David Jacobs Episode 4
After that wonderful little debacle where I find out that my hot girlfriend was cheating on me, I decided to clear my mind and get really fucked up at one of my mainstay clubs. The night was still young. To me at least it was pretty young. Two in the morning.
I drove past busy streets watching the lights flash. I saw the bright neon lights outside of my mainstay. People were lined all the way down the block. I knew I could cut through all that bullshit due to my name. I may not have been that famous, or ever really, but I always, let’s just say “supplied” the bouncers with some “medicine” that they wanted.
I drove around the block to park, but saw that some asshole had taken my specific spot, so I had to drive around, and parked in fucking Africa and had to walk an extra three blocks to the club. Poor me.
I went up to the door, and got waved over by the bouncer to come in. People behind the rope were bitching and griping that I could get special treatment. Sorry, suckers.
Aquatone is amazing. It’s just how anyone would expect a place to be with “Aqua” in the name. There’s translucent blue detailing over the bar with a full aquarium behind the bartenders. There’s cloudy white and turquoise detailing all over the place with white chairs and tables. Okay, think of the group Aqua and the cover of their “Aquarium” album. That’s what this shit looks like. Like Aqua threw up the “Barbie Girl” all over the fucking place. I took a seat at the bar.
“Hey, Seth, can I have a rum and coke?” He dried his hands off with a white rag. His brown hair was slicked back. He still looked tan from his trip in Cabo, and he was wearing a black button up dress shirt underneath a white button up vest. My man was looking fierce as fuck.
“What up, Dave?” We bumped fists. “How’s the music been going lately?” I shrugged my shoulders.
“Shit, kind of. I got a new assistant, and she’s so fucking clueless and stuck in 2008 style, so you know how that goes. Plus, it’s all new dudes now with all new music.”
Seth put the drink I ordered in front of me.
“Sorry, man. How’s Demitria?” His eyes expressed genuine concern, but I wasn’t having any of that.
“That stark raving cunt who’s now with a guy who looks like he shops at Home Depot? I just found out tonight she cheated on me. Dude was in my fucking house.” Seth was busily pretending to clean a glass. He threw the white rag onto his shoulder. Seth shook his head.
“Ouch, fuck man, that sucks!” Ever the sensitive one, Seth.
“Meh, it’s cool. I got to focus on my career more than these bitches.”
“Well, tonight’s looking pretty good, Dave. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a lady to take home.” I gulped down the rest of my drink.
“Christ, Seth. I’m not looking to hop in the sack right now, but thanks for the suggestion. Catch up later, okay?” Seth nodded, and we did our hand shake man thing-a-bob.
“Take it easy, Dave.” I said yeah, yeah to myself and trekked around the club.
As I was wandering around, I heard some people laugh near the lounge in the corner. This guy with a weird voice was going on about on about his new car. He described the make and model. What the fuck? That’s the EXACT same type of car that took my parking space.
I turned to this guy. Him and his group of friends looked like rejects from a bad documentary on CBGB punk from 2006. Oh, fuck no. Some girl who looked like an acid washed, cute, but not as beautiful version of Debbie Harry had her arms around his neck. This guy had average, kind of spikey bleached blonde hair with dark roots, super pale, wearing super tight, black leather pants, leather black boots, black sunglasses. Like fuck, dude. Come on, there are more colors than black in the rainbow. I cleared my throat.
“Hey, man, can I speak with you.” I tapped him gently on the shoulder. His friends all stopped talking, acting all testy and giving me weird looks. Fuck you, you 24 year old hipsters. I’ve been a God since I was 16, and you were 5 when my first album dropped. Whatever. I can’t math right now.
“Yeah, dude? What is it?” He was slurring his words a little bit. He was getting sloshed. I could tell, but dammit, he was going to respect me.
“Let’s talk over there.” I motioned towards a back room. His gangly ass got up all drunkish and wobbly like. His friends were still looking at me oddly.
“So what’s your deal, man? I was just chilling out with my friends, and you came over all…” I cut him off. I noticed that he did have a bit of a slur, but it didn’t sound like a drunk slur, more like a speech impediment. Then, I noticed he had snake bites and his tongue was pierced. He also wasn’t wearing a shirt under his jacket. He took off his glasses now, and his bright blue eyes had a rim of red around them.
“Well, asshole. You took my parking spot, Sylvester. I heard you bragging about your cock rocket car to your dickhead friends, and I don’t appreciate being stood up by a high schooler who’s out on senior ditch night.” I was being too feisty, but who gives a fuck? Sylvester just flicked his tongue ring up and down in his mouth.
“Okay, so I’ll move my car. Don’t be an asshole.” I pushed him up against the wall.
“Don’t fuck with me, Sylvester.” I glared him down. He fumbled for his keys in his pocket.
“My name’s Radcliff, not Sylvester. By the way, cool accent. Don’t take it off. ” I was right up in his face. Who says shit like that? This dummy obviously hasn’t passed seventh grade.
