|DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? (standard:Flash, 700 words)|
|Author: Danny Zil||Added: May 31 2013||Views/Reads: 1537/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This angry doorman wants to bring down the famous rock star a peg or two.|
DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? Them rich punk bastards. Rock stars, movie stars, sports stars. They're always pullin that ‘Do you know who I am?' fuckin crap. Any time they get in trouble with the cops or they're tryin to weasel in to a restaurant or somewhere it's always the ‘Do you know who I am?' bullshit. Seriously gets on my fuckin tits. Tonite we got us a Rock Star Cunt comin here. I'm on the front door squad. The boss. If he pulls any of that ‘Do you know who I am?' shit with me, I'll be ready for him. Rules have changed, see. Used ta be the big stars could park their big star cars out front of the venue. This was causin too many traffic problems so now they have to park them round the side. So when Rock Star Cunt arrives, he'll prob'ly park out front. Jump outa his shiny rock star car an leave it there. That's when I'll step in. ‘Excuse me, sir,' I'll say. ‘You can't park out front anymore. Has to be round the side.' Rock Star Cunt will look at me. Amazed that a mere door guy is tellin him what to do. Then it'll be the ‘Do you know who I am?' bullshit. I'll just grin an say, ‘Why, have you forgotten!?' or, ‘You got memory loss from a knock on the head!?' or, ‘Your brain been frazzled by too many drugs!?' Yep, I'll be ready for the bastard. I'm not sayin who he is or where I work cos they'll both prob'ly sue me. The rat's a Rock Star Cunt. Mid-twenties. Long black hair. Earring. Tattoos. More women in a year than I've had in my life. His fuckin car'll be worth more'n my poxy apartment. The bastard. So I'm standin there waitin. Ready for the cunt. Place is surrounded by all his screamin fans. Film premiere. I'm out front an carryin a hidden piece. Glock 19. Shouldn't have to use it on him but I will. Fuckin rat bag. Earns more in a month than I do in five years. I'm holdin down two jobs just now plus this shit. Hope he goes crazy on me. Then I can pull the Glock on him. Here comes the shit now. He's drivin. Christ that car must be worth a coupla hundred grand. There's a blonde bimbo beside him. Jeeze, what a pair on her. Could balance an ashtray on the fuckers. Rock Star Cunt parks up an jumps out. Waves to the screamin mob. Goes round an opens the door for Bimbo. Christ, she's got a skirt up to her ass. Man I could spend a long time just kissin those bare suntanned thighs. Rock Star Cunt an Bimbo come up the stairs. I stroll forward an hold out my hand an stop him. “Excuse me, sir,” I say, “but the rules have changed. No parkin out front anymore. Traffic was getting blocked. Everybody has to park round the side.” Rock Star Cunt looks at me in surprise. Turns an grins at Bimbo. Turns back an grins at me. He's gonna say it. I know he's gonna say it. Come on, come on, say it. Say it you son of a bitch. Say, ‘Do you know who I am?' Just say it you fucker. Rock Star Cunt looks back at the sports car. Looks back at me. “Do you know,” he starts off. That's it! Come on, say it you bastard! Say it!! Say it!!! “Do you know, I think you're right, man,” he says. “Can see how it'll block the traffic.” He grins at Bimbo. “Be right back, baby. Won't take but two minutes.” Rock Star Cunt strolls back to the sports car. Jumps in and drives it round the side. All the fans screamin. So am I. Inside. He strolls back. “Hey bro, thanks for keepin me right,” he says. He takes out a wad of hundreds thick as your wrist. Peels off a couple. Sticks them in my top pocket. “Have a drink on me, dude,” he says. He puts his arm round Bimbo's waist an they stroll off up the red carpet. The bastard. Tweet
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