Vancouver is raining again. What a surprise. And down on Seymour Street, the neon lights are buzzing like a dying fly. Since 1947, the Filippone brothers ran a tight ship. Steak dinners. Frank Sinatra. The Rat Pack. But now... The only thing getting stiff in here... Is the rigor mortis. (Heh. Death joke.) Welcome to The Penthouse, wipe your feet at the door We got girls on the stage and ghosts on the floor. It’s a historic venue for the exotic arts Where a phantom might touch your private parts. We got history, baby, we got mobster ties We got a poltergeist watching you unzip your fly. It’s hard to get a lap dance, it’s hard to feel heat When a spectral old man is staring at your meat! It’s The Penthouse! Where the spirits never leave! It’s The Penthouse! There’s a ghost in the weave! Come for the nudity, stay for the dread It’s the number one club for the horny and dead. The VIP room has a supernatural chill And Joe’s in the corner, looking over the till! There’s a woman in the washroom, she’s wearing all white. She’s crying in the mirror every Saturday night. Is she a dancer? Is she a patron? Is she a wraith? Does she require an exorcism or just some faith? And speaking of leaps, things are flying off the shelves. Glasses smashing on the floor, seemingly by themselves. Is it physics? Is it gravity? Is it a tectonic shift? Or is it a dead bouncer working the graveyard shift? (Get it? Graveyard shift. Because he's dead.) I wonder what it’s like to be a ghost in a strip club. Forever. Just... hovering. You can’t throw money. You have no money. You have no corporeal form. You’re just ectoplasm floating through a cloud of cheap perfume and desperation. Is this Hell? Is this Purgatory? Or is it just... Vancouver real estate prices keeping you from moving on? Joe Filippone is still walking the halls. Checking the lights. Checking the books. Micromanaging eternity. Because even in death... You have to protect the brand. THE JUKEBOX TURNS ON BY ITSELF! (Ontz! Ontz! Ontz!) THE GHOST WANTS TO HEAR MOTLEY CRUE! (Ontz! Ontz! Ontz!) A CHAIR JUST MOVED ACROSS THE ROOM! (Ontz! Ontz! Ontz!) IT'S PARANORMAL ACTIVITY WITH PASTIES! EVERYBODY SCREAM! So come on down to The Penthouse. Pay the cover charge. Ignore the cold spots. Ignore the feeling that you are being judged by a spirit from 1955. We’re all just ghosts in a meat suit anyway, right? (Right?) Enjoy the show. Don't touch the dancers. Especially the see-through ones.
