“Hey, wake up. Our birds given us a chirp.”

I jump up from bed, ripping the sheets off and grabbing my pants from the chair next to it. “How long ago?”

“Seems she tried to use the card at one of the clubs nearby. Several times. Our client cancelled the card two hours ago, so we don't have long before she realizes something's up. Get your stuff, let's go.”

I slap on my red tropical shirt, provided by the hotels gift store. I put on the straw hat that came with it, pulling it low. “How’d I look?”

“Like a fucking idiot.”

“So, perfect.” I say, letting out a grin.

He lets out a chuckle and turns to leave. He's wearing a matching yellow shirt, the seams already ripping as he's almost forced into a half Nelson by its tight design. His bald head smothered in sunscreen, glinting slightly in the mid morning sun. I adjust my gun, a sleek M14 tucked nicely into the waistband of my pants, for when things inevitably go south. Spike's packing a matching set, nestled nicely in his pants, pressed low against his leg right by the crotch area. Completely fucking useless, since he has to practically pull his pants down to get at it, but it does draw stares from the ladies. Not to mention, adds a level of intimidation to him.

Not like he needs it.

We come up to the club, a shady little building with a bouncer outside the door. Peering in, we can see a staircase leading down to the club floor. Spike pushes the bouncer to the side as we walk down, me following close behind. The natural light from the door is quickly extinguished, replaced by black neon lights hanging at regular intervals on the ceiling. The UV properties of the lights paint a mosaic of bodily juices on the walls and floor.

And ceiling.

Spike turns back to look at me, pointing to a particularly impressive stain. I nod my head, pulling out my standard-issue black rubber gloves from my back pocket and quickly pulling it on, before I catch something. Spike follows suit, pulling on his own gloves.

“Can it ever be easy?” I ask.

“If it was, we'd be out of a job.”

We make our way down the rest of the stairs, the lit-up stains providing most of our light. Spike gets to the bottom, and let's out a groan. His shoulders sagging.

I push past him, and let out my own groan.

It's a fucking orgy.

And it's not one of those fun ones.