Dipper and Bill entered the club through black double doors held open on one end by a massive goon in darkly tinted shades. He was bald, broad shouldered, and glossed of all expressive mannerisms, as though his skull held nothing but a smooth egg inside. The guard's lips drooped in a perpetual scowl, even as he stepped aside to let the two pass. They'd approached the scene awkwardly; Bill strolling with a confident gait, chest puffed, grin bare, trailing his helpless partner along by the waist, who tried with all his might to look indifferent to the touch. Dipper succeeded in many aspects, being a well-versed participant of two-faced body language, though failing in others. His legs were stiff the whole way over, knees locked in place as Bill ushered him along graciously, as though guiding him to bed. If Dipper had been any more uncomfortable, he would have not only stiffened up, but shut down, rolled over, and possibly died of anxiety.

But the guard let them through, his wide hand pressing a silver push bar as his beefy forearm stretched to the very edge of the metal door. It was like a drawbridge being lowered over a mote; an unconquerable obstacle, stocked with alligators and snapping piranhas, littered with torn bodies clinging to rocks, the edge of the wall, clumps of dirt and mud. The ones before them, cast below in an attempt to cross without verified access. Trying to sneak in. Attempting bribery. Threats. But, no such methods worked. Only the honest way. Only by approval of wide, stern features could you enter the castle beyond the pitfall of snarling gators. And the man, having worked many years as a bouncer for such 'prestigious' establishments, knew perfectly well the two were more than acceptable clientels of the Red Cross.

The club was dimly lit, illuminated by the faint tint of crimson from strung up lights and tacky bar sign. It was spacious, leaving plenty of room for the glamorous platform set to the far right, planted with high, glittering poles. And, swinging along them with the grace of greased angels, were the petite figures of glossed up males. They dressed in sequined fabrics, tight silks and loose cotton, twinkling or plain, all dazzling against the flattering flicker of rosie lights and the occasional lighter. It was no wonder they drew up a small crowd, strutting around their designated pole like precious peacocks, rolling their shoulders, heads tilting back, as though dancing for the pure enjoyment of it, and not the endless press for an encore each time.

Each boy shone with a loveliness about them, like delicate bits of china glass smoothed and painted with a precise eye. They were put on display. Flaunted. Cooed at, with thin fingers sliding along the edges of the stage, hoping to slide their cigar-tinged nails against the base of a stripper's high heel. A lump grew in Dipper's throat, imagining the stage as a desert island, barren of all fruits and being. Only a single coconut tree, sprouting out of spite and rath, accompanied the stranded beauties.

And, circling slowly, north and south and east and west of them, lurking beyond the shore, were bone-crunching sharks. For a moment, Dipper had fooled himself, and he believed sharks could grow legs. Crawl on land and consume the boys. For, as the deserted boys clung to their poles, swinging and twirling sensually, the sharks seemed to flinch, bob their slick pointed heads out of the waves, and move in just a little more. Out of water. Onto sand. Getting their flimsy fins to pattel uselessly against the grainy island's floor, trying to sink jagged teeth into untouched flesh.

Mostly, the boys only laughed, grinned, and nudged them back into the water. But, there were still battle scars. In Dipper's mind, he made out the faint trace of thick white lines of torn skin, plated clunkily around their wastes and wrists and necks. Like chunks had been taken out of them. Like something had been stolen each time, and a small bit of themselves were lost. To Dipper alone, the missing flesh was vivid, and the subtle ring of dark whispers could be heard. In the back of his mind, coupled with the putrid stench of citrus and aftershave, came a cooing voice.

' Shark Bites.' It went. And as Dipper looked down at his visible thighs, shaking softly from the chill of the club, he made out a small indent. A white line that road up his leg to his inner thigh, scarring soft, untouched flesh. Dipper blinked once, and the scar disappeared. It no longer existed, nor had it ever. And yet, a subtle pain throbbed where he looked, as he slid a hidden digit down to prod at the porcelain meat. He could almost imagine that large hand that once covered his entire knee; hear the rain fall; the vibrations of the car drying up and disbursing; the smell of citrus.

"You wanna get up there, sapling?" Bill elbowed Dipper's side, snapping him from his thoughts. When he looked up, Cipher was nudging his head towards the strippers with a smug smirk, offering the tease as an honest suggestion. "You'd put these amateurs to shame, I'm sure." He winked.

