The Nightclub Owner and Pinky Pinky
I never thought I would write this. I never thought I would reach a point where I confess the truth behind my success. But what I am going through at home is heavier than my wealth, heavier than my nightclub, heavier than my pride. And if I don’t let it out, I feel like it will crush me.
People look at me and they see a successful nightclub owner. They see the flashy cars I drive, the designer clothes I wear, the expensive bottles I pop, the girls around me, and they say, “This man is winning.” But I wish they knew what I know. I wish they knew the price behind all of this.
I did not build my nightclub with just money, sweat, and hard work. I built it with Pinky Pinky.
Yes, a snake. Not the one people laugh about in school toilets, not just a joke to scare young girls. A real snake, living and breathing, sitting right inside my nightclub toilet. That’s my business partner, my source of wealth, my curse.
It started with desperation. Years ago, I was broke. My business ideas failed, I was in debt, and I was tired of being mocked by people who once looked up to me. I wanted respect, I wanted to shine, I wanted people to bow when I walked into a room. I went to people who deal with rituals, and they gave me a choice. They said, “If you want fast money, you must bring Pinky Pinky into your life. Put it in your nightclub toilet, and the snake will control your customers.”
At first I thought it was madness. But desperation makes you bold. I agreed.
The rituals were dark. Blood, chants, midnight offerings—I won’t even lie, I felt my soul leave me that night. But when it was done, the snake was mine. Pinky Pinky was placed in my toilet, and from that day on, everything changed.
You see, people think my nightclub is just “vibey.” They think it’s just the atmosphere, the lights, the sound, the alcohol. But the truth is, it’s Pinky Pinky pulling the strings.
Customers go into the toilet one way and come out another. They come out confused, more drunk, more excited, with an unexplainable hunger to spend money. Some even talk to themselves while they are in there. They laugh, whisper, answer voices, thinking it’s all in their heads. But it’s not. It’s the snake speaking back, sealing an invisible agreement. By the time they leave that toilet, the ritual is complete. Pinky Pinky has already hooked their pockets.
That’s why my toilets are different. People say my toilets feel “friendly.” They say strangers meet there and suddenly talk like old friends. They share secrets, exchange numbers, laugh loudly. But none of that is natural. It’s all an environment created by Pinky Pinky. The snake softens their spirits, lowers their guard, and makes them easy to manipulate. The atmosphere is fake, but it works. By the time they return to the dancefloor, they are puppets—spending recklessly, buying bottles they don’t need, competing for attention they don’t even understand.
That’s how my nightclub became number one in the city. That’s how my tills never run dry. People don’t even know they are sacrificing their own money to me. And I was proud of that. At least in the beginning.
But here is the thing they never told me: snakes don’t stay in one place forever.
At first, Pinky Pinky was content in the toilet. It fed off customers, it enjoyed the rituals I performed for it, and in return it gave me wealth. But slowly, it started moving beyond the club. It started coming home with me.
At night, I would hear hissing sounds under my bed. My wife would complain about nightmares—dark dreams of being touched, of being pulled into shadows. I brushed it off, thinking it was stress. But then she began to change.
She would wake up sweating, trembling, saying she felt something sliding between her thighs when I was asleep. She told me she felt a shadow making love to her. I laughed. I told her it was just her imagination. But deep down, I was afraid.
The night I saw it with my own eyes, my soul nearly left me. I woke up in the middle of the night and saw Pinky Pinky in our bed. Coiled around my wife’s waist, hissing softly, sliding into her like it owned her. She wasn’t fighting. She was half-asleep, moaning, powerless under its spell.
I tried to pull it off. It struck me so fast, the pain burned through my hand. And since that night, I’ve been cursed.
Every time I try to sleep with my wife, my manhood swells, burns, and becomes unbearably painful. It’s like fire between my legs. I can’t even finish, the pain is too much. It feels like Pinky Pinky is punishing me for touching what it now claims as its own.
My wife has stopped fighting it. She tells me she can’t control it anymore. She says the snake gives her strange dreams, dreams where she sees herself as a queen, dreams where she is worshipped, dreams where she is promised things even I can’t give her. She avoids me now. She says she doesn’t want me to suffer more pain.
I am a husband in name only. In my house, I am no longer the man. I am a shadow. I sleep next to a woman who is no longer fully mine.
Yes, I am rich. Yes, my nightclub is the most famous in the city. Yes, people respect me and fear me. But inside my own home, I am broken. My wealth tastes like ash in my mouth. Because what is the use of having money if your own wife is sleeping with your snake?
Sometimes I sit in the club, watching customers laugh and dance, watching them rush in and out of the toilets, thinking they are just having fun. And I feel sick. Because I know the truth. I know that what controls them now controls my wife. And one day, it will demand even more. Maybe my children. Maybe me.
I thought I was using the snake for money. But the truth is, the snake is using me.
This is my confession. My nightclub may be full of music and light, but behind it is darkness. I am not a king. I am not a boss. I am just another prisoner of Pinky Pinky.
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