’I got a nightclub in Vancouver’ brags the Freddie Mercury look-alike. ‘Yeah man, I got bitches in the front, I got bitches in the back. You should see ‘em. You come over to Vancouver, man, I’ll hook ya up with some sexy bitches.’
‘That sounds great’ I reply with false enthusiasm; making a mental note to avoid going clubbing next time I’m in Vancouver. ‘It must be great owning a club…’
‘Yeah man, My Momma said to me: “Freddy, next year you are going to HAVE to get married”. What can I say? Sorry Momma, It’s not gonna happen.’ He then rips off the seatbelt, stands up on the washboard of the bike and screams at the top of his voice at 3.20am on a residential street: ‘I LUUUURVE BEAATCHES!’
As we approach the sauna they get less cocky and a bit more nervous; They’re not acting like big-shots now; more like a pair of schoolboys about to do something that might get them into hot water.
‘This place?’ they ask hesitantly. ‘What’s it like?’
XXX is the worst sauna in town. It has peeling paintwork in matt black and curtains made of an on old and badly stained bed-sheet. The panel above the door carries the ‘XXX’ logo in faded gold. And the slogan: ‘XXX: Where your leisure is our pleasure’.
In this part of town, Mother’s warn their children not to walk in front of it for fear of catching disease.
‘You wanna know about this sauna? Well guys, you’ve made a good decision.’ I say, looking forward down the road and grinning to myself ‘Yeah, The girls are all like total babes who look like super-models. There’s a VIP lounge and it’s real exclusive. It’s you know.. Perfect – for classy guys like you.’