To his own surprise, Dipper grew bashful. He shrank, unable to collect the bravado necessary for a response. Shaking his head mindlessly, he held himself on either sides, bracing his shoulders with the kind of shyness not unlike a small child's. But, that was perfect. To Bill at least, it was more than enough. This place was a feeding spot of grown beasts, just waiting for some succulent snack to wonder onto their hunting grounds. And, in his opinion, Dipper made these other kiddos look like appetizers. Maybe a slice of meat here and there; delectable, yet far from satisfying. But here, standing awkwardly- vulnerably- was a four course meal. All needed now was an appetite.

"You ready?" Bill asked, placing an arm around Dipper's shoulders. He forced his partner's hands to his sides, the wide space separating Dipper's stomach and elbows happily amplifying his cute hips. It was like setting up a bear trap.

"Am I supposed to be?" Dipper asked, willing a slight scoff from his tight throat.

"Aw, don't be nervous . You'll do great!" He pulled his partner a little closer, justling his shoulder chumily. "Or get an STD. Either way, good luck!" Bill pat Dipper's back, forcing a groan from the other.

"Fuck you."

"Oh, no, no, no. Fuck you. " Bill clicked his tongue, lip hitching up to showcase his sharp canines. He finger-gunned at his partner, tapping his chest happily with the sure-fire optimism of a sleevey cars salesmen.

' Oh yeah, it runs! Great mileage, too! Trust me: There's no way this thing could go wrong!'

Dipper's stomach pinched up.

"Oh, god." He whimpered softly as Bill replaced his arm around Dipper's slim waist, tugging him through the crowd of infatuated males. His mouth grew dry, vaguely aware of the few side glances he received from those Bill pulled him past, with eyes sharp; cold. Slanted and shifting quickly, like the ears of a lion flickering up as it notes the harsh struggle of a wounded fawn. He begged his mind to settle down; to ignore the attention. Those hands weren't reaching for him. They weren't grabbing his legs or hair or rear. No, they were too busy watching the boys onstage. Not him. They didn't see him. He could still hide.

Dipper's shoulder bumped harshly into the edge of someone's elbow, forcing the drink they held to splash a few drops on the floor. With a quick hiss of surprise, the owner stepped away from the small puddle, lifting his drink cautiously above his head this time, wary of another arm bumping him even more. The man looked down at the insignificant mess, a quiet stream of curses flowing from his lips reflexively. A few men in the crowd had turned to look at the slight slip, but all shrugged their shoulders afterwards, simply turning around to enjoy the midnight display.

" Oh- uh-. " Dipper began awkwardly, now squeezing himself against Bill's side. He stepped back from the tiny mess in shame, keeping his eyes trained on it to prevent unintentional eye contact, all the while his fingers went to pick at each others nails.

"That wasn't very nice of you, sapling." Bill spoke with a voice of honest disappointment, though playful enough to ward away genuine concern. He was just teasing. "What do you say to the poor man?" The smile that passed his lips said it all. He was getting more than a little kick out of his new-found position as ' master.' And Dipper, frazzled as could be, didn't have the stamina or will power to snap at him. In fact, he felt mildly at ease knowing Bill'd at least been around when it happened. Otherwise, he may have gone on stammering idiotically.

"S-sorry. I didn't see you." His eyes finally lifted, and when they did, he came face to face with a pair of shaded dark eyes. Not quite as intense as Bill's, but still smokey in their own league, while somehow willing a kind of humanity within. He was tall, tan and sollum with features of mild irritation when he looked up from his spilled drink. His hair looked to be a choppy dye of purple, molded confidently in a shocked crew cut with tips that curls downwards. It would've looked silly if it weren't for the gold necklace slung around his neck. A small sign of wealth the man was willing to flaunt, even in a room dark enough to get lost in. His rough, annoyed expression lightened as he laid eyes on Dipper.

