Extract from Cherry Smack
A car horn blew; they checked the mirror, popped breath mints and clambered into the cab. The driver was full of it but claims about loose girls at Dukes, got them in the mood. They pulled up directly opposite, hopped out, breezed past the bouncers and made straight for the top bar.
The club was full but the dancefloor fashionably empty; no-one dare be first. That honour fell to the misfits, asylum Bunkie’s out on a weekend pass. Circle man, a thirty year old greaser in Travolta suit, fresh off the boat from Greece. His signature move was to pivot with toe, round in a circle gradually working his way to 360. Occasionally he would change direction to offer variation. They’d sit there trolleyed trying to guess when he would switch, ‘He’s the shit, fucking genius.’ Then another popped up ‘Snake’. Snake was Italian, wore a black pin-stripe and fedora. With arms pinned to his sides he would zig and zig in tandem; the right arm down, left up, fingers pointing straight to the floor, a flawless slivering reptilian. They lapped up the spectacle, thinking it complete but were in for a treat. ‘Johnny Sommers aka Johnny Boy,” appeared to complete the set. Johnny Sommers was a camp, pint-sized pop artist. Johnny Boy was his Dukes double. He would bunny hop into a Max Wall strut all with deadpan expression.
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