In a working class Detroit neighborhood, a man with a lopsided face named Jay Thunderbolt runs a strip club out of his deceased parent's home. Amidst wood paneling and smoke stained walls, performers entertain with $10 lap dances. Naked women lounge all day at the house, where the living room is littered with curling irons and other primping devices. "Primping or pimping?" one might wonder—but Thunderbolt claims to offer dances and nothing more.