“Dumbass, my accent is real, and it’s a dialect I picked up while living in Australia, my home country. It’s not a knock-off, cheap, imitation Marc Jacobs jacket I can just take off and then put back on.” He stuck out his tongue ring again. I bit down on the bar. He just looked at me shocked. I put my hand up against his cheek.
“Actually, I’m willing to make some sacrifices just because you’re somewhat sexy and handsome.” Radcliff smirked at me, and the keys he had finally pulled out of his pocket, he put back in.
“You know, that’s not the only place I’m pierced. I’m pierced some place lower,” he whispered in my ear. I ran my hands over his skinny pecs and his even skinnier ripped abs. His nipples weren’t pierced. He put his mouth near my ear.
“No, lower than that.” he said with a chuckle. His slur wasn’t as bad as I thought it was five minutes ago. Damn, I must be drunk.
I wrapped myself behind Radcliff. I put my hands on his hips, or hip bones, because there was like nothing there, but maybe a centimeter of skin. He was also wearing a girly looking black studded belt with studs going all over in rows of three. His jacket slipped a little off his shoulders, and I started kissing him along his collarbone. I then started kissing his neck.
“I’m going to lick you all over your body.” He jerked his head a bit, but didn’t move.
“What?” He semi-slurred.
“Shut up.”
* * *
The next day I was nursing a hangover, but I was also had to deal with the wrath of Arthur, Mike, Rex, and Meesha bitching me out. Apparently, Slurry McSlurryson can’t keep his mouth shut because he went on some radio show the next day bragging about our encounter.
“So, I heard you two hooked up?” Mary, ever the quizzical one asked. This time she was wearing black Vans, ass tight yoga pants, and a business casual looking sleeveless shirt with a wraparound faux scarf that was green with little white and little blue shit looking designs all over it. I can’t figure this bitch’s style out like I can’t figure out the distance between the sun and our planet.
“Well, duh.” I rolled my eyes up at the ceiling, and rubbed my head. I can’t deal with confrontation so early in the morning at 2 pm.
“What’s the deal with this guy Radcliffe, anyway?” Rex ran his hands through his semi-wavy, semi-short light brown hair. He had gone out for some drinks, too, last night, but he wasn’t as fucked up as I was. Mickie just rolled her eyes and started talking like an encyclopedia.
“Radcliff Montgomery is this fake, bleached blonde, punk rocker Ken Doll who’s in this band St. Grenade. He’s their bass player, but he can’t play bass at all, really. He’s also, like, some kind of Instagram male model. He thinks he’s the shit because he’s like six feet tall and weighs one thirty,” I glared at Mixi. I couldn’t believe she was being this judgmental. Like okay, she may be somewhat smart and career driven, but on a good day, she was a 7. I know Radcliff is dumber than a box of crayons, but homeboy was an 11 out of 10 with excellent, natural, perfect, straight white teeth, and his Prince Albert was amazing along with his big cock. Judge me. I don’t care. Also, six feet tall and one thirty? Damn, hashtag body goals. I’m tired of my slightly thick, one sixty at five foot ten frame.
“Maya, you don’t have an Instagram. I know you. You’re uncool and still living on Facebook. So shut up!” She gave me this what are you talking about face? I have Twitter. Doesn’t count.
“Why do you care so much what I think of him, David? Plus, he’s like half your age. Did you guys have butt sex?” Of course, she would ask something that dumb. She’s so juvenile.
“For your information! He’s not half my age! 16 would be half my age, not 24. We did not do that! Okay, let me see this video clip of him going on about us doing more than everything, but butt!” Mike gave me his cell phone and showed me the interview he found on Youtube. It was also posted to Radcliff’s Twitter, but I didn’t follow him, and honestly, that was a very smart choice on my own part, if I say so myself. We all gathered around the iPhone.
The first few images we saw were just cutaways of St. Germain performing at some ragtag bar looking like either the UK or the dungeons of the Midwest. I wasn’t so sure. There were closeups of the singer, the guitarist, and the drummer, but when they showed Radcliff, he was struggling with the strap on his bass. Finally, he fixed it and played. He actually didn’t sound as musically inept as the critics bitched about. Then, there were some more cutaways of paparazzi type footage of Radcliff walking with the girl I saw with him at the club. The Debbie Harry clone. Then, some more of him on stage pouring beer out of the bottle at people. Finally, two radio DJs appeared in their station. One was a thirtyish guy with brown hair, and the other was a thirtyish girl with brown hair. They looked like they were related, but I think they were a couple. They were dressed so Old Navy, like they should’ve been hosting a family morning station radio show, not some hip hop or top 40 station.
“Our next guest we have today is Radcliff Montgomery,” said the boring brown haired guy with his turquoise blue and white striped polo shirt. Barf.
“Yeah, we usually don’t have a lot of rock stars on our show. Last week, we had Faith Hill talk about her steamy married life. Sizzle,” said the boring brown haired lady with the fuscia pink three quarter sleeved shirt. Double barf. I don’t find Faith Hill sexy. I mean, she was hot when I was, like, 20, but still in kind of a too mature for you young guys way.
The boring brown haired guy made annoying, horny French guy sounds that Dan used to make in “Roseanne.” Triple barf.
