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silver dress, approaches Cole and Jens with a tray balanced on her palm. Aside from the owner – an obnoxious trust-fund kid with a ponytail and a wardrobe from the hair-metal era – no one ever gets into Platinum wearing ripped jeans and a t-shirt. After a cursory examination she surmises that they’re either Internet billionaires, or have paid the bouncers off at the door. Either way they’d likely be good tippers.
    Towering over Jens, she leans in close and shouts over the thumping bass, her wave of chestnut locks brushing his cheek. “So what will it be tonight, handsome?”
    “Two bolt and brews.”
    Her face contorts into a frown. “Sorry sir, we don’t serve Lightning Liquid and beer . Can I interest you in a martini?”
    Jens plucks a hundred dollar bill from his money clip and places it on the tray with an arrogant smirk. “I don’t care if you have to wobble down the street to a convenience store in your ridiculous heels and grab us a six-pack of Lightning yourself. The next time I see you, I want you holding two B&Bs. And keep them coming, sweetheart.”
    “Right away,” she says through gritted teeth before spinning and marching off.
    At a bar or nightclub, most people act slightly out of character. They become willing participants in a form of social theater where they portray a cooler, sexier, smarter version of themselves – someone who’s generally more attractive to the opposite sex. Jens is not one of those people. He’s this obnoxious all the time.
    He bounces on the balls of his feet, rubbing his hands together as he scans the bar. He’s ready to get down to business – and his plan, as always, involves his unwitting best friend. “Alright Cole, this is where shit gets real. I think it’s time for us to do some damage.”
    Cole massages his forehead, bracing for a disaster. “What the hell are you talking about?” At this point he doesn’t know whether the pounding in his head is from the mild concussion he almost certainly sustained earlier in the evening, or the bass that’s blaring through the sound system, rattling his eardrums. Tinnitus seems to be part and parcel with the club-going experience but why does the music always have to be so loud?
    Jens leans in, cupping a hand over his mouth.“Dude, look at you: the scars, the black eye…you’re totally bad-ass. This doesn’t work when you’re trying to score at the usual shitholes we hang out in, but check this place out, man – these girls are top-shelf.”
    “So?” Cole replies with a heavy sigh.
    “ So , you’re the total opposite of the guys that these girls are used to dating. Harvard graduates, investment bankers, lawyers. Most of these guys have shit you could only dream of, like high-paying jobs, and sports cars, and sick vacation homes all over the world…”
    Cole glances at his wrist as if to check on the time (he’s not wearing a watch.) “Wow, look at that, it sure is getting late. Thanks Jens, I’m totally cheered up. Maybe to cap off the evening we can head somewhere for an espresso, and then you can stick bamboo shoots into my fingernails while you light my balls on fire.”
    “Come on, man, don’t you get it?” Jens throws an arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling him close. “These girls spend all day getting their nails done and buying diamond encrusted purses, bored out of their goddamned minds. Do you think they come out at night hoping some asshole in a business suit sits down next to them and brags about his quarterly earnings?”
    Cole’s eyes wander around the room, now searching for an actual clock, but Jens persists.
    “These chicks dream about a guy like you : a mixed martial-arts fighter who can chug a beer, kick someone in the face, and then take her to the nearest bathroom and plow her home like a pack of sled dogs.”
    Cole shoots him a sidelong glance. “And what are you going to get out of this?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m talking about your ulterior