Doppelgangers

I'm standing in line for the bathroom at the Silhouette Cocktail Lounge. After about five minutes, the guy standing behind me taps my shoulder. I look him over. He's stocky, red-faced, shiny as a peeled onion and smiling wider than an ass crack. A white ball cap sits on the very top of his head. He sticks out his chest, points to the door of the only working restroom and asks, "What do you think they're doing in there?"

I ignore him. I am bitter, kicked out of the apartment I share with Marshall so he could host a bachelor party. Tourists usually stick to traps like the Hard Rock, so it annoys me to see one in the Silhouette.