Anja and Greta

Once upon a time in Los Angeles there lived a pair of exotic dancers from Finland named Anja and Greta. They had been best friends since their childhood in a small Lapland town well north of the Arctic Circle, and they worked together at a club on Hollywood Boulevard called Hollywood North. Despite its name, there was very little Nordic about the club; most of the dancers were salon-tanned, bottle-blonde and silicone-enhanced. Anja and Greta, however, had retained the milk-white skin and jet-black hair that spoke of their homeland at the top of the world, and their slender bodies remained free from surgical enhancements. However, each sported a tattoo: Anja’s name on Greta’s pretty behind, and Greta’s name on Anja’s.

The kind customers at Hollywood North adored Anja and Greta enthusiastically, turning out to see their shows every night, cheering enthusiastically at the very sight of the girls’ lustrous coal-black hair or the slim curve of their nude bodies. Whenever Anja and Greta would appear, the customers rained ten- and twenty-dollar bills down on stage and tucked them shyly into the matching black latex G-strings the two girls wore. When Anja would lean in close and kiss Greta (sort of), their tongues snaking out and undulating suggestively with only the barest hint of a touch, the chipped linoleum stage would become a tossed salad of tens, twenties and hundreds. Anja and Greta were very happy and the customers were even happier.

What’s more, despite their obvious success, Anja and Greta were so kind, gentle and considerate that they were favorites of the other dancers, who tended, normally, to be rather catty toward each other (especially the most successful girls). Anja and Greta never failed to clean up after themselves in the dressing room, and almost never complained or said a bad word about anyone. They even liked the customers, giggling to each other each night about what a good time they’d had lap-dancing before they went out for a cup of coffee at Madge’s Diner and then went home to their one-bedroom cottage in West Hollywood, nestled between the gay couple with three dogs and the screenwriter finishing his masterpiece.

The owner of the club, however, was married to a bitter washed-up porn star whose body had been tanned in a salon until it had wrinkled up and browned to an unnatural hue. She was constantly complaining about Anja and Greta, and saying that if they would only visit a tanning salon their pale skin wouldn’t hurt her ancient eyes whenever they took the stage. What’s worse, the customers who adored Anja and Greta were so excited about throwing their money onto the stage or tucking it into Anja and Greta’s G-strings that they forgot all about buying drinks, and as a result the club was now under some financial strain.

The owner was a kindly man, but he was meek in response to his wife’s constant nagging. He finally agreed to take action, and went to Anja and Greta as they were counting their money after a particularly successful evening.

“We, um, have an in-store performance at a smut shop in the Valley,” he said guiltily. “A limo will come by your apartment to pick you up at noon.”

Anja and Greta giggled and jumped up and down with enthusiasm — they had never had an in-store performance. “What should we wear?” they perkily asked the owner.

“Um… bikinis,” he said with a look of shame on his face. “And bring tanning oil.”

“Tanning oil?” puzzled Anja and Greta, but the owner had already slithered off miserably to tell his wife the news.

When the limousine picked up Anja and Greta at noon, they were still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes as they climbed into the limousine wearing only their matching white bikinis. The driver took them deep into the Valley, taking the 110 to the 5 to the 505 and then merging on to the 810 before shuffling north on the 15, or maybe it was the 5 to the 15 to the 505 to the 800 or something, or perhaps it was the 25 to the 214 to Santa Monica Boulevard, then North on the 622 past the Golden Gate Bridge. Anja and Greta hadn’t done a whole lot of driving in Finland. The two exotic dancers had begun to suspect something was not as it seemed. When the limousine pulled off the freeway, the two girls whispered to each other.

“Have you been watching the street signs?” Anja asked Greta.

“Yes. In case we need to get a cab back,” said Greta, nodding.

The limousine driver took them through a tangled maze of streets, which Anja catalogued in her brain. But when the driver pulled up into a strip mall and stopped at the shop marked “TANNING SALON,” they received an unexpected disappointment.

“Quick,” Anja said. “Do you know how we get back?”

“It had something to do with freeways,” said Greta nervously. “Um… I guess I should have taken notes.”

“Oh, shit,” said Anja.

“We’ll never get home!” said Greta miserably, feeling guilty.

“Don’t worry!” said Anja, and comforted Greta with a tender French kiss.

The two girls nervously entered the tanning salon.

“Hello?” asked Greta. “We’re here for the in-store appearance!” Finding no one in the shop, they went together down the hallway that led to the tanning booths.

