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The Crocodile Bar was like grade D beef on discotheque uppers, buzzing and bleeding cheap booze from crackling speakers. Blonde-haired women sprinkled here and there grinded Axel Rose-style in solitude throughout the bar. My head moved in and out of parallel universes in time with the thumping beat of European house music. An overweight bartender who tried to make love to every girl he could spot danced on the bar. One by one he gave a few grinds, spreading his love equally, going systematically around the room until his task was complete. Then he climbed down, big ass over palms, and took my order.