" Hey . No problem, sweet heart." The crooked smile he cracked was enough to spark a shiver up Dipper's spine. But, oddly enough, the shiver wasn't too unpleasant. He paused for a moment, eyes snapping up and down Dipper's figure so quickly, it seemed impossible to process anything from it. He did, however. And, letting out a soft hum, turned to the one hugging Dipper's side. "This one yours?" The man instantly addressed Bill, as though Dipper couldn't answer for himself. Like a child too young to respond, the mother his only source of information. A dog-owner. Dipper's partner grew proud.

"Real cutie, huh?" Bill stated matter-of-factly. The man's grin widened. He chuckled.

"You two new here or something? Don't think I've ever seen your faces before." He wiped his palm against his pant leg, smudging the potent stink of Pilsner along rough denim. Without looking from Dipper, he took a sip of his half-spilt beer, getting a good look into those soft doe eyes of his. Dipper couldn't so much as maintain eye contact.

"Eh, we blew in from Colorado. Heard this place is a good spot to do business." Bill mused, shrugging his shoulders, though aware of the interest he'd enticed from the man. Of course, business could mean anything. Perhaps drugs. Hiring a hitman wasn't a long shot, either. But... Looking Bill's arm piece up and down for the millionth time, he prayed for a different sort of business.

"Well, you've come to the right place then." He swirled his drink around, eyes trailing the vibrant wave of red light reflecting off the surface. "Can't imagine a bigger jackpot of cash-flingers than here in Doe Town." His smile snapped back on as he looked up again. "Names Bullet." His hand shot past Dipper, offering the gesture to his more-than-pleased partner, though Bullet's eyes were once again shifting towards him.

"Nice to meet ya, Bullet. Bill ." He took Bullet's hand hartilly, shaking it with a fond familiarity. A practiced gesture. The small sting from their slapping palms was enough to make him long for something more. Something greater. Something powerful.

How he missed his old self.

"So, what sort of business are you in exactly?" Bullet asked casually. Bill only smiled, giving Dipper an empowered look before speaking. His hand went from around his waist to the hollow of Dipper's back, motioning his stiff, uncomfortable body forward. He cleared his throat with a show of untainted pride, gesturing towards his partner.

"I don't believe you two have formally met. This is my baby, Dipper." Bullet's face brightened. His suspicions were confirmed as he now freely and openly viewed the smaller. Those eyes didn't quite snap anymore, but instead swept over Dipper slowly; softly. There wasn't any way of taking it all in, though.

"Oh?" Bullet asked innocently, as though he hadn't hoped for such an offer. "And, how old is he?" He took another swig of his drink, smirking endlessly at Dipper's reddening face. Was it his first time on the streets? Was he a new recruit?

"Twenty-two. Just old enough to graduate college. Not that this one could get into college!" Dipper's face snapped towards him, brows furrowing harshly at Bill's blunt slash at his ego. Cipher didn't care, only bumping his hip against the edge of Dipper's cooley. The barest hints of oxytocin spurted from the base of Dipper's collar bone, though blocked in several forms due to annoyance and embarrassment.

"Hmm. So, fresh out of the box, huh?" Again, Bullet didn't so much as address Dipper. It was like talking over the features of a used car, or admiring someone else's property with the intent of bartering for it. Dipper hated it. "What's his body count?"

"Who's to say he has one?" Bullet whistled at Bill's seemingly taboo response, curling his long fingers to make a fist planted against his hip.

"That's a bold statement, mate. How can I be so sure about that?" Bill laughed his way, only pulling his partner closer. Dipper made sure to place an arm between them this time, preserving only the barest of dignity as he scowled wordlessly at the ground. It wasn't his place to speak here. This was all going as planned, right? He was the bait. Bill, the interrogator. Dipper wouldn't actually be loaned out to anyone. Only enticed. And, once they'd hedged their bets on a culprate, he'd be deployed, get the final confession, and cuff him. End of story.

As long as Dipper controlled his shaking.

"Hey, man! Believe me or not, It's not my problem if you miss out on his first time." Dipper silently ground his heel into the tip of Bill's dress shoe, training his face to seem indifferent to the statement. Inside, he was bursting into flames. Bullet didn't seem to notice, only flinching when Bill snapped his head back with an abrupt burst of laughter. Bullet suspected him of some kind of drug use, as was common in these parts of town. But, he was probably a nut job off the stuff, too. That wasn't too uncommon either, though. He broke into a smile.

