It’s 9 p.m. as you walk up to Sexual Bicycle, the hottest bar in the city. It is a place to see and be seen.
You saunter up to the front of the long line to get in, but you’re not here for some consensual grinding. No, you are here to work.
You are the bouncer, and it is your job to keep the people inside the bar safe and the people outside the bar orderly. You are the gatekeeper of a night of untold fun, and also the executioner of dreams.
You step up to the front door and cross your arms so that the people dying to get drunk indoors know you mean business.
As bouncer, you are all-powerful. You can let in whomever you please. You can even try to bounce the perfect night, although legend has it that no one who has attempted to do so has survived.
You reach into your pocket to grab some sunglasses. What kind are they?
With your sunglasses on, you are in bouncer uniform and ready to go. Suddenly, the door to the club opens, and your sexually active older boss, Mr. Minchley, comes out.
“All right, look, let’s make this a good night, okay?” he says to you. “No riffraff, no toughguys, no hardboys, no screwysams, no lurfdurns, no jammanyrits, no arvilnickannies, no parakeets, no trashmunchers, no gimblebranders, no messmakers, no Kevins, and good God, no shnoostlederulians. Capiche?”
“All right,” Mr. Minchley says. “Now, I’m trying to rebrand this club as ‘Not The Place Where Three Preteens Died Last Week,’ and I need your help.”
You nod.
“It’s up to you to make sure that we have the perfect ratio of men to women in this bar. As everyone knows, bars that can pack 80 percent men, 12 percent women, and 8 percent cautious dogs are the most successful. Capiche?”
“Oh, and never, under any circumstances, come into the bar,” Mr. Minchley adds as he turns to head back inside. “I am definitely not working on cloning myself so I can increase my already substantial sexual output.”
Mr. Minchley begins to walk back into the bar.
The three women walk in, and a man steps up next.
“Hello,” the man says. “I’m just looking for a nice place to eat this croissant. Can I come into your bar?”
“No,” the man says.
The preteens walk away, alive and in a huff.
The next two people approach.
“Hello, we are hiking the Appalachian Trail, and it passes right through your bar. We’ll just be hiking through.”
The man floats ghoulishly into the bar.
“Next!” you say. A man steps in front of you.
“Hey, I’m Jesse,” the man says. “You probably recognize me. I’m kind of a local celebrity around these parts.”
“Really?” Jesse asks. “I have an up-and-coming YouTube channel, I’m known for freestyle rapping in various venues around town, and sometimes I go on the local news to review movies in a segment called ‘Jesse’s Picks.’”
“Ah, damn,” Jesse says with a great world-weariness. “I guess I’m not the local celebrity I thought I was.”
“Yeah? Thanks. That’s really nice to hear. Do you want to come hang out at my house?”
“Cool!” Jesse says. ”Let’s get in my car!”
You get in Jesse’s car, and he begins driving really fast.
“Check out how fast I can drive! We’ll be at my house in no time!” Jesse yells.
“Welcome to my house, or as I call it, the Local Celebrity Hangout!” says Jesse. “It took us all night of driving quickly, but we made it. I’m so excited for you to see all its cool parts.”
“This is my fish tank,” Jesse explains. “It was given to me by a local restaurateur when I ate at his restaurant and almost choked on a fish skeleton. My fish are both named Jesse, but not after me. Now, come check out my bedroom!”
“This is a poster from Along Came Polly. They shot a few scenes here in town, and I got to be a featured extra. They gave me this poster after I choked on a fish skeleton at the craft services table. I’m kind of known for that around these parts. I reviewed the movie on my weekly movie review show called ‘Jesse’s Picks’ and gave it zero stars.”
“This is my sink. It was given to me by a local barber after I choked on a fish skeleton at his shop. I’m so happy that you are in my home. Having a friend is so cool!”
The preteens walk away, sadly and alive.
Mr. Minchley tears out of the bar.
“Hey, you big fucking idiot, what are you trying to do?” Mr. Minchley screams at you. “I can barely rub two asses together in there. You start letting people in the bar or I will fire you. You better not be trying to bounce the perfect night!”
“I like those bouncing instincts,” Mr. Minchley says. “Now let me in so I can impress women with my tight pants and blindingly white hair.”
“This is outrageous!” Mr. Minchley roars. “This bar has been in the Minchley family ever since we stole this real estate from Native Americans in late 2004. Let me in at once or you’re fired.”
“You’re fired!” Mr. Minchley screams at you. “I’ll just have to bounce instead. Now you can’t come in!”
Yes, you maintained your Bouncer’s Purity by not allowing anyone in, but at what cost? Now you have no job and can’t get into Sexual Bicycle. What is the point of living?
Try again!
You take a deep breath and unhook the velvet rope to begin letting people into Sexual Bicycle. You’ve been kind of blowing it as of late, so it’s time to have a good bouncing shift.