Suddenly the owner’s wife appeared and barred the door behind them. “Hah! Now I’ve got you!” She shoved Anja into one of the booths and slammed the door while Greta gaped, astonished.

Snapping handcuffs on Greta’s wrists, the owner’s wife cackled as she turned the tanning booth on HIGH. “I’m going to cook that fish-belly slut into the prettiest little beach bunny you ever did see,” she said. “And then she’s going to dance for me!”

The owner’s wife leaned close to Greta and said “And you’re next, penguin-girl!”

Greta was so upset by the thought of her best friend cooked all brown and Venice by the owner’s wife that she neglected to point out that there were damned few penguins in Finland. Tears formed in Greta’s eyes as the owner’s wife forced her into the back storeroom and locked the door. But the clever Greta noticed that the circuit breaker was tucked into a corner of the storeroom, and she climbed on top of a giant can of tanning oil and with her perky nose flipped the breaker that said “TANNING BOOTH.”

The owner’s wife checked on Anja after an hour, but when Anja obediently put her behind up against the glass panel of the tanning booth, it was discovered by the owner’s wife to be as pearly white as when she began.

“Damn,” grumbled the owner’s wife. “She has less melanin than I thought. This is going to take a while.”

Anja had figured out that the tanning booth was not working properly, and was trying to figure out a way to escape. Meanwhile, Greta had found a transom window in the back storeroom and, still handcuffed, wriggled out through it, tearing off her bikini in the process. Now nude, she went around to the front of the shop.

“Help! Help!” she said as a handsome computer zillionaire in an Aston-Martin SUV pulled in to the tanning salon.

“Good lord!” said the zillionaire, amazed to discover a brunette stripper waiting for him handcuffed and nude as he entered the tanning salon. “I don’t remember calling ahead for entertainment!”

Tears in her eyes, Greta begged the zillionaire for help. “My boss’s evil wife has trapped my best friend in the booth! She’s trying to give her a tan!”

“How awful!” said the zillionaire. “I assume she doesn’t want one?”

“No, no,” wept Greta. “She looks just like me. We’re happy being pale!”

“And I’m happy with you pale, too,” said the zillionaire, giving Greta’s naked body a lustful and devouring glance.

Bewitched by the zillionaire’s handsomeness, Greta fell into his embrace, producing in him an immediate erection and a fervent desire to help this handcuffed exotic dancer no matter what the cost.

“I’ll save your friend,” said the zillionaire, and tiptoed deep into the shop.

Anja had managed to tear away a section of the tanning booth’s Naugahyde lining. She stretched it over her rear end and when the owner’s wife came up cackling “Let’s see, my pretty! Let’s see if you’re cooked brown yet!” Anja put her butt up against the tanning booth window with the cracked brown covering stretched over it.

“Perfect!” shrieked the owner’s wife, whipping open the tanning booth.

Anja, who had taken self-defense courses, planted an uppercut right on the wife’s face. At that moment, the zillionaire rushed into the room and kicked the wife squarely in the butt as Anja jumped out of the tanning booth.

“No!” shrieked the owner’s wife. “I’m as tan as I need to be!”

“Gee,” said Anja. “I think someone I know has said that before, bitch!”

Greta ran into the back and flipped the circuit breaker. The tanning booth hummed to life and the owner’s wife shrieked and disappeared into a puff of smoke.

“Thank you, thank you!” said Anja and Greta as they showered the zillionaire with kisses. “What ever can we do to repay you?”

“I can think of a few things,” said the handsome zillionaire lasciviously.

When they returned many hours later to the club the owner wept with relief, embracing them and saying “I thought she’d tan you for sure!”

“We made her disappear in a puff of smoke!” said Greta.

“Yeah, we really cooked her goose!”

“Oh, thank God!” said the owner, glad to be rid of his wife. “I’m sorry I ever listened to her! Please, please say you’ll continue to dance at my club!” begged the owner.

“Just the way we are?” asked Anja suspiciously.

“Yes, yes!” said the owner. “Just the way you are!”

And so Anja and Greta returned to Hollywood North, dancing with their milk-white skin intact. They married the zillionaire, living in a ménage à trois in his mansion at the top of Mulholland. The zillionaire was so enamored of his new wives that he visited them every night, watching them dance and cheering loudest of all when their tongues just barely touched. He even brought his zillionaire friends so he could show off his beautiful new wives (there were even a few bazillionaires, a gazillionaire or two and even one yadazillionaire). They all drank like fishes, so even the strip club owner was happy.

And they all lived happily ever after!

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