As Bradley Fitzbooniack walked into the bar, the sheen from his wing-tips reflected his shadow on the ceiling.
He wore a suit of the finest zoot and a matching hat with a yellow feather, and from what he could see, this place was wall to wall pulchritude.
He spied the blondest babe of all at the bar and sidled up to her. “Say, there, toots. I noticed you noticing me. I’m putting your noticing skills on notice, see?”
She turned to look at him. She HADN’T noticed him, actually, but she was now quite… I guess intrigued is a fair description. Brad continued, his brow beginning to sweat, for, while extolling his virtues, he was also doing a jitterbug/box-step combo of his own invention.
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She started to speak, but Brad put a finger up to her mouth. “Shh. You’re a real pip but you should be seen, not heard. You’d be big in Japan. Seriously, those people are tiny…”
The blonde walked away. “Your loss,” Bradley called after her. He looked at the unimpressed bartender. “Probably a lesbo.”
Bradley dropped three more bennies. The night was young, and overcompensation springs eternal.