“Hi, I’m Lieutenant Fist-Corn, and I have a warrant for the arrest of Demi Moore Minchley, owner of this here bar.”
“But we promised Michael that we would do the entire trail,” the man says. “All of it. We have to keep that promise.”
“We do not want to upset Michael. He is more powerful than all of us combined. Even you are not safe from Michael,” explains the woman.
Shoulders slumped, Jesse skulks away into the night, completely alone.
Mr. Minchley bursts out of the bar, fuming.
“You insane idiot!” Mr. Minchley screams at you. “That was Jesse, a local celebrity ’round these parts! He may have mentioned Sexual Bicycle on his up-and-coming YouTube channel had you let him in!”
“You are on thin ice,” Mr. Minchley says. “You so much as breathe the wrong way and I’ll have your sunglasses.”
Then he turns and walks inside.
The next guy steps up.
“Hey, I gotta get in because my friend Brian is already in there,” he says.
“I’m not lying,” the man says. “I have Brian’s diabetes medication. If he doesn’t get it, he’ll die. Look.”
He shows you some insulin.
“Here, look at my phone. This is a picture of Brian going into diabetic shock, holding today’s newspaper right next to the Sexual Bicycle sign in your bar.”
An ambulance pulls up and a team of paramedics get out.
“We have a call that a Brian is in diabetic shock in this bar,” one of the paramedics says. “Let us in or he’ll die!”
A hearse pulls up the block and a mortician gets out.
“Hello,” the mortician says to you. “I just got word that a Brian just died of diabetic shock in this bar. I need to see the body.”
The emergency crew, the mortician, and Brian’s friend rush into the bar. Minutes later, Mr. Minchley comes out.
“You imbecile!” he screams at you. “You just fell for the oldest trick in the book! Those fake EMTs and phony mortician are tearing my precious bar apart! You’re fired!”
The two hikers amble into the bar, and a woman in a red dress steps up next.
“Hello, I am a beautiful and unhinged woman with a crossbow,” she says. “Can I come into your bar?”
Mr. Minchley wheels around on one foot and heads back inside.
You hear a cigarette lighter click and look to your left. A shadowy figure is smoking.
“Trying to bounce a perfect night, eh?” he says. “You’ve got some ego on you.”
“Lenny Haslet, 1999,” the figure says. “Tried to bounce the perfect night and damn near did it before the line turned on him. No one’s tried it since. Every day, I go put flowers on Lenny’s grave and make love to Lenny’s widow on that same grave.”
So fly.
“You shouldn’t,” they both respond in unison. “Hiking is our thing.”
“Oh,” Jesse says. “That doesn’t hurt my feelings.”
You can tell it hurts Jesse’s feelings.
Without turning back, you run outside and hotwire Jesse’s car, peeling out with a loud screech. You make the 12-hour trip back to the bar and arrive just as the sun is setting.
The line is still there right where you left it, and nobody seems to notice your day-long absence.
The group disperses, and Mr. Minchley walks out of the bar and up to you.
“I’m really proud of the way you handled yourself in that situation,” Mr. Minchley says while readjusting his penis from one side of his pants to the other. “You keep this up, and you just may make it through the night. Now, I’m going to go back inside and continue not cloning myself.”
Mr. Minchley turns and heads back inside.
“You will have to face the wrath of Michael. We all will,” says the man as they walk away. A beautiful woman in a red dress steps up next.
“Hello, I am a beautiful and unhinged woman with a crossbow,” she says. “Can I come into your bar?”
“You gotta get back to bouncing like I gotta pump some seed into Haslet’s widow: desperately,” the figure says. “Remember what I told you about bouncing the perfect night.”
The mysterious figure vanishes as if into thin air. You turn your attention back to the line to get in the bar.
“Hi there,” the blond woman says sultrily. “My scantily clad friends and I want to go into your bar to drink too much and get sweaty on the dance floor.”
“We want to coat your entire bar in a thick, viscous layer of sweat,” says the brunette.
“And just when you think we’re done sweating, we’ll start sweating some more,” says the woman with the darkest hair. “And faster than before.”
“Sweat will be pouring out of our mouths too,” adds the blond woman. “It may look like saliva, but that’s only because you’re used to seeing saliva come out of the mouth. Medically speaking, it will be sweat pouring from our mouths.”
“Okay. That is fantastic news,” the man says, and he walks inside.
The next party steps up.
“Hey, we’re a group of preteens,” their leader says. “We heard this is a great place for us to die. Please let us in.”
The unhinged woman walks wordlessly into the bar.
The next guy steps up.
“Hello,” he says. “Fine evening we’re having. Can’t wait to drink at the bar with like-minded adults.”
“Sure thing,” the man says, and he hands you this.
