On behalf of mankind I shoved off the sofa and headed to town in need of a story.

I was soon intercepted by a dude, thirty-something and although drunk, not slurring.

I’m Alexander the Great. What’s your name?

Cleopatra. I think we are going to get along.

Don’t call yourself Cleopatra, you sound like one of the strippers.

Well, Alexander the Great, I’m looking for a story.

I’ll get you a story. Follow me.

When I realized we were headed for the strip club, I balked.

There’s no cover charge, I know everybody there. Any case I have to go back to pay my tab. I was in earlier.

Alexander was greeted like a returning hero. Indeed he knew everyone by first name, even if those names were suspiciously inventive.

We lolled at the bar and chatted with the dancers who were playful with Alexander despite knowing he wouldn’t be handing out bills. They didn’t seem to care. It was obvious they liked him.

We assessed asses as if we were shopping at a market. Alexander indicated the best body belonged to the bartender; a blonde twenty-something who never takes her clothes off yet flashes fulsome breasts.

The nearly naked ladies were mesmerizing with sculptures for bodies. Confidence goes well with high heels and glitter.

So here’s this fellow, this Alexander the Great, a mechanic of a sort, he moved to Key West from some place cold. He came here, as he says, to make money and live a decent life. He is three-quarters covered with tattoos that suggest an elaborate past, the real story, which I’ll never get. All I mined was he owns his business and is a master of his time. Smart guy. Of the little I gathered I had to agree Alexander’s life is great.