Rupert Kingsley
Rupert Kingsley the proprietor of the Swan Song’s spent the last few hours hoping against hope itself that the trio of man-children would lose interest tonight’s event and go be someone else’s problem, but the influx of professional looking security dashed any hope of the taking place. The business owner placed his head into his hands as the head security guard bent down to inform him of the eta of the group. There was just no saying no to these people as permission to them was just a formality; decline their requests and they’d just show up anyways with a newfound intent to wreck your establishment. At least the passive route to these shenanigan spreaders ensured the relative safety of his shop, but most importantly guaranteed that a decent donation to the
Soothing the Sol Charity would be received from Vencorp International. It was rather sad that despite the plethora of potential that these lads had for global good they instead were some of stingiest scrooges he ever heard of when it came to giving back to their fellow man and if reports were to be believed their combined charitable donations were shockingly miniscule; it spoke volumes that they had to be strong armed into giving something back to their adoptive community. As the head guard from earlier lead him to the small stage Rupert felt akin to a prisoner of a terrorist group being forced to read a prepared statement that denounced one's core beliefs.
After Max finished his cover song two of those outside security guards of lesser ranks saw fit to make sure the twenty-eight-year-old wasn’t going to make this a set and motioned from him and the band to leave the stage; their demeanor suggested the matter was not up for debate. These guys did not look like pushovers in fact they looked like they just wanted someone to give them an excuse to lash out.
A microphone was forced into his clammy hands, but before Rupert could utter a single word there was a splattering of applause from the assembled audience that up until this point seemed to be mostly enjoying themselves.
“Max Summerson ladies and gentleman. What a talent. What a talent. And the band…Wow what a great band. Am I right. Uh, well you may be wondering what this unexpected interruption is for as it was certainly not in the itinerary of today’s events…”
He felt confusion generally overtake the audience, heard some uncomfortable chuckles, and felt the proverbial daggers being stared at him by the assembled jazz and blues musicians.
“Some detractors have taken to calling our beloved Sol City the Human Zoo as of late. And….And in certain respects I hate to admit that they might be right. Tonight, I am begrudgingly forced to cede time from showcasing the importance of music to multi-billion dollar sideshows for the benefit of their massive egos and for what can loosely be called the press. Send in the accursed clowns and let’s get this bloody charade over with.” Rupert angrily tossed the microphone at the seething security guard and stormed off stage towards his seat in the back. He thought he heard his old friend and fellow audiophile Merle cry out ‘Give em Hell Rupe’, but it was almost impossible to hear over the cacophony of nose emanating from entrance. Send in the clowns indeed Rupert thought the head security guard approached likely with the intent to chew him out for not sticking to script.
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Sasha Zhenya Kuznetsov
As the helicopter touched down Sasha contemplated doing a line of cocaine, but refrained from doing so as he desired a clear head for his upcoming performance. In addition to the assembled shutterbugs there was large also swell of sycophants crowding the descending stairs of helicopter; toadies and bootlickers of all varieties who just wanted the runoff of the attention the triumvirate had heaped up them by the establishment. These hanger-ons were perhaps the most diverse group of eccentrics outside of the Howard Stern show as local rappers and less than scrupulous athletes mingled with the city’s premier fashionistas and oddball performance artists; infamous woo-peddler Dr. Allister Huxley was also in attendance and he was currently talking the ear off of a washed up former child star from the 90’s whilst a correspondent from a local gossip rag furiously transcribed the conversation like it was the word of God almighty. A few guards wielding submachine guns exited the luxurious interior of the helicopter once the all clear was given and forcefully parted the swelling swarm of people; once a pathway to the entrance was secured a red carpet was unfurled and the trio were ushered off the illegally parked Sikorsky S-92 VVIP Configuration Helicopter. Lupe Amor Asís was the first of three to emerge Cuban cigar wedged in his mouth his large frame flanked by his team of social media engineers who were responsible for managing his extensive online presence. Clad in his trademark outfit a blue Lacoste Chevron Stripe Track Suit, Red retro Air Jordan’s, and Cazal sunglasses he slowly made his way down the stairs w looking like a prototype Sacha Baron Cohen character that was abandoned at the last minute for being too unbelievable. His hands were adorned with rings from various championship winning sports teams that he never played on; these false accomplishments coupled with the fact he had his private security force beat up people for his own amusement only fueled his reputation as a modern-day Commodus. Once he was on the carpet two twin blondes tepidly rushed down the stairs of the chopper pushing past the social media team to personally escort Lupe into the building; one of the beautiful women carried a golden chalice formerly belonging to disposed Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi which was nowadays used to hold the putrid concoction known on the streets as Purple Drink or Lean. The escorts looked uncomfortable being so close to the infamous womanizer and despite insurances that they were just eye candy they did not trust the fat man’s intentions.
