He maneuvered his lumbering truck through the busy city streets, and found a parking lot away from the major congestion. After settling the truck into a spot, he placed the camera inside his coat. A light denim jacket was the only type of coat that would not look ridiculous in July. A bigger coat would be ideal, but he would have to make do. He had sewed a pouch, with a hole just big enough for the lens, on the inside part of the jacket. It was perfect for slipping his left hand into the pocket and cradling the camera.

He walked down a few city blocks before reaching the street that was the home to Froggers, the hottest nightclub in the area. It was exactly midnight and as Stanley expected, the line was out the door. Stanley smiled when he noticed a few young women exposing their legs, midriffs, and cleavage. It would be a productive night, he thought as he joined the back of the line.

The crowd moved quickly and before he knew it, he was at the door. Two huge, barrel-chested bouncers sat on barstools in front of the entrance like pit bulls guarding their territory. They wore matching outfits: shoes, black pants, and a white button-down shirt accented by a bright green vest that read: Froggers. They each had short, military-style haircuts, and somehow managed the exact same disgusted scowl when they focused on the fat, forty-year-old man in front of them.

After realizing their disapproving glares were not scaring him away, they took Stanley's five-dollar cover charge and waved him in. Stanley walked inside and was immediately overwhelmed by the pounding dance music, flashing lights, and hoards of vivacious young people.

He strolled to the left, clutching the camera carefully through his jacket pocket-he would wait to turn it on. Initially, he was only concerned with fitting in with the crowd-not wanting to draw attention. But it was difficult in this place. The average age had to be around twenty-two or twenty-three, he thought.

Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of someone who might have been thirty or so. But that was about it. Besides the age difference, almost all the people in the club were attractive, well groomed, and wore stylish clothing-things that were not a part of Stanley's world.

Stanley didn't drink alcohol, but now, he needed a beer. Not to drink-he might be forced to sip a little of it-but as a prop. When people looked at him he wanted them to think he was a local drunk who wandered in for the cheap beer. A boozehound who would hang around, get buzzed, and then harmlessly slip away.

The club was enormous with three huge bars. He waded through the crowd en route to the closest one. He smelled the hairspray, perfume, and cologne. Muscular jocks bumped into him and continued to strut along, as if he were invisible. Sexy girls met eyes with him and quickly looked away-probably disgusted by the sight of a pasty-faced, pudgy, old dweeb, he thought.

He finally made his way to the bar, and managed to wedge into a small opening. He watched in awe as the three bartenders bounced from customer to customer, sprang from one end of the bar to the other, and doled out drinks like master magicians.
He took two dollars from his pocket and waved them in the air like a flag at a Fourth of July parade until a bartender appeared in front of him. "What'll you have?"

"Beer," Stanley muttered.

"Draught okay?" the bartender asked, and waited about a nanosecond for Stanley to reply before he turned and grabbed a cup. Just as Stanley was about to answer the question, a plastic cup full of yellow liquid plopped in front of him as the bartender snatched the two dollars from his hand. Then, he was on to the next thirsty patron.

Stanley inched his way from the bar through what seemed like an endless crowd pushing their way into him. Finally, he broke free and had a little room to breathe. He moved near an abandoned corner, where he could stretch his arms, check his camera, and plot his next move.

He sipped a little of the beer, and it made him gag. He purposely spilled a little of it on the floor, so he was left with about half of the cup-easier to carry through the crowd. He surveyed the chaos, and decided to wander around until he found the subject of his film.

He managed to cruise past the area of the busy bar without a problem. The dance floor was bigger than his high school gymnasium, and was packed with jiggling, gyrating bodies. The bass of the music beat inside his head like an evil, relentless jackhammer. The buzz of the crowd somehow blended with the rest of the music to form an impenetrable wall of noise.

He paced the periphery of the dance floor-watching, looking for what he wanted. There were beautiful girls scattered in almost every square foot of the club. He would not shoot indiscriminately-he believed a single outstanding subject was more marketable. He could afford to be picky here.

He stopped near another bar on the east side of the club, and pretended to take a sip of the disgusting beer. He kept an eye on the bouncers as he made sure his camera could not be seen. He wasn't too worried; he thought most of the bouncers were just big, dumb kids. They would never know what he was there to do.

But then he saw Tank.

Tank was deserving of the name. He was built like a Pittsburgh Steelers' linebacker and had a mean, nasty face to match. He had been the head bouncer at Froggers for the last ten years. Everyone knew him, and most people liked him, save for the sorry souls that he had to toss out of the club. But it wasn't Tank's size that concerned Stanley. It was his brain.

Stanley thought back to some earlier visits to Froggers when he had encountered the hulking African-American man. While the other bouncers fixated on pretty girls and posed to show off their muscles, Tank's suspicious eyes followed Stanley as he attempted to film.

The first time Stanley realized that Tank was watching him he left and went to another club. But he was ultimately disappointed as the quality of girls didn't compare to Froggers. During his next visit, the head bouncer spotted him again, only this time, Stanley went about his business. He had hoped Tank would not bother with him, but he had no such luck.

When he saw the huge man approaching him, Stanley shut off his camera and started toward the exit. He heard Tank yelling accusations that he was hiding something in his coat as he disappeared from the club. He decided to avoid the place forever, but several months later the images of scantily-clad, gyrating women brought him back.

