“Damn, where’s D’Will? He certainly would want to go clubbing with us if he only knew of our intentions,” Reggie Evans said, looking around for signs of his teammate, then down at his phone. “My texts aren’t going through. He must have changed his number. Who wants to go look for him?” The assembled teammates all looked in Rudy Gay’s direction.
“What? No. I ain’t going. Remember last time I tried to find that asshole?”
“Here goes Rudy again with his tall tales. ‘Blah blah blah Derrick Williams is operating an illicit dubstep factory out of a compound in the basement blah blah blah worst music I ever heard reduced me to tears blah blah blah hundreds of captives imprisoned in chains forged from heavy electronic beats at the very anvil of dub’, we’ve heard it a million times,” Ben McLemore said, laughing.
“Shut up Ben, you shouldn’t make fun of others’ traumatizing experiences. Anyway, screw that guy Derrick, let’s just head out.”
————————————–
“Hey, this one looks cool. Let’s check it out,” Reggie enthused, pointing to a nightclub across the street from where the players were standing. Thumping bass from within seemed to shake all the nearby buildings.
They walked easily into the club, their credentials as NBA players ensuring that the bouncers didn’t bother them. As soon as they entered, Rudy grimaced. “Ugh. This music sucks. Can’t we find somewhere else?” he whined.
“Are you kidding, bro? Just look around. The chicks here are at least six times hotter than anywhere else, and I bet they’re six times as DTF,” Reggie responded. “Nobody’s here for the music.”
Some of the beats were awfully familiar to Rudy, but he couldn’t place them. He figured that this club, like all the others, was just blasting whatever the hip new tracks were, so he tried not to dwell on it too much. Disengaging from his teammates and grabbing a drink, he wandered out onto the dance floor.
Listlessly grinding with any willing female, Rudy couldn’t stop thinking about the music that was playing. Now, having given it more attention, he was sure that the genre could be classified as “dubstep”. It was fairly lightweight and mainstream compared to the terror he had been exposed to by Derrick, but it was dub nonetheless. He tried to get a good look at the DJ, but his staging area was completely dark.
Abandoning the bootylicious honey that was maiming his crotch, Rudy walked with purpose right up to the front of the floor. But even here, the only thing he could see was the glow of laptop monitors and the indicator lights on the DJ’s equipment.
Glancing around furtively to make sure nobody was paying him any attention, Rudy set down his drink and quietly clambered up onto the slightly-elevated stage. Crawling around amongst the wires and cables, he soon located the DJ himself.
“Halt! Who dares enter my castle of beats?” shouted the DJ.
“Yo, Derrick, I know it’s you, stop playing around,” Rudy responded, getting up off the floor. “You didn’t tell us you were moonlighting as a DJ.”
“I’m not Derrick! I am…Professor Dubbenstein!” the DJ yelled, turning around dramatically and raising his arms skyward. Rudy could see a faint outline of an extremely tall, dark-skinned man with a fluffy growth of hair on top. It was definitely Derrick.
“Whatever dude. I can’t believe you tricked the club ownership into thinking that your crappy music was actually good. Congratulations, I guess.”
Derrick laughed maniacally. “The world will be enlightened by my brutal bass drops! You will see, Rudy! I have transcended my humanity to become pure dub-driven