Khorshid Dana Charmchi followed shortly after almost falling down the stairs ala Gerald Ford. He was wearing a Ralph Lauren floral pattern jacket over a puffy blouse; he also had as a testament to his fervent belief in pseudoscience and the supernatural a very expensive pink crystal hanging from a platinum chain around his neck. He is accompanied by a personal bodyguard, servant, and lover known only as Bob; when Khorshid was a freshman and cheerleader at Yale a hotline psychic predicted that a stranger who in the next few months introduced himself as with a name starting with a B would save the young man’s life someday. Bob who was at employed as a barista at a coffee shop on campus when he had the misfortune of introducing himself to the superstitious cheerleader within the vague time period mentioned by the psychic. At first the pair enjoyed a platonic friendship sputtered with little trysts here and there, but soon Khorshid became jealous of Bob’s overall devotion to his wife. Khorshid spent a vast fortune wearing down Bob essentially ruining his life and marriage until the broken man had no choice, but to swear himself mind, body, and soul to his tormentor. If one was too look into Bob’s eyes they might become lost in the depths of his despair. Khorshid aloofly skipped after his large Cuban friend his long curly black hair blowing in the wind as Bob lingered behind looking like a long-broken man just going through the motions of life.
With his acquaintances gone Sasha once again considered taking his nostrils on a proverbial sleigh ride through the snow, but managed to bury his decadent urges for the time being. He had to stay focused on the task as it was up to him to bring a little culture to this drab little city. He applied a little powder to his face before exiting the cabin.
Sasha looked resplendent in his
oufit which was comprised of a Jil Sander Black Tank Top, Lavan violet windbreaker jacket, Maison Margiela tapered wool-flannel drawstring trousers, Christian Louboutin platform ankle boots, Tom Ford stripped brown square sunglasses, and a Ippolita 18-karat gold cross necklace. He walked at a slighter slower pace than his cohorts letting the photographers snap pictures of his splendor as like a living work of art he was on display for all to bask in his glory. While initial applause was scattered Sasha chalked it up to jealousy, he was one of the beautiful ones after all and it was no surprise that his mere presence would stun the unfashionable into shameful silence.
If one was outside to watch the scene unravel they would be stunned by the sheer cacophony of sights and sounds… tabloid journalists yelling questions that largely went unanswered, the flashing of cameras taking a steady rotation of shots, car horns from angry drivers stuck behind the makeshift barricade, sporadic applause from the brownnosers, the shuffling of a multitude of feet, and so on. It was equivalent to all the acts of a circus entering the big top at once.
The group, their followers, and more paparazzi entered toward the end of Rupert’s tirade. The trio were slowly making their way towards the stage from the entrance. Guards who fanned out ahead were pushing the hapless out of the way of the procession. A cordless microphone was eventually brought to Lupe.
“You dirty fuckin’ mutt. We three humble wisemen…we three great kings…the triumphant triumvirate take time out from our busy schedules to grace this lowly establishment with our presence and you dare treat us with disrespect old timer. Homeboy you actin’ like you want me to beat some r-e-s-p-e-c-t into those tired old bones. Even here in Sol Shitty you must know I ain’t ever lost a fight. Check my Instagram playa. I can beat you with one punch…man." Lupe stops to take a long puff of his cigar before tossing it into the crowd causing people to scatter.
Sasha never to be outdone makes his way to the front of the group seizing the microphone.
“I get that you lash out in jealousy because as you inch ever closer to your eventual expiration date you realize that you never accomplished anything of note music-man. So, listen to this we are simply your betters and that fact applies to every single person in this room. You are all quite privileged to bear witness to our collective greatness each and every day. Thanks to us the Perfect Posse what could loosely be called your lives have meaning even if your too ignorant to comprehend it. Like the muses of ancient myth, we are directly responsible for the cultural output of this great nation and I’d humbly suggest that I am at least personally responsible for this city’s resurgence as of late. Had it not been for my family’s billions this city would have defaulted on its loans during the great recession and continued to be a rotten uncultured cesspool. It would not surprise me that there are diseased minds out that yearn for this city’s degeneration and I can only pity those poor philistines.” Loud booing can be heard from those not affiliated with Sasha and his ilk though even that does not drown out the inane questions of the entertainment press.
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