"So, you wanted to talk ' business' ?" He offered, gesturing to one of the lounges located at the far back of the club. The darkest part of the room with rounded maroon booths lit only by dull ceiling lights, each one sectioned off by long red curtains. Some remained open, showcasing groups of thugs and pieces puffing out smoke and drinks, all the while they gripped at each other playfully. Laughs, giggles and chuckles filled their small paradise, as though nothing could or would cross into it unexpectedly. Other curtains were shut, leaving the nudest of mysteries to be solved as Dipper picked up on the faint creaking of furniture; a rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the tearing of fabrics, the lowest of cries. Dipper made sure to steer them far away from such booths.

Bill sat down smoothly with a thump, Bullet mimicking such actions with an added sigh of satisfaction, loving the rest it gave his aching feet. Dipper, on the other hand, felt fairly awkward as Bill settled him on his lap. Not that the other two gave a damn.

"So, how long's he been in the business for? A year? Two? He know any tricks yet?" Bullet was quick to pound them with questions, professional in his interrogation after years of piled on whoring in separate towns. Not that he was a pro, but he sure knew how to check out a product before putting his money on it.

"Didn't I tell you? Still new to the game, friend!" Bill rolled his palms over either of Dipper's shoulders, massaging them less comfortably, and more possessively. As though daring him to say something; to butt in; to run away from it all. Dipper stayed still, biting his lip whenever Bill's knee shifted below him. "You'll have to teach him yourself."

" Really ? No bullshit? He's all fresh 'n shit?" Bullet's eyes road over Dipper in disbelief, and for a moment Bill's statement seemed like a poke at his intelligence. Like hell this kid was a virgin! At the very least, he'd given a handjob. Still, looking into those doe eyes of his, he couldn't help noticing the way Dipper averted his gaze.

" Scout's honor !" Bill cheered, sitting up as he put his hand over his heart. As he did, Dipper could feel Bill's crotch rub up against his outer layer of latex, proud and bold with praise. He stiffened, sensing his free hand slowly sliding up the base of his leg, almost casually. It started at his knee, up his thigh, to the edge of his hip, and rested happily on his rear. Not squeezing, but definitely looking for an opening to. "He's a real charmer, I'm telling you."

Dipper felt more than exposed with how he'd begrudgingly dressed himself, dry air hitting his lower back and shoulders vengefully. The way Bill so blatantly grabbed him certainly didn't help his mounting embarrassment. Again: all part of the plan. Entice them. Make Dipper a luxury of want. Need. And, it that enclosed giving examples of possible use, there was nothing stopping Bill from playing off of it. Once more, like trying to sell a car. Maybe not driving the vehicle, but popping open the hood. Showing off all the parts. Rubbing a finger or two over the dust-free windows.

'Look how low the mileage is on this thing! And no scratches! How could you possibly say no?'

Still, Dipper felt lightyears from ever coming to terms with any of this.

"And, what are his limits?"

"Is he supposed to have limits?" Bill's hand finally managed a light squeeze, forcing Dipper to flinch anxiously. The two hadn't so much as acknowledged him at this point, and it was almost surreal how invisible he felt. Of course, Bill was the perfect sale's man. Charismatic. Persistent. Convincing. It was no wonder the obligation had been placed in his hands to sell him off. That didn't mean Dipper wasn't sour about it.

"See? There you go again, gettin' my hopes up... This almost sounds too good to be true."

'That's because it is.'

"Trust me: It's true. What can I say? Can't have limits for something you've never experienced! The kid's got moxy, Bullet. Real ballsy with new experiences." Another squeeze, as though his comment wagered a reward. Dipper flinched again, this time clenching his cheeks involuntarily, his body braced for another attack. It never came. The hand just sat there, pleased to have something soft and round in its palm.

"Been tested?" Bullet asked.

"Just last week. Real shy about it, too." Bill responded.

Bullet hummed in contemplation, almost pleasantly. Cipher was seriously tickling Bullet's ' innocent ' kink. But, could he be trusted? Dipper hadn't said much so far. He wasn't a bad mouth like most of the veterans swamping this place, so perhaps he was a little wet behind the ears. Not too bold. A tad shy. Obedient, from the way his pimp hoisted him up and outright touched him. Not uncommon among these types of scenes, but the kid was bashful about it. Someone with far less modesty would be responsive to such advances.

