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“YYYYYYEEEEEE - YYYYYYAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!” I scream at the top of my voice, doing my best Little John impersonation.
“WWWWWWHHHHHHAAAAAATTTTTT!!!!!!” I hear the response come from the middle of the crowd. Good, at least somebody here is on the same wavelength as me.
“OOOOOOHHHHHH - KKKKKKAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!!” Again I scream.
“GET IT CCCCCCRRRRRRUUUUUUNNNNNNKKKKKK!!!!!!” A response comes once more.
If it wasn’t for the two voices involved being male, an outside observer oblivious to the ludicrous nature of the human species, could be forgiven for thinking of this as a mating call.
They would be mistaken.
Rather this should be considered a war cry of sorts. It’s an announcement. A message that should be heard by everybody in the vicinity:
Lee Stone is here.
How much should I bet that you didn’t catch what I did there? Bitches and gentlefucks, the above statement transcends any notions of reality that you may have. It crosses boundaries and speaks not only to those nocturnal creatures that reside in the habitat I have just entered, but it literally screams out at you, sitting there in your personalized variation of the computer chair. Allow me to repeat myself, just in case you missed it the first time:
Lee Stone is here.
Now apparently it’s all the rage these days to run things in threes, whether it be a trilogy of movies progressively getting more and more terrible; the classic image of the Holy Trinity as the Father, Son and Holy Ghost; or the more appropriate and relevant triplet used to emphasize a point. So in an effort to win a little personal battle of my own and actually both act like and appeal to what is considered the norm I will repeat myself once more, but I’d like you to afford me one luxury this time. Say this statement in two pieces. Draw a line right down the middle so if each word weighed the same, regardless of size, this sentence would be capable of balancing the scales. Here, I’ll even help you out by providing some useful punctuation:
Lee Stone… is here.
The effect is now apparent. By mere repetition and a slowed speech, similar to the techniques that you’d use when talking to a mentally retarded person *cough*Dynamic Dynamite*cough*, I have successfully raised the hairs on the back of your neck. The sensation that currently sweeps over you is that of awe. Will you be swept away by it?
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
It’s an immeasurable force. There are no joules or calories. No grams or pounds. No litres. No gallons. No metres, feet, hectares or acres. There are no Newton’s or whatever other term scientists have coined to describe something that would otherwise be, and technically still is, unable to be grasped by most of society. It’s one of few certainties in life. It’s the difference from being frozen in fear and saving the day. It’s what allows me to walk into this dimly lit room, act in a manner that can only be described as moronic, and still not quiver in my metaphorical booties.
I don’t feel that sensation, and it’s for one reason only.
There are none above me.
Yeah, I know how that makes me sound. Trust me. I’d have thought by now that you’d all understand that. I know it. I’m an egotistical jackass. Big fucking surprise there. I’ve worked very hard to achieve the level of notoriety that my ego has attained. It should be expected that I flaunt it at every possible moment.
But as can only be done by a celebrity who has far too much time on their hands and far too much confidence in their own abilities – hence the previous paragraph – some form of “humanitarian” effect is bound to occur. Case in point, Bono, but here’s a question I’d now like to pose to you all.
What is my “humanitarian” effect?
Now again I obviously show further proof that I do indeed love myself more than anything else in existence and believe that I’m doing something worthwhile, but as I stand in this frightfully symbolic darkness on this night, frankly my dear, I just don’t give a damn.
This is my world.
Again with the ego, but it’s the truth. You are all just guests in my alcohol fuelled rave. Of course, once more I have just flipped the reality lines on their unreal heads. This club is called VIP. And it’s proprietor just so happens to go by the name of Leroy Bruce Stone.
This is my world.
It has been modelled around my philosophies. A circle bar is located in the middle of the room, access to it provided on the full 360 degree circumference for patrons, and a “Stairway to Heaven” for the staff. Strobe lights are located around the entire room, which in turn is also a circle, and speakers are located everywhere the strobe lights are, effectively eradicating the notion of a designated dance floor. Dance where you want to dance.
And it appears that people are doing just that. So as the sweaty corpses grind against each other, I push past to the inner sanctum. Sliding across the bar, I momentarily deliberate on whether or not my staff will be cleaning the area where my heiny just caressed the benchtop, before one of the commoners shaking their groove thing out there desire to purchase anything. But my hygienic uncertainties promptly subside and I’m left leaning on the benchtop in question, staring out from behind my inescapable yet suitably themed cornerless prison. I first find another piece of my soul still intact as I share another thought for the wellbeing of others, and I consider actually having a door installed to this round table. Again the thought evaporates. My precious ring will not be touched. Besides, I find it a little appropriate that the only access provided to this pen is from within, if you catch my drift. I even nod and smile a little. After all…
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