Dirk Nowitzki reclined lazily on the couch. Surrounding him, adoring him, were a hand-picked sampling of Germany’s finest frauleins. A few male friends were also there, hoping to gain some residual coolness by their proximity to him. The other males in the club looked on jealously; they were no match for the suavity and wealth of Dirk.
“Ulrike, come over here and give dein vater some sugar.”
One of the sultrier ones glided over and began servicing him.
“Oh ja, das ist wunderbar! Sehr wunderbar! Tara, more beverages please, ich bin thirsty!”
Throbbing techno music played in the background as Dirk reveled in the benefits of his celebrity. He was the king of this place, no man would ever challenge him here, not in his domain.
Suddenly, the doors burst wide open. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Dirk rose to protest this disturbance. “This is private club, I am not allowing any more guests!”
From the blinding light emanating from the entrance a tall, helmet-clad figure burst, riding a skateboard. The mysterious guest executed a couple of kickflips before launching off one of the sloping decorations, coming to rest right before Dirk’s startled frame. The man rose to his full height, and took of his helmet, revealing his identity.
The crowd of women that had previously surrounded Dirk now flocked towards Dennis Schröder, caressing his taut muscles and cooing.
“Was ist das? Get out of here! Ulrike, Tara, come back! Where do you think you are going?”
Ulrike spared Nowitzki a final glance. “I’m sorry, Dirk, but you are getting a little old. Kaputt! I want someone a little younger, someone a little more exciting. We all do, in fact all of Germany does! Your time is over. Guten tag!
Dirk watched morosely as Dennis walked to another section of the club, accompanied by the flock of willing females. He was sitting by himself now, nothing to console him but one final Martini. Chugging it down in a huff, he walked out, alone and friendless, deserted by those who he thought would always be there.