It was another rowdy night at the brothel. The air thick with smoke and sweat, the sound of laughter mixed with curses. The dimly lit room filled with rough-looking men, their eyes roaming hungrily over my girls.
I sat at my usual spot behind the bar, a smirk playing on my lips as I watched the scene unfold before me. A group of cowboys had gotten into an argument over who knows what, and soon enough fists were flying.
I could see it in their eyes - that primal need for violence, for release. And I did nothing to stop it. In fact, I welcomed it.
The chaos only fueled my excitement as I poured drinks and kept a close eye on the situation unfolding before me. Knives were drawn, pistols cocked - but still, I sat there calmly sipping my own drink.
As bottles shattered against walls and bodies collided in a mess of limbs and bloodied faces, I felt alive. This was where I thrived - amidst the madness and danger of it all.
Eventually, just as quickly as it had started, the fight came to an end. Bodies lay strewn across tables and floors while others staggered out into the night air nursing wounds both physical and prideful.
And yet through it all, one thing remained constant - me sitting there with that same wicked grin plastered across my face.
This is life on the border – wild nights full of chaos where anything goes if you have enough coin to pay for your desires to be fulfilled by those willing women under this roof.