He was pleasantly surprised to not find Tank during his return trip, and did not encounter him during two subsequent visits. Stanley assumed he was no longer employed by the club, and felt safe returning with no one of Tank's experience to scrutinize his movements.

But now, there he was sauntering across the club in his bright green vest, head bobbing from side to side, looking to sniff out trouble before it started. Stanley wondered if Tank would recognize him as the giant bouncer moved in his direction. He was unsure but knew it was foolish to take the chance. He shielded his face, turned quickly, headed for a staircase that led to the basement, and raced down the steps.

There wasn't much in the basement, just bathrooms and the coatroom, but it was an adequate hiding spot for now. He debated if he should leave the club-thinking Tank would eventually disrupt his filming-or stay and attempt to avoid him.

He pondered the question as the sound of clicking heels filled his ears. He looked around in confusion and realized he was standing opposite the entranceway to the ladies' room. Then, he saw the source of the noise.

Like a redheaded Goddess magically emerging from the bowels of the basement, she pranced toward him. Her green dress was like a tight, little tube sock barely stretching over the private parts of her body. Her long, shapely legs commanded attention, and Stanley thought they were the most impressive he had ever seen.

Her green eyes locked in on him for a moment, but she looked right through him. She would never acknowledge the likes of Stanley, not even for a fleeting second. She paused to flip a piece of her frizzy, red hair out of her face, and started her ascent up the stairs.

Stanley put his sweaty fingers in his secret, little pouch and turned on the camera. He was right behind her on the steep stairs-her obscenely high heels almost kicking him in the forehead. The footage he took of her buttocks and hips jouncing from side to side far exceeded anything he had hoped for on that night.

Screw Tank, he thought. He would shoot her for as long as possible. When they reached the top of the stairs, she strutted to the dance floor like she owned the world. Stanley kept filming, but scanned the area for his nemesis. When he didn't see him, he rushed into a vacant chair next to the dance floor.

With no sign of Tank, he sat back and focused the camera on his new subject. She danced, jiggled, and moved around like she was trying to shake her ass off her body. Some of her underlings danced by her side, but all eyes were on her.

Stanley had a good angle so he sat back, letting her and the camera do his work. He occasionally forced a sip of beer, thinking many eyes were on him. Drunken kids wandered in front of him from time to time, but overall, he was collecting valuable footage-perhaps his best ever, he thought.

Then, a figure moved in front of him that did not stumble off like the other drunks. It was Tank. His fat, black, bearded face looked down at Stanley with anger. He authoritatively positioned himself directly in front of Stanley-his big gut blocking any further footage. "Yo, man, what you got in your coat?"

The surprise approach left Stanley without words. After a quick glance up at Tank, he pushed his chair back, jumped to his feet, and started to walk away. He moved toward the back bar and planned to make an escape out the rear exit.

But before he even got close, he felt a hand snatch the sleeve of his jacket and violently jerk him off his feet. Suddenly, he was falling out a metal fire door. He fell back on to a concrete surface, but landed harmlessly on his buttocks. He was in a dark alley that connected Froggers to its neighbor, a small seafood bistro.

He landed about two feet in front of a Dumpster that reeked of stinking fish. From around the corner, he could hear the clamor of fresh new kids waiting to get in the club. He sat on the ground stunned, looking up at the little bit of light that seeped in from the street. His hand was in his pocket, protecting the camera.

A moment later, the metal door was roughly kicked opened, and Tank appeared. With clenched fists and bulging eyes, he lunged toward Stanley, who scampered to his feet and fell back against the Dumpster. Tank grabbed Stanley's shirt, and held him up against the rusty, foul-smelling receptacle.

"I asked you what you got in your coat. You got a problem hearing?" Tank screamed at him.

"I don't have anything. Let me go," Stanley said, his hand still cradling the camera.

"I see that you got something in there. You gotta lot a balls to bring something into my club and try to hide it from me."

Tank reached into Stanley's secret pouch and clutched the camera. At first, Stanley used his free arm to push back Tank's hand, but the mammoth bouncer was far too powerful. He had a grip on Stanley's camera and started to muscle it out of the pouch.

Stanley realized then that he had no choice. He could not allow Tank to take his camera. He imagined that the bouncer would see the images he had collected by playing them back on the view finder. Then, he might call the police. Stanley knew this would lead to his arrest, and although he would only be charged with a misdemeanor offense for the filming, there were other matters the police would be much more interested in.

He couldn't risk it. He pulled a switchblade from his back pocket, and jabbed it into Tank's ribs. He yanked the knife out as Tank let go of the camera and staggered back a few steps. He fell back against the metal fire door and slumped to the ground. He touched the wound, and brought his bloody fingers in front of his face.

Stanley stood up straight, securing the camera as the buzz of excited kids seemed louder from around the corner and the odor of the rotting fish grew worse. Tank reached to his side and pulled out a two-way radio. He pressed a button and said, "Jack, Jack you there? This is Tank. I need you in the east alley."

With the blade still in his hand, Stanley stood over Tank and slashed his throat with one powerful swoop. The radio fell out of his hand as a return message was heard: "Tank, this is Jack. Where'd you say you were at?" Tank's body fell limp and toppled over like a boneless slab of meat as blood gurgled out of his neck like a fountain.