The next two people step up.
“Hi, we’re Hollywood couple John Krasinski and Emily Blunt. We’d love to come into your bar and be nice to our many fans.”
An unattended briefcase overflowing with cash is next in line.
“Hi, I am Liz, the business-casual genie. I want to get into this bar so bad that I will grant you three wishes if you let me in, and the wishes don’t even have to relate to being business-casual.”
“Hi, we are famed alt-rock outfit Foo Fighters, and we would love to play a free show for everyone in your bar, including such hits as ‘Everlong.’”
A masked man steps up, pulls out a pistol, and aims it right at your head.
“I will SHOOT your FUCKING head off if you don’t let us all in!” he shouts. “You haven’t let ANYONE in all night! We just want to have fun. No jury will convict me for this.”
“You need to learn that actions have consequences!” he screams at you. “I’m going to give you one more chance, and then I am squeezing this trigger with glee!”
The gunman pulls the trigger and a loud blast is heard. It seems to echo around the entire universe. When you open your eyes, you see that the sun has begun to rise and that the line outside the bar is gone. You check yourself for a wound but find none. Everything is the same, except you are wearing a brilliantly white suit.
The man from the shadows steps into the day’s new light and puts a hand on your shoulder.
“You did it,” he says. “You bounced the perfect night.”
The man laughs.
“The future is a blank slate, and you are its scribe,” he says. “No one has ever bounced the perfect night before, so it is you alone who must write the next chapter.”
He turns to leave, and as he does, he says, “If you ever need me again, just hold this coin between your palms for five seconds and I will appear.”
He flips you a coin, but you lose it in the sunlight and muff the catch. It rolls into a drain.
You look up and the man is gone.
“Them’s the breaks, kiddo,” the man says. “Bouncing the perfect night has consequences. You will lead a long but solitary life. In fact, we might as well kiss a bit.”
He leans in to kiss you on the lips.
You passionately kiss the man, and in doing so, a wave of calm washes over you. No matter how alienated from society you are now that you have bounced the perfect night, you will always remember this kiss.
When you open your eyes, you are alone, and your wallet is gone. Time to start some new adventures!
“Okay, fine, whatever, I don’t need this anyway,” says the man. “I get action all the time.”
He walks away in a huff, and you are left alone to ponder your thoughts. You spend the rest of your life wondering if you should have just kissed that mysterious man.
Mr. Minchley leans in close to you.
“And only let in women who have ankles that go all the way up, capiche? I like them best for my prolific sexual activity, even though I am old, like an old broom.”
“Demi Moore Minchley has been cloning himself, and he’s passed the legal number of clones, which as everyone knows is 14 clones. I have to kill as many clones as it takes to get the number back down to 14.”
“Please get out of my way, or I will have to kill you too.”
“All right,” Lt. Fist-Corn says to you while raising her gun to your head, “you asked for it.”
Just then, Mr. Minchley bursts from the bar. “What is the meaning of all this?” he shouts. “I was grotesquely grinding on young flesh when I heard all this yapping about clones. It’s not true!”
“I can’t take that chance, though,” Lt. Fist-Corn says, and she shoots her gun at Mr. Minchley.
Mr. Minchley crouches down next to where you lie dying on the pavement.
“What a loyal employee you are,” says Mr. Minchley. “You weren’t able to handle the pressures of being a bouncer, but you are surely loyal.”
“You’re fired,” he adds. “On account of being dead.”
He walks inside, and the last thing you ever hear is the noise of Mr. Minchley’s tight pants grinding loudly on young women emanating loudly through the walls of Sexual Bicycle.
The lieutenant walks into the bar with her gun drawn. You follow close behind and are shocked by what you see:
Dozens and dozens of Mr. Minchleys grinding, some even grinding on each other.
“Hey!” one of the Mr. Minchleys screams. “I thought I said to stay outta here! You’re fired!”
Lt. Fist-Corn completely wastes 53 copies of Mr. Minchley in totally badass ways, and you are thrilled to see that. She also accidentally shoots the original Mr. Minchley—the one who fired you—so you have your job back! The sun has begun to rise, and you know you’ve bounced a good night.
You take off your sunglasses and breathe in the dawn air. “Just another day for a bouncer,” you say to no one in particular.
“Only one way to find out,” the lieutenant says and shoots Mr. Minchley, then walks into the bar with her gun drawn. You follow close behind and are shocked by what you see:
Dozens and dozens of Mr. Minchleys grinding, some even grinding on each other.
“Hey!” one of the Mr. Minchleys screams. “I thought I said to stay outta here! You’re fired!”
The lieutenant shoots Mr. Minchley, then walks into the bar with her gun drawn. You follow close behind and are shocked by what you see:
Dozens and dozens of Mr. Minchleys grinding, some even grinding on each other.
