“Utah nightclubs are boring,” Danuel House whined. “There’s a few chicks around but none of them seem interested in hanging out with us.”
Tyson Chandler took a large swig from the expensive bottle of wine that was in his left hand, then took a larger swig from the expensive bottle of whiskey that was in his right hand. “As you get older, you’ll appreciate the understated serenity of a quiet nightclub with chill music and only the most thoughtful and respectful of chicks.”
Danuel knocked over the Lincoln-log hut he had made out of mozzarella sticks in order to grab one, submerge it completely in a special-ordered soup bowl full of marinara sauce, and cram it all at once into his mouth. “But I’m not old. I’m young and I want to get frisky with hot supermodels.”
“Go out on the floor and dance then, put yourself out there,” Tyson said. “Even though you’re an NBA player, women like when you work for it a bit.”
“There’s nobody dancing,” Danuel said, peering around the heads of his teammates that were all seated together at a clustered group of tables. The extent of their celebration for the victory seemed to be drinking large amounts of pricy spirits and talking quietly among themselves. “I’d look like a moron. Besides, there’s nobody in the world that can effectively dance to this smooth jazz crap. Even mormons would think this place is lame.”
Tyson gave his younger teammate a look. “Careful what you say. They take that mormon stuff serious around here.”
“Whatever,” Danuel said. “I think I’m gonna order us some chicken wings. Hey…where’s Eric? He’s always down for some chicken wings.”
“Yeah, that’s weird,” Tyson said, taking off the sunglasses that he was inexplicably wearing in the dim club to look around for their absent teammate. “He’s the one who got us the win by dropping fifty points on their mormon asses.”
All of a sudden, the music playing over the sound system came to a halt, and all the lights went off. Surprised by this sudden change of atmosphere, all the Rockets players stopped talking.
“Yo, if this is a power outage, aren’t the emergency lights supposed to come on?” Danuel asked Tyson, but it was so quiet in the building that his voice carried further than intended.
“There’s only one emergency in this building right now,” echoed a mysterious, distorted voice over the sound system. “My levels of swag are…extremely dangerous.”
A hip-hop beat started playing and a light came on over the DJ station, which had been empty for the whole night. Standing there in the spotlight was none other than their teammate Eric Gordon. Wearing a gigantic, fur-accented gold robe and a form-fitting gold cap that made him look like a walking, talking Golden Globe Award.
“I wanna give some shout-outs here,” Eric continued while he awkwardly moved around the mini-sized DJ stage, trying to match his movements to the beat but failing miserably. “I wanna shout out my dudes Danuel and Austin for stepping up tonight.”
Danuel nodded and clapped a few times. It was nice to be publicly recognized by a teammate for playing well.
“Also a big shout-out to Russell Westbrook tonight for not infecting the team with his cancerous ball-hogging play which is the antithesis of a true point guard,” Eric went on. There were some mumbles of disagreement at this, but Eric either didn’t hear them or didn’t care. “We would have definitely lost this game if you had played, bro.”
It was hard to tell if Eric was joking. Danuel didn’t think he was. But Eric wasn’t done.
“My last shout-out goes to the man with the most disgusting facial hair in the league, James Harden. He’s probably never even scored fifty. Last game he could barely score ten.”
“I scored fifty five times this season,” James called out.
Eric laughed derisively into the microphone. The evil sound of his laughter echoed around the quiet space. “NBA 2K doesn’t count,” he replied. “But for somebody with man boobs as big as James’, I guess scoring fifty in a video game is the highest possible achievement in life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just had a planeful of hot chicks flown in from LA and they’re waiting for me back at the hotel. See you losers later. Remember, I scored fifty.” With that, he tossed the microphone on the ground and headed towards the back exit of the club.
Danuel watched Eric walk off and shook his head. “He’s not getting any of my chicken wings, that’s for sure.”