A moan. Maybe a few soft groans. Even going so far as to grind against their lap wasn't unseemly, it felt. But, Dipper was silent. Awkward, and red all over, biting his lip and looking anywhere but the hand placed on his ass, and definitely from Bullet's sharp gaze. Could someone's acting be so good ? From past foreplay experience, he knew too well how corny ' innocence' looked on a sexual scale. They'd play it up too much. Seem far too dumb, and far too bold to be anything but slutty and brainless. Because, to them, innocence was an alien concept, unreachable and impossible in their current life. Bullet grew pleased.

"Where do I sign?" He grinned, leaning forward to place a casual hand against Dipper's thigh. He'd been eyeing it for a while, and it seemed only fair he got to feel up what he was about to break in two. However, his hand was stopped as Bill snagged him by the wrist hastily. A look into his single eye was enough to chill him.

" Ah . Not so fast, mister. We've got conditions first." Bullet's hand slid away grumpily, his mood going from ten to zero all too quickly with a pout. He leaned back into the cushion, arms crossed as he looked towards the bar grouchily.

" Conditions? The hell does that mean?" Bullet snarled.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, hot rod. It's just a formality." Bill assured him, flapping his hands palm down with a lidded eye. "We're just gonna need a small background check-."

" Background check? What is this? An interrogation?" Bullet scoffed. He missed the thick lump Dipper swallowed in his throat. "I came here for a quicky, fella."

"And, a quicky you'll receive! But, I can't have you cuttin' up this pretty face just yet!" Bill emphasize his point by gripping Dipper by the chin, hoisting his face up to make eye contact with Bullet. He shifted awkwardly under the intensity, but that only added to the appeal. "You're not a serial killer, are you?"

"What? No! How could you-?"

"And how do we know that?" Bill shot back. Bullet stammered hotly, cheeks puffing up as he protested. "You got any previous employers that can vouch for you?"

"I-... You serious right now?" Bullet's features softened defeatedly, almost like it was impossible at this point to argue it. He was drunk. He was high. And, he was definitely horny. Maybe a short little convo with Mr. Eye Patch was worth it. Maybe not. Either way, Bullet's sensibility was already out the window before he could put everything into perspective.

"About the only time I am." Bill chuckled back. Bullet paused, swirled his drink once more, and sighed.

"It okay if we get a little privacy, then?" He seemed sheepish all of a sudden, eyes dull but aware of the plus one listening in on them. Though he hadn't so much as interrupted them, Dipper was still looked at expectantly. Too many ears leaning in on Bullet's little 'background check,' he supposed. Bill did, as well.

"Oh, right! Right !" He began, hand coming to life as he smoothed the soft meat of Dipper's underside. "Baby, how's about you wait for me at the bar? Grab yourself something small, okay?" It was a simple thing, Bill reaching into the front of his jacket, pulling out a crist twenty as he waved it in front of the smaller's eyes. Dipper said nothing, making no movement to grab the cash, nor to lift himself and leave. Instead, he scowled darkly, and for a moment he could almost allow himself to snap back at him. They were partners afterall, right? Why shouldn't he stay to listen?

But, Dipper knew the answer. Looking to the green paper slid between Bill's index and middle, he snatched it up in hopes of giving the other a paper cut. No such luck. Defeated, he stood from Bill's lap, pulling at the back ends of his shorts before making his way for the bar. It goes without saying that his short walk from the lounge to the dangerously high stools was filled with side glances, soft whispers from one buddy to another, and even a small pinch on the ass. Shit. Was it too radical to say he absolutely hated men?

Yes. Yes, it was.

By the time he'd situated himself, the bartender was already there to take his order. A tall, brawny redhead with a chin twice the size of his forehead, stood alone, rubbing his white wash cloth against the edge of a wine glass.

"What can I getcha, sis?" Dipper didn't care about the nickname at this point. He'd been far too humiliated already. He sighed, pressing his fingers along the arch of his nose.

"Just get me a bottle of something. I don't care, man."