“Hey!” one of the Mr. Minchleys screams. “I thought I said to stay outta here! You’re fired!”
“I’m gonna ruin this place on Yelp,” the man says and crumbles into the earth.
“Next!” you say. A man steps in front of you.
“Hey, I’m Jesse. You probably recognize me. I’m kind of a local celebrity around these parts.”
The three women walk away, and a man steps up next.
“Hello,” the man says. “I’m just looking for a nice place to eat this croissant. Can I come into your bar?”
“Okay. I will eat this flaky pastry somewhere else. It is really no problem,” the man says, and he walks away.
The next party steps up.
“Hey, we’re a group of preteens,” says the group’s leader. “We heard this is a great place for us to die. Please let us in.”
“Okay. I will eat this flaky pastry somewhere else. It is really no problem,” the man says, and he walks away.
The next party steps up.
“Hey, we’re a group of preteens,” says the group’s leader. “We heard this is a great place for us to die. Please let us in.”
Unable to shake what that mysterious person just told you, you call up the next person in line.
“Hello, I am a beautiful and unhinged woman with a crossbow,” she says. “Can I come into your bar?”
The unhinged woman walks into the night, and Mr. Minchley comes out, fuming mad.
“You’re fired! Just like I said you would be!” says Mr. Minchley. “I can’t grind on people who are a fraction of my age if there isn’t anyone there to rub my tight pants against!”
“Go back into the bar, Minchley,” says a mysterious voice.
You look over your shoulder and see the man from just moments ago. “The kid’s trying to bounce the perfect night, and I’m not gonna let a prick like you get in the way of history.”
Mr. Minchley looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“I...I...I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Mr. Minchley says, fumbling over his words. “The kid can bounce out the rest of the night, but tomorrow I’m hiring a new bouncer.”
Mr. Minchley goes inside.
“It’s only gonna get harder from here,” the mysterious figure says. “Hope you do better than Lenny, that’s for sure. You can choose to bounce the perfect night or not—the choice is yours.”
With that, he recedes back into the shadows.
You open the rope to allow entrance to the bar, and by the time you’re done hooking it back up, the mysterious man has returned.
“Figured you didn’t have what it takes to bounce the perfect night,” he says. “Can’t say I blame you, figuring how dangerous it can be. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
He walks away, never to be seen again.
The next two people approach.
“Hello, we are hiking the Appalachian Trail, and it passes right through your bar. We’ll just be hiking through.”
It worked!
Hell yeah.
So dope.
“You said that in a way where it’s clear you’re not completely sure who I am,” says Jesse. “I’ve thrown out the first pitch for the local minor league team, I’ve saved the mayor’s dog’s life, and I have Andy Dick’s cell phone number. Still nothing?”
You let Brian’s friend in, and within seconds Mr. Minchley comes screaming out of the bar.
“In all my many sex-filled years!” Mr. Minchley roars. “You fell for the insulin trick! That maniac who said he was Brian’s friend is now tearing my bar apart! How am I supposed to grind on nubile flesh and definitely not clone myself with that bogus Brian’s friend running roughshod??”
You don’t have an answer. You have majorly messed up.
“You’re fired!” Mr. Minchley screams.
“Oh, boy!” Jesse says. “My very own friend!”
He runs outside shouting and flailing his arms, then lies down on the grass and goes into a long, deep sleep.
You’ve traded the fast-paced life of bouncing for one of pastoral friendship. Not a bad deal by any stretch, but maybe the urge to bounce still burns in you. Maybe you even still want to attempt to bounce the perfect night, something that’s never been done before.
The preteens walk into the bar, and within seconds Mr. Minchley tears out to scream in your face.
“Hey! What did I say about letting in preteens?” he yells passionately. “I may be old and sexual, but I’m not blind. Those preteens have already found a way to die in Sexual Bicycle, and now I’m going to be bled dry paying off mommies and daddies.”
He turns to walk back in.
“Do this again and you’re t-o-a-s-t,” he says, spelling out the word “toast” for you.
The emergency crews, mortician, and Brian’s friend rush into the bar. Minutes later, Mr. Minchley comes out.
“You imbecile!” he screams at you. “You just fell for the oldest trick in the book! Those fake EMTs are tearing my precious bar apart! You’re fired!”
The unhinged woman walks wordlessly back into the inky night.
The next guy steps up.
“Hello,” he says. “Fine evening we’re having. Can’t wait to drink at the bar with like-minded adults.”
As you dismiss the genie, you notice that the line is getting very angry.
“We can’t take this much longer. Maybe we should just murder this pompous bouncer,” you hear, and then you hear the rest of the line unanimously agree.
“You’re really making me feel better,” Jesse says. “Say, maybe you should move in here! We can be best friends and roommates! There’s only one bedroom, but I’ll just sleep outside.”