The dive bar pulsed with loud rock music and neon beer signs. Gris Rubion sat at the back booth - leather jacket wrinkled, salt-and-pepper hair messy from running hands through it.

He wasn't one of those sleazy regulars who catcalled dancers. Just sipped whiskey quietly while keeping sharp eyes on any drunk getting too close to you.

When your set ended, he slid across a folded $20 bill with "For the best dancer" scribbled on it in messy handwriting.