"You got it, toots." The bartender turned around, grabbing swiftly at the first thing his fingers brushed against: A tall bottle of Malibu. He set the bottle down, as well as a fairly portioned glass on either side of Dipper's folded hands. "Bon Appetit." He joked, moving from him. In any other situation, Dipper absolutely hated drinking alone. He wasn't exactly a party animal,but Jesus. Being the guy who drank alone was definitely not on his to-do list. Still, he needed to get out of his own head. Maybe a shot before would have helped, but that was out of the window now.

Dipper made quick work of the bottle's top, cracking the seal before snapping it off completely. With measured hands, he balanced the neck along his cup's smooth edge, tilting the large container up as the drink guzzled into his glass. It almost overflowed, the way he was spacing out every few ounces. The club reeked of maraguana, and he grew skittish of being unintentionally hotboxed. He was a cop after all.

Malibu was probably the worst drink on God's green earth. Besides Pilsner, seriously: It tasted like high fructose ass. As a highschooler, the substance wasn't so bad. On the contrary, it used to be the only thing he wasn't pussy enough to down. Mixed with a little pineapple juice, some watermelon, a little cherry; the thing made for a nice cocktail. But, as the story goes, highschool-Dipper had no idea when he'd had enough, or when he was drunk or sober, or if the floor was shifting beneath his feet. Because of Malibu. Because it tasted like candy. Because it was so sweet, it was almost dangerous how easy it was to gulp. Because, after a few swigs, your ass pretty much blasted off. And he had. Hard. Woke up on the lawn with a raging headache and the worst possible up-chuck session. Last night's drinks came racing out, and it was the most repulsive thing he'd ever tasted.

He couldn't eat right for days.

Still, here he was, pouring himself a glass. The drink went down easily enough, his throat sucking down the imported rum like a humble practice of his. He hadn't even gotten a quarter of the way before feeling an ice-cold palm grab at his wrist.

"Woah there, tiger. You had enough yet?" Came a playful tone, not unlike Bill's, but perhaps an octave or two lower. Dipper didn't look from his drink, shifting his body with open hostility away from the stranger. The man only laughed. "You plan on finishing that bottle by yourself, tough guy?"

" Yes, I do." His eyes were trained on the dancers now, mildly fascinated by their suggestive movements. They really were beautiful...

"Mind if I have a sip? Something tells me you're about to buy out their rum supply." The mystery man's low voice was smooth as he let out a chuckle, grabbing the neck of the bottle to examine how much had already been gulped down. Not too much, considering what was left in Dipper's cup, but still a little fast for someone of his size.

"Don't touch my drink." Dipper didn't so much as look at him, eyes lidded as he stared ahead, taking yet another sip of his clear beverage. To his surprise, the man obeyed, putting it back where it belonged.

"Pardon." He said simply, a hint of sincerity in the lilt of his tone. This forced Dipper to snap him a look, though he cursed himself for allowing it. The man that sat before him was pale in every form; white, almost albino flesh with hollowed cheeks and a strong chin. Night black hair, greased and combed back so sternly, it was almost cartoonish. His eyes bore a blackness about them, like splats of pen ink dripping along the outline of newly laid snow. He wore a crimson red suit, stripped with the thin lining of needle and thread with golden strings. A slim figure, gangly and thin, though oddly broad and brawny under a certain light. "I suppose I can just buy my own drink." Dipper frowned at him, looking him up and down for any sign of insincerity. But, the man's features were light. Comfortable. Seemingly honest. Dipper took a moment, rolling his nimble finger over the tip of his glass before sighing heavily.

"Uh, bartender." He lifted himself slightly, hand raised towards him with a single finger. "Can I get an extra glass, please?"

The bartender, in all his masculine glory, looked mildly stunned for some reason. Looking from Dipper to the pale man, he gave a questioning expression. He grabbed the cup though, bringing the requested dishware to the counter. And, with a look of indifference, Dipper slid the glass his way. What else could he do? He hated drinking alone.

"Thanks." The man said simply.

"Whatever." Dipper shrugged, uncaring as he was met with the halfway mark of his drink. He didn't feel anything yet, but he was wary of it. Dipper wasn't a fool. He knew it'd hit his system eventually. "Nice suit." His voice was almost mocking, preserved only by the blatant honesty he held himself with.

"You think so? I thought it was a bit much." The man pulled at the corners of his jacket, examining the interior of silk with uncertainty. Dipper couldn't help but snort.

