Kung Fu Kabaret

“Can I take the blindfold off now?” Killian asked.

“Not yet,” Duane replied. “Almost there.”

Floods of voices surrounded Killian Thorpe as he was led to someplace his frat friend swore he’d never been. The hippie hip-hop stylings of MC Coos Coos Criminal blared from many angles around him, cleansing him of an irritating pop song stuck in his head. However, he viewed this change as a lesser of two evils. New age gangsta rap or boy bands, which was worse? He could not decide.

“If we’re in a club, I’m gonna kill you,” Killian said.

“Dude, this ain’t no club,” Duane laughed. His voice edged nearer as he applied fingers to Killian’s clothed temples. “Tada!”

The blindfold fell away to a dimly-lit, neon-laden speakeasy of a joint lined with tables and booth couches. Four semicircle stages jutted out of the four corners of the establishment. A geodesic cove in the wall adjacent to the main stage housed an Asian DJ at the controls of many turntables. Several metal bars lined the ceiling like an upside-down jungle gym. All of this was secondary to the main draw of the place. Women. Topless women. Lots of them. All of which were arrayed in themed costumes of one sort or another. The ones currently on the four stages were dressed in Scottish tartans.

“Happy Twenty-First!” Duane shouted.

Killian gulped. “Oooooh no.”

“Oooooh yes!” Duane said, patting his back. “Women, my man!”

“I can’t be here,” Killian replied as his lips thinned.

“Why not? It’s your birthday.” Duane plopped himself down in a chair. “Time to take a break; bask in some T & A.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Then what it is?” Duane asked

“I-I c-can’t be around…women,” Killian said.

“You’re twenty-one, man!” Duane shouted. “Grow up!”

“I told you I’m gynophobic!”

“Er…no you’re not,” Duane propped his feet on the table, withdrew a cigarette, and lit the tip with a phallus-shaped Zippo.

“Then what do you call these?” Thorpe screamed, pointing at his neck. Red mounds dotted the base of it.

“Zits?”

“No! They’re hives!” Thorpe explained. “I get hives when I’m around large amounts of estrogen.”

“Is that even possible?” Duane squinted as he looked closer.

“Yes!”

A thick voice broke in from behind them. “Gentlemen, welcome to Club Canaan, the only burlesque house in town.”

The source of the Slavic baritone came from a barrel-chested man dressed in what Thorpe assumed was Renaissance attire – pantaloons, odd platform shoes, a velveteen vest, and a curled wig dyed magenta. If Shakespeare had been on mushrooms while writing King Lear, the Fool would’ve looked like this.

“Hey, nice place ya got here,” Duane grinned. “What’re your lapdance specials?”

“Lapdance?”

“Yeah, lapdance,” Duane repeated.

“C-cant be here…so c-cold…t-too many.” Killian curled up into a fetal ball in one of the seats.

“I know nothing of this ‘lapdance’ you speak of. What is it?” the fluorescent fool asked Duane.

“You don’t know what a lapdance is? What kinda tit bar is this?”

“This is no ‘teat bar’. This is a burlesque house!” the large man intoned again with a goateed smile.

“Tell me you at least have booths.” Duane scratched at his forehead.

“Booths?” the man looked at him strangely again.

Killian rasped. Trickles of blood dribbled from his nostrils.

He couldn’t get Duane’s attention while he was fixated on educating the host. “Yeah, private booths y’know?”

“Ooooh, private rooms!” the Fool’s smile beamed larger. “We have those.”

Duane nodded at Killian who was rocking back and forth with his knees up to his face. “Now we’re getting somewhere. How much?”

“Depends on what play you want performed,” was the response.

“Play?”

“Yes, play. Marlowe, Stoppard, Wylde, or good ol’ reliable Moliere, our girls do it all.”

Duane sighed. “Nevermind, just bring the waitress over so we can get some beers.”

“Certainly! And if you need anything else, just ask for me, Piz Miyov,” the large man bowed. “I am the proprietor of Club Canaan. Your satisfaction is my only concern.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Piz skipped off and shouted, “Wench! Table thirteen!”

