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Lemon Jefferson, stripper-pole salesman, was sitting in the Lusty Honey, eating a chicken sandwich, side of fries, diet coke. Not bad, actually. He'd been selling stripper poles for about ten years, and he was always amazed at how the food in these places wasn't too bad. He'd gone through a spell, when he was married, where he'd never dine on the floor, would get in and out of the manager's office without a second glance at the stage, at the girls. He'd wind up at some diner, or a Denny's, and the chicken sandwiches were pretty damn good in some places, but in most places, not so good. But his wife couldn't handle the life, so they split up, Lemon started taking his lunches in the clubs that offered food, and couldn't help but think they were, on average, better than those diners. With exceptions, obviously. There was that diner in Montana, a bowl of chili he would have sworn was the second coming. A bowl of chili he would have proposed to if such a thing were possible. Well, maybe he was a little drunk that day, maybe a little high. Not unusual for a man in a business associated with strippers to also dally in the occasional vice. That chili, though, it was so good, it had to be illegal, and Lemon vowed he'd never return to that diner again, couldn't eat chili for years. It was just too moving. A lot of other diners were just bad. But a few strip clubs were worse. There was that place in Idaho, with the burger that was an embarrassment to the German who invented it, and French fries that pretty much summed up what France did in every world war. And limp! What kind of message are you sending to clients in a strip bar, serving them limp French fries? And god damn it, that was in Idaho, where the potato was practically invented. Okay, maybe it was Ireland, not Idaho, but still, have some god damn civic pride! So there were exceptions. Maybe the best place he'd ever eaten a chicken sandwich wasn't a strip club, and maybe the worst place was, but those were just the extremes. The overall grade point average for stripper club food, in Lemon Jefferson's experience, was a letter grade higher than for diners. That place in Montana maybe aced the test and got a couple-dozen extra-credit points, but it wasn't enough to raise that C to an A. And while that strip club in Idaho was an F-, that wasn't so bad as to drag a high B into the C range. Given his pick, Lemon would eat a chicken sandwich in a strip club over a diner pretty much any day. Emphasis on the word day, since strip clubs weren't really about the titties anymore, not for Lemon. Oh they were, once, to be sure. A man doesn't take on some stripper-pole sales just because he thinks it’s a good income. He figures he'll see some titties for free. And he did, saw thousands of 'em. Lemon wasn't exactly jaded, by now. He still liked the look of 'em, liked the feel of 'em. Over ten years, occasional lap dances had numbered into the hundreds, and they still got him hard enough to blind a cat. But the sight of a pair of titties wasn't a surprise delight anymore. Just a delight. So he visited stripper joints in the day to do his business, when things were slow, appreciated what titties he did see, of course, but more appreciated a good chicken sandwich and a deal on three four-inchers and a spare. This particular sandwich was on a toasted bun, just the right amount of mayo, slice of tomato, lettuce leaf. The fries were steak fries, a bit heavy for a chicken sandwich, but Lemon had an appetite on him (he'd just strangled a man to death in the parking lot) and the diet coke was washing it all down just fine. That was a lesson for Lemon, back when he'd gotten started. He'd assumed he'd be drinking a lot, being a salesman, and a stripper-pole salesman at that. But after a few years, some upgrades to mary jane and shrooms and LSD and cocaine and heroin, he'd lost his taste for alcohol. And then when the drugs had nearly killed him, he lost his taste for those too. Did he miss 'em? Maybe a little. It was a pretty good life, considering. Traveled around his territory, sold a few poles, ate some good chicken sandwiches, murdered a few men, saw a few titties. Alcohol and drugs brought peace but then they took it away again, and Lemon realized, he was peaceful without 'em, so fuck 'em, right? Right. He took the last bite of his sandwich, ate the last fry, drank the last gulp from his diet coke. He stood up to find the restroom and wash his hands. Lemon Jefferson stepped outside, eyes slitted against the sunlight. When he was used to it he checked underneath the blue Cadillac-- the body was still there. Good. He got into his own ride, a Saturn station wagon, and pulled out onto the road. Time to head to Wyoming. Might try stabbing a man to death when he got there.
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