Real men sweat and wrestle: Arthur Breur pressed down on the other man’s back, cradling him in his arms.
“Wrestle!” the coach barked, and then Breur’s only thought was domination, pinning the other man down, forcing him to submit.
New spin on the ‘burbs: Here comes DJ Neo, 22 years old, stack of CDs in one hand, cell phone in the other, striding toward the doorway of Club Quench.
He is late. Club employees have already left him voice mails to the effect that he should drop whatever unmanly pursuit he is no doubt engaged in and get his posterior here, pronto. He was stuck in traffic, he claims.
He glides through the doors and into his occasional kingdom. It’s a big, plush space, almost like a big-city nightclub except for the neon Brandon landscape outside: Arby’s, Wendy’s, Applebee’s.
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