“Damn, what a bummer,” Duane said.

Killian wiped the crimson from his nose. “Can we go now?”

“No, I already paid our cover. We might as well enjoy what there is.”

“I told you already, I can’t be here. Look,” Killian put his blood-caked fingers in front of Duane. “I’m bleeding already.”
“You’re not bleeding because of that,” Duane said. “You’re stressing yourself out over nothing. Now sit back and try to enjoy yourself.”

Killian groaned. Of all the days his friend tried to get him out of the dorms, it had to be during a Seventies kung fu marathon on the Action channel. When he wasn’t doing homework, he was watching old chop-socky films. All the masters were being represented – Tsui Hark, Yuen Woo-Ping, the Shaw Brothers. Performers such as Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, Sonny Chiba, all were in their fighting glory. Yet here he was, surrounded by modified mammaries in various stages of buoyancy.

The heavily accented voice of DJ Tofu boomed over the fading hip-hop score as the saline-induced dancers exited the various stages. “Put your hands together for the McGregor Girls, and their interpretive performance of the Battle of Falkirk! You can only find them here at the only burlesque house that guarantees you great feasts for the eyes, mind and body. Coming up are four lovely young ladies we’re proud to have. They don’t do private performances, but they’ll swing their way into your hearts nonetheless. Don’t be shy with your dollars, gents, for here they are . . . put your hands together for the Acrobabes!”

Killian looked over at Duane. “The what?”

“Acrobabes,” he said through a down-syndrome smile.

“What kind of name is that?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” was the simple reply.

DJ Tofu belted again, “On the main stage we have the young and delectable Joy!” On cue, a shorthaired brunette, with a bobbing ponytail skipped her way to the brass pole, lips puckered around a lollipop. Attired in a plaid schoolgirl skirt and a button-up shirt tied high at the waste, she twirled her black-stocking legs around the bar once, ending the rotation with a coy giggle.

“Heatin’ up stage two to your right, caught in the shower, is fiery Infinity!” A redhead, wrapped in a towel gave a look of feigned astonishment as the shower curtains parted, her auburn locks spilling over her shoulders.

“Bow down to stage three for your mistress of pain, Chastity!” A half-Asian clad in thigh-high leather boots, black lace, garters, and a midnight corset dominated the paneled tiles as she marched onstage. She unfurled a whip, cracked it once, and let out a snarl.

“And finally, for those of you still stuck in grade school, you’ve never seen a teacher like this. Stay after class with Ms. Faith!” This one caught Killian’s attention the most – a statuesque blonde, hair balled in a knot, blue eyes framed with librarian glasses. She was dressed straight out of a Van Halen video, professional yet provocative. What really caught his eye were her earrings – silver knives dangling from her lobes.

“Found a girl you like, eh?” Duane said.

Killian ignored the question and continued watching.

Before he could fully enjoy the show, gunfire erupted from the entrance. Bottles burst from the bar. Neon tubes shattered into white sparks. Girls screamed, men whimpered. Some ducked under tables. Others complained about the interruption. Killian knelt down as well, cowering, but as he did so he noticed something odd. The four onstage didn’t retreat at all. They remained standing, eyes fixated on the entrance.

The source of the bullet blaze revealed itself. Five men entered the room in multicolored tights, flower petal tutus lining their waists, donning masks with the same floral patterns. Individual types of flora protruded from the tips of their heads – monikers to their identities, Killian guessed. At the center was the man who had strafed the interior – tall, imposing, and brandishing a green semiautomatic with a modified barrel shaped like a tulip corolla.

“Silence!” the one Killian thought was the leader boomed. “We are here to claim what is rightfully ours, and to end the depravity this place now represents.”

The tall man tromped his way to the main stage, and brought the gun to bear on the dancer called Joy. She didn’t react but continued nursing the lollipop in her mouth.

“Get off the stage, you pansy!” came a shout from the array of couches.

