The pink polecat

There were two gentleman's clubs in town: the Pink Pussycat and the Pink Polecat. The Pink Pussycat was talked about, generally only by a certain kind of man, and there were tourist maps that, without exactly mentioning it, would have a little pink cat icon situated more-or-less where the club was. The kind of man who talked about it was rarely a gentleman, though he was also the kind of man who would visit it. For the steak, he would assert. They do a good steak there, for a very reasonable price. And his listeners, who would also be that kind of man (or occasionally a confused, possibly lost, tourist), would nod sagely and agree in low tones and murmurs that were never so crass as to actually, vocally, commit themselves. The ladies who worked at the club were also not gentlemen, though there were those matrons of the town whose quietly voiced opinion it was that they also weren't ladies. All in all, to those of an inquisitive and thoughtful nature, it was a little mystery as to why it should be called a gentleman's club at all.
The Pink Polecat, which was on no tourist maps at all and who had paid Google handsomely to not be part of their mapping project, was for the other kind of gentleman. This kind of gentlemen was unconcerned by the quality (or the nature) of the food and was disinterested in entertainment of most sorts. This kind of gentleman had a strong Puritan streak, a work-ethic that put illegal aliens in oppressed minorities to shame, and a desire for secrecy that occasionally results in actions that might, by the less intelligent, be deemed murder. Or genocide.
The Pink Pussycat advertised discretely, frequently by word of mouth, and required that visitors were members, though membership could be purchased at a very reasonable price on the door providing the visitor seemed well-dressed, well-mannered and capable of keeping their hands to themselves.
The Pink Polecat didn't advertise at all and had a membership process that first required the applicant to avoid being killed by a variety of amusingly-located booby-traps. There was a probation period, during which time the applicant ran the risk of becoming someone else's experiment, and even membership didn't guarantee survival. The Pink Polecat believed firmly in survival of the fittest.
The curious thing about the two venues then, was that they shared premises.
The Pink Polecat had been first, setting up in a large, manorious dwelling-house on Scooter Street. The previous occupant, Miss Vivien duLac, had been called up to Broadway to chorus with the girls and had skipped town without paying two months rent. Joshua Goddestown had seen an opportunity and stepped in, paying both the back-rent and six months in advance, and had then boarded up all the windows, locked and bolted all the doors, and retired to work in solitude. The townsfolk, none of whom would countenance a gossip, gossiped merrily until three young boys attempted to spend the night there as a fraternity initiation. Joshua summarily evicted them, and they, to spite him, told the town of the fleshpot he was building there.
So Joshua built one, called it the Pink Pussycat, and denied the three boys membership, telling them that it was a lifetime ban.
Behind the scenes though, Joshua and his friends, a small coterie of like-minded individuals, began to design a new town, one suitable for gentlemen like themselves. And so the Pink Polecat acquired a name, a tenuous goal, and the disguise of being a house of ill-repute.