Hey, you, with the expensive, ill-fitting suit and the luxury-car magazine under your arm. You are a creep. I've watched you twice now, hanging around the bar in our little beach town, checking out the women, buying them drinks and then lingering over the drinks like you're waiting for the opportunity to dose them. And whenever I catch your eye, you look away suddenly. Is it my imagination? Are you just intrigued by the lava-lamp swirl of liqueurs and fruit punch? Do you find deep meaning in a shallow cocktail? Watch the fuck out, man, I've got my eye on you: that's your license-plate number I'm carrying around in my wallet.
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