The floral-patterned leader froze, whipped the flower-gun around, cocked it once, and rained death upon the hapless speaker. “It’s Tulip! Not pansy! Tulip the Terrible!” He surveyed the crowd with the weapon in hand. “Anyone else care to feel the wrath of my manly petals of PAIN!”

“Shit, some people actually talk like that?” Duane said from under the table.

Killian shushed him from his crouched position then went back to observing the blonde teacher-themed dancer.

“Know this!” Tulip shouted again. “This place used to be a cultural refuge - an acting house that provided real entertainment, not this sad excuse for debauchery. And it shall be again. The Ballerina Boys will make it so!”

A tall Amerindian stepped up, clad in blue, bearing bladed petal fans. Geranium petals, no less. “I am the native terror that strikes fearful love of the arts into the hearts of occidentals! Geronimo Geranium!”

Following the poseur display, a stout obese man dressed in red struggled on top of a chair. “I am the round terror, the thorny pride of the operatic world. The Robust Rose!” he chimed in lilting tenor.

“No stunt is too daring, no prop sword to sharp for the likes of me,” said a tall, lanky man in purple. “The Violate Vindicator!”

Lastly, a short, elfin figure in pink stood up, posed, arms akimbo, but said nothing.

The silence would’ve been perfect for a cricket chorus.

Tulip the Terrible took the liberty of speaking on his behalf. “Oh, that’s the Carnation of Carnage. He’s a mime,” he said casually before booming again. “Together we are the Ballerina Boys!”

Even Killian had to snicker. Others in the club got the same idea. A few outright laughs sounded from different places.

Obviously distraught, Tulip fired again at the ceiling. Everything went silent. “Laugh not at the art that is ballet! It is as manly as anything else. A testosterone-driven dance of happiness, like a flower in the wind! But enough of that. Time to set an example.” Tulip slowly turned to face Joy again.

Killian realized his shivers had quelled, yet he couldn’t understand why. Yes, there were women around, and a part of him still detested their presence. However, there was something else. Something about these particular women grabbed his attention. The way they stood there, stoic, unflinching at the threat ahead of them seemed surreal to him. They were calm, collected. Their calmness made him calm. Duane, on the other hand, simpered from beneath the table.

Piz, the owner, lifted his bulk from the area next to the bar. “Tulip, you chose the wrong time to waltz in here. How dare you debase us with your presence?! How dare you interrupt a performance?” He looked over at Faith and the other three who were still onstage, clenching fists and rapping nails against thighs. “Girls,” he grinned again. “The show must go on.”

Joy grinned and her eyes narrowed. She placed her back up against the pole. Sliding down to a crouching stance, she waited until Tulip’s face came into view. As he turned, his left eye reached her line of sight. She sucked in her cheeks and let the lollipop launch from her mouth, stick-end first. The flying candy hit its mark. Tulip reeled back and fell off the lit stage, screaming. Following that, the schoolgirl grabbed hold of the brass bar and ripped it from its hinges.

Yes! Killian cheered silently.

Faith – the schoolteacher - brandished her slide ruler prop, gingerly removed the ruler portion, turned it around, slid it back in, and clicked it in place. Instead of a square end, the other side of the ruler was a well-sharpened katana blade. She took a kenjutsu stance. Killian only knew that after several Sonny Chiba viewings. However, she did it better!

The redhead, Infinity - removing the wet towel from her lithe, pale frame - twisted what she had worn into a whip, stamped one end with a foot, ringing it with both hands. She then brought it over her head like a weapon. A wet towel would hurt. Killian could tell she’d done this sort of thing before. Jet Li style. The impact alone would dizzy an opponent. The subject for the wetted cloth had yet to be decided.

Chastity – the Amerasian – coiled her whip and jumped down from her stage, digging her stiletto heels into the ground. The other four followed her, and they all positioned themselves in a wedge formation. Tulip the Terrible lifted himself from the ground, raised his gun to the air, and roared with all the intensity an actor could muster.

“For theater!” he shouted.