"No, you're good. I know a guy who pretty much sleeps in a tux." He tilted his head back, downing another quarter of his glass. He could pick out the soft swirl of the room now. "I swear. That guy ever dies in his sleep, just pack him up. He's ready to go."

"Hmm." The man said simply, taking his cup. He poured himself a small drink, far less than what was in Dipper's cup, but still enough for a light buzz. "You got something against guys in suits?"

" Yup ." Dipper said, popping the 'p '. He was almost at the bottle of his glass. "The guy I'm working with is a serious ass."

"Really? What kind of work do you do?" Dipper almost rolled his eyes at the question. Like this guy couldn't tell.

"I'm a jewish missionary." He slurred coldly.

"Jewish?"

"Or catholic, I guess. Depends on what you need saving from." Dipper shrugged his shoulders once more, slouching as he finished his first glass. His arm moved reflexively to grab the bottle once more, unscrew it, and pour it out in his glass.

"Is being gay enough?" The man joked. Dipper said nothing, having spaced out as he watched the graceful dancers lift their thin legs and circle the poles effortlessly. His head turned back soon after, having just barely processed his question.

"What do you think I'm here for? I've come to detoxify your people." Dipper lifted his drink slightly, using his free finger to point woozily; gesturing to the man's being, then the whole of the club before setting his beverage back down.

"Seems to me you're having the opposite effect." He laughed softly, hands going to smooth over the bar's counter. His nails were long at the tips, rounding softly as a white line topped his flushed pink fingers. "Ever consider converting?"

"Sorry. Can't. I'm all about spreading the word." Dipper twisted his whole body to face the man. He placed his right hand against his forehead, then to the center of his chest; tapped his right shoulder, then his left, displaying himself with a sign of the cross before turning back to grab his drink. " L'chaim ." He raised his glass in a lack-luster cheer before taking a long sip, eyes open and lidded with the beautiful apathy of a china doll. The mystery man only laughed, propping his chin up, grinning softly.

"So it seems..." He drew out slowly, looking to the bartender with an oddly demanding look. They made eye contact, the pale male lifting an eyebrow expectantly before the employee moved to the other end, out of ear shot. "Really, though. What's your work? Drugs? Trafficking? You dip your hands in the murder business before?" Dipper leaned forward, a large man having cut off his view of the dancers, trying to peek around his large shoulders. No such luck. Turning to eye the man loosely, he brought his drink to his lips once more.

"What does it look like I do?" Dipper answered his question with a question of his own. Fuck it. He'd let the guy make up his own mind. It wasn't up to him to be upfront, and if the guy jumped to conclusions, that was his fault.

"Like you work the corner." He responded boldly.

" Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding !" The bumping music used for the dancers switched from its consistently fast-paced jams. A slower, more sensual kind of song picked up tempo. "How'd you guess? What gave it away?"

"The latex." He joked, gesturing towards the tight shorts clasped around Dipper's lower regions. "Hard believing you'd do missionary work wearing something of the same material as a condom."

"You'd be surprised what I wear." Dipper looked down at his second drink; already gone. Time for a third round. But, reaching for the bottle, he caught sight of the man's half-full cup. He'd hardly sipped on it. A small wave of shame passed over him as he took a moment to analyze the mounting swirl of his mind. A little more. Just a little more, and he'd be made of light.

"Was that a tease? " He cooed, leaning in. His elbow slid smoothly against the table's surface as he quickly grew comfortable. "We just met, though. I don't even know your name , little one." His voice was hurt, but those eyes... They were bright as headlights. Thirsty. Literally thirsty. Like he might shrivel up and die of dehydration. It was all a chase, wasn't it? From when he sat down and asked to share a drink, it was planned. Most likely practiced, in fact. A kind of calling card, the way he acted towards prostituted and sugar babies all uncharacteristically polite. Because, who wouldn't fall for such a gentleman?

As it was, Dipper wasn't in the least bit hurt by his simultaneous revolation. Oddly enough, he was almost moved . Not that he was dolled up like Barbie or anything, but it hadn't been easy keeping these guys' hands off of him all night. On the contrary, it'd been near impossible. A few drifting hands. Dancing fingers on the edge of his seat cushion. Acrylic nails shifting along the tips of his hair, admiring the way they bounced when Dipper snapped his head around at them. It was like a constant stream of palms and knuckles, nudging and groping him from every angle, with the subtle motions of one hoping to feel without being felt. It nerved him endlessly.

