DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

A Story by Danny Zil

This angry doorman wants to bring down the famous rock star a peg or two.

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

Them rich punk b******s. Rock stars, movie stars, sports stars. They’re always pullin that ‘Do you know who I am?’ f****n 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 f****n tits.

Tonite we got us a Rock Star C**t comin here. I’m on the front door squad. The boss. If he pulls any of that ‘Do you know who I am?’ s**t 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 C**t 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 C**t 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 b*****d.

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 C**t. Mid-twenties. Long black hair. Earring. Tattoos. More women in a year than I’ve had in my life. His f****n car’ll be worth more’n my poxy apartment. The b*****d.

So I’m standin there waitin. Ready for the c**t. 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.

F****n rat bag. Earns more in a month than I do in five years. I’m holdin down two jobs just now plus this s**t. Hope he goes crazy on me. Then I can pull the Glock on him.

Here comes the s**t 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 C**t 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 a*s. Man I could spend a long time just kissin those bare suntanned thighs.

Rock Star C**t 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 C**t 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 b***h. Say, ‘Do you know who I am?’ Just say it you f****r.

Rock Star C**t looks back at the sports car. Looks back at me.

“Do you know,” he starts off.

That’s it! Come on, say it you b*****d! 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 C**t 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 b*****d.