“For theater!” his lackeys replied in unison.

Both groups charged each other.

The brawl that ensued rivaled any movie Killian had ever seen. Bladed petals, showers of pollen, brass bars, and torn clothing flew from the meshing of assailants. Faith dug her ruler blade into Geronimo Geranium’s fan-petal. Robust Rose swatted Joy with his thorny belly-club, tearing away her slinky overshirt, which gave way to a metal-studded bra.

Infinity and Chastity joined hands, cart-wheeling through Violet Vindicator, and placing a stranglehold on him with their mutual thighs. The Carnation of Carnage silently rushed to his fallen comrade, but Joy had regained her composure – removing her metallic bra, folding the cups in upon themselves, modifying them to nun chucks – and embraced the small mime in a slivery choke hold.

The faux-schoolgirl back-flipped, bringing the pink poseur down hard on the corner of a table. The Carnation groaned then slumped. Chastity gave a spin kick to the Violet Vindicator’s temple, toppling him on top of the Carnation. Tulip fired a round at Faith, who in turn parried the projectiles with her blade. The blonde teacher then leapt into the air, twisted her body, and brought the flat end of the sword down on his neck – knocking the wind and bombast out of him.

The only Ballerina Boy left conscious was the opera singer, wielding his rose-thorned mace in a frenzy as the four strippers closed in. He let out a tenor yelp and attempted a retreat. Joy grabbed hold of the brass bar she’d dropped, pole-vaulted to within arms reach, and swiped his stubby legs with a well placed foot. The Robust Rose fell hard on his rotund keg of an abdomen, coughing out a final note before slumbering.

Killian instantly stood up, applauded, and belted a loud “WHOOOOOHOOO!!!”

Other patrons slowly followed his example, and several standing ovations resonated throughout the Canaan establishment. The four women bowed, joined hands, bowed again then exited stage left.

“Gentlemen, I give you, the Acrobabes!” Piz Miyov announced over a microphone.

Killian continued to clap frantically as did many others in the burlesque house, herds of testosterone demanding more ass-kicking estrogen. He soon realized, though, that someone wasn’t. Duane was still huddled underneath the table, squealing like a panicked piglet.

* * *

“Dude, did you see all that!” Killian said to Duane as they exited Club Canaan.

“C-can’t be here…s-so cold…t-too many,” Duane said to no one in particular.

“I mean, strippers who know kung fu, who’d’ve thought?” Killian asked.

“Shot…I-I could’ve been shot,” was the shaken reply.

“Man, we need to go back again!”

“Bed…that sounds nice…bed…” His frat buddy continued to stammer on.

“Uh, Duane, you okay?” Killian asked.

“Oh wait,” Duane paused. “Beer first then bed. Yes…beer won’t shoot at me. Good beer. Friendly beer. Won’t shoot, will you?”

“Relax, it was only a show.”

Duane froze in mid step. “A show? You thought that was a show? We coulda been killed in there?”

“Killed by a bunch of guys dressed as flowers? Don’t think so. It was all an act.” Killian patted his shoulder.

“Damn flowers,” Duane said in a low tone, clutching himself.

This time Killian froze. “Holy shit, you were actually scared.”

“No I wasn’t”

“Yes, you were,” Killian insisted. “You thought you were going to be killed by a guy dressed as a friggin’ daisy.

“I hate daisies,” Duane shrieked. “Roses, daisies, pansies, Solomon’s seals, chrysanthemums, edelweiss and every other fucking flower on the face of the fucking PLANET!”

Killian backed away from his foaming friend. “Dude, chill. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s okay to have a fear of flowers. Let’s just get that beer, and then we’ll get you to bed.”

Duane gave a meek smile. “And no more flowers?”

It took all of Killian’s resolve to keep from laughing. “No flowers.”

“Good, I can’t be around flowers,” Duane replied, letting his shoulders slump after a deep breath.

“There there. Those evil flowers won’t hurt you anymore.”

Tags: Awesome, Kung Fu, Martial Arts, Strippers