We sat stupefied with the expats, eyes wide open telling lies between repeats of La Bamba & Lady Grinning Soul. Peter Gunn screamed sax through the hypnotic-haze, the place was a ******* rat hole.
Sticky seats smelt like ****, burnt toast & dead feet. A one-ton greasy bartender sat on a low stool, drooled on his cigar rather than smoking it. He counted his dough about every six minutes.
Shadows of waifish tired-women floated by us like wispy-clouds. With tricks hand-in-hand, they moved in and out of the proverbial back rooms, an odor of primordial-slime hung.
This was what they called the tropical-island high-life, a swanky place where ten bucks could get you an hour of *****-thrills.
It was actually a cheap-*** brothel disguised as a night club, tucked away somewhere in the middle of nowhere, the skankiest of Never Never Lands.
It was by far, the saddest place I've ever visited on Earth.