And the man hadn't seemed any more honorable. Those hands could've done anything. Pressed a thumb against his right cheek. Dragged his ring finger along Dipper's porcelain tummy. Outright drugged his drink. Oh, yes. He kept a close eye on his glass the entire time. But, the man sat tall. Straight, with kind features. An honest smile. Clean, white teeth with pointed canines and almost non-existent spacing. Truth be told, he hadn't so much as shifted to touch Dipper. No. His hands stayed against the table, or on his chin, or sitting pleasantly against the counter, fingers folded with grace. Not touching Dipper, but hoping for an entrance. It was admirable.

"Do you need to know my name?" Dipper asked.

"It'd be nice. I might use it later."

He seemed like a respectable man. At least within the confinements of such a dank establishment. Dipper tried to imagine a human like him outside of this part of town; this building; instead, in the stuffy atmosphere of a small cubical, placed on the sixth floor of some high-performance corporation that planted one tree for every two they cut down. But, his mind was mottled by the third drink hitting his lips. It was simply thought that, in the mists of this chaotic world, he'd fit in about as well as any reasonable being. Which wasn't a poor grade for a man he'd met in a strip club, but still not the finest.

"And, what would you use it for?"

"Depends on how the night goes."

Dipper was hesitant to introduce himself. It was a given not to announce his full name, but even 'Dipper' sounded a bit exposing when up against someone with such blunt mannerisms. Maybe a name was giving him too much. Maybe it was dangerous.

"Sounds like you've got your evening planned out." Dipper smirked. "What if I say ' no' ?"

"I can at least tell people who it was that blue-balled me."

Who knew what this guy was like? He could be all around Gravity Falls, hearing about the GFPD's CSI agent ' Dipper Pines' all day. And how many people in the world were named ' Dipper?' To his own knowledge: One. There weren't many ways to come back from that. There was only one outcome to that: A few stumbles, some stammering as Dipper broke out in a sweat, racking his mind for explanations as to why he was named after a cop, and why it wasn't suspicious, only to be lynched on one of the strip poles. No. It was in poor taste. He needed an alias. A small cover-up for this case.

Something soft whispered to him from the back of his mind. A low growl at first. A flicker of a blue flame; a sharp turn. It moaned greavingly, almost in a cry of being forgotten. The smallest of phrases bouncing in the basement of his mind, rattling crassly with short shifts in tone. First low, soft, quiet. Then, louder it went. Just barely slipping beyond a red line Dipper'd drawn up long ago, forcing all specified memories behind it. It tiptoed ahead to the front of his brain, and before he could second-guess himself, the name slipped out.

"Pine tree." Dipper answered awkwardly. Uneven. A lifting feeling in his chest quickly assured him he was fond of the title. Though annoyed, he couldn't go back on it. And, oddly enough, there grew a warmth from the name. Something pet-like. Familiar. Nostalgic. He'd hated the name before, and in a sense still did. But, wasn't it a charming name? "You can call me pine tree." Dipper repeated, voice trained to reimburse him for previous doubt. The man smiled.

"Pine tree?" He tested the name, only to nod. "Nice to meet you, pine tree. I'm Mr. Fang." He held out his long, white hand in an act of companionship, waiting for Dipper to grab on. He did, flinching slightly as Mr. Fang's cold grip. Like ice.

" 'Mr'? " Dipper mused. "What's an honorific supposed to mean in this part of town?" He giggled cutely, having finished his third drink without so much as a pause. A sweet hiccup passing his lips was enough to deprive his statement of any hanis mockery, though Fang didn't seem offended either way. It was silly to Dipper, the idea of someone using professional titles like ' Mr' and ' Mrs' in the same area as a drug cartel. It was out of place; the suit; the smile; the 'Mr', currently scoping out a hooker. Almost backwards as Mr. Fang crossed one leg over the other, smoothing his hair back with clean, clipped nails. He smiled funnily at Dipper, like he'd said something wonderfully amusing.

"What else? It means I own a gay strip club."