“Radcliff is right here with us now, and he’s here to talk about the rock life with his band St. Germain. They’re about to release their debut album this week.” I noticed that the boring brown haired lady had to look down to double check his band name on the script she was reading off of. These people were so out of touch with what was somewhat popular, it wasn’t even funny.
“Hey, Radcliff, what’s up man? How’s it been going?” The camera switched over to Radcliff. He was wearing black sunglasses, his black leather jacket, black leather pants, black leather boots, but instead of being shirtless under the jacket, he was wearing a loose, ripped up white tank top.
“I’m doing all right. I’m doing all right. I’m excited for the new show coming up, and the new album.” I noticed that Radcliff stuck out his tongue ring once and he said “excited” like “exchited” due to his impediment.
“So tell us all about how things have been going for you now that you’re a big, famous rock star,” laughed the boring brown haired lady. They continued to gab on and on incessantly while poor Radcliff just looked semi-hot and slightly drugged and definitely hungover. They both were asking such stupid inane questions that anyone would’ve known just looking at Radcliff’s Insta or Twitter until Fuscia Lady dropped a biggie.
“I know you’ve only been famous for about a year, Radcliff, but have you met anyone more famous or anyone you idolize?” Radcliff was obviously too dumb or too drunk to notice Pink Lady’s somewhat backhanded compliment. That’s when I knew shit would get real.
“Well, last night at the club Aquatone, I did catch up with David Jacobs.” The Boring Brownies just stared at each other like who? Fuckers, they are.
“Oh, yes! Him. Honey, Sarah, don’t you remember? Goldlamp? We saw them in concert when we were in high school as seniors back in 1998. They were who we went to see on our second date. Toledo,” Boring Brown Haired Guy finally had the lightbulb, but he was acting like Rain Man.
“Third date, Craig. Third date,” Sarah said kind of cuntily. She seemed to be irritated he could possibly forget a date that happened nearly twenty years ago, Heaven forbid. Totally ignoring the Bitchy Brown Haired Fuscia Lady, Craig rambled on.
“So, how’s he doing these days? I honestly haven’t heard diddly squat from him in over ten years,” Boring Craig said. Not only do I hate the expression “diddly squat,” but if the dumbass actually used the internet, and I’m pretty sure he and Bitchy Fuscia Brown Haired Lady still had AOL, he would know I STILL DO SHIT!
“He was just chilling. I mean, he had some drinks. There was a little mistake about me parking in his spot, but we resolved our conflict,” Radcliff sounded so diplomatic. Well, anyone would compared to the Couple Bozos. It’s sad when Radcliff is sounding like the smart one in the room. There could only be damage to come. And there was.
“Well, it sounds harsh of me to say, but I thought David died. You know, all these rockers have been dropping left and right due to drug overdoses,” rambled on, Boring Bitch Fuscia Lady.
“Yeah, I thought David was dead like, what’s that guy’s name again?” it continued to ramble.
“You know…Stone Temple Pilots…Scott Weiland!” yelled Brown Haired Boring Stupid Fuscia lady.
“Yes! Scott Weiland! They’re like the same age aren’t they?” Stupid Dumbass Boring Brown Haired Guy said. I gasped. I was FUMING now. Not because he thought I was dead, but because he thought I was as old as Scott Weiland. Scott was old enough to be my dad. Fuck you very much.
“Geez, apply ice to burn,” Mae said under her breath.
They were all giggling like idiots because they thought I died of drugs, and then Radcliff said something stupid.
“Well, I don’t know who the Stone Temple Pyramids are, but I’m sure I’ll catch them on the classic rock channel.”
“Remember, Craig? David was married to that really pretty singer who’s also Australian? Her name was Nattie,” Bitch Brown Haired Lady said. Right. Bring up all my exes. While they’re at it, bring up Demetria, and how she cheated on me with a Hobbit.
“Well, I don’t want to say anything bad about David. He’s very talented. He’s a very good singer, and it’s not just because he’s good with his mouth because he is,” Radcliff then does the blow job gesture. It and It just stare at…That.
“What are you talking about, Radcliff?” asks Boring Brown Haired Guy. Radcliff jumps up and yells:
“I GOT MY DICK SUCKED BY DAVID JACOBS!”
Stunned silence. Well, for the Dumbass Couple, they were silent, but I screamed. Mila jumped, Rex said what the fuck? Arthur sighed, and Mike covered his ears.
“We’re going to have a little commercial break,” said Boring Brown Haired Guy.
I thew the phone back to Mike. I paced angrily around the room. Everyone just looked at me like I would snap. No, I wasn’t going to snap. I was going to fucking explode.
“You know, there’s only one way to solve this!” Everyone looked at each other blankly, then at me.
“Rap battle.”
I know. So 2003. I wasn’t trying to be Eminem because, duh, I’m sexier and better looking. It was that or murder Radcliff, but he’s too pretty for that, so a battle on James Corden would have to suffice.
Or in the streets.
Well, as street as the Hollywood Hills would suggest.
Shut up, I’m a white Australian guy.
Doing The Write Thing 