behaviour. As they walked slowly and purposefully towards him, the LA Eagles star upped the ante and picked up a barstool with his solid left arm.
“Don’t you losers know who I am?” he roared and lifted the stool up high in the air.
The bouncers nodded, unimpressed.
“I know who you are, sir. That’s the only reason I’m not kicking your ass right now,” the tall bouncer said patiently.
Brett threw the barstool at the smaller of the men in black and followed up with an impressive looking round house kick. The bouncer ducked the stool, easily stepped around the kick, smiled and continued moving into Mr Football’s space. When Brett seized another barstool, the larger bouncer side kicked it straight out of his left hand.
The stool flew across the bar, cracked a large chrome mirror behind Kirstie and then, as it fell, knocked over a rack full of spirit bottles. A large bottle of Glen Fiddich smashed on the floor, washing Kirstie’s feet with 15-year-old single malt whiskey.
Faced with obviously superior fighting skills, the footballer’s macho bravado evaporated. Just like that. He raised his hands submissively, showing both his palms to the bouncers. His torso shrunk, his body slumped, his head jerked forward and he grinned his best boy next door smile at the security men.
Kirstie shook her head. “What a pathetic loser you are,” she muttered to herself and adjusted the position of the phone camera to capture his capitulation. The bar manager returned from the VIP Bar and noticed she was filming the situation. He sent Kirstie round to “attend to” the VIPs, picked up her phone and deleted the video.
On the floor of Joe’s main bar, the bouncers were now right in Brett’s face.
The tall bouncer gently placed his left hand on Brett’s right shoulder. “Grab your things, sir. You are leaving. C’mon, it’s time to go.”
For the first time in years, Mr Football did exactly what he was told. He picked up his phone and keys and pocketed them. As the bouncers escorted the surly yet passive footballer toward the door, the bar’s television screens suddenly cut to a close up of Jenna being interviewed by Branson.
Brett’s face sank. And right by the doorway he stopped walking. He wanted to watch the rest of the Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards broadcast. As the smaller of the bouncer’s held the door open, the largest bouncer shoved him out onto the street with the palm of his right hand. He used the minimum amount of force required even though, as the adrenalin surged inside him, he really wanted to forget about being professional and sit the wise guy where he belonged: right on his ass.
“Hey C’mon, I don’t want no trouble. Hey take it easy buddy, please, I’ve got a Super Bowl to win, OK?” Brett said dramatically, switching effortlessly into victim mode. A group of passers by stopped to watch.
On her way home Kathy had called 911 anonymously and, as a result, a Los Angeles Police Department patrol car, lights flashing and siren blaring, pulled up at the kerb. Two uniformed officers jumped out with their tasers drawn.
Upstairs, the patrons of Joe’s Bar VIP lounge maintained their forensic focus on the football.
“We cannot win the 2009 Super Bowl without Mr Football. He is essential,” the tall man regurgitated for the umpteenth time and the surrounding group of 10 men nodded in mute agreement. The small man, now sporting a black and bruised left eye, appeared to be searching for his best friend floating at the bottom of his whiskey glass.
Downstairs, as the bouncers stood with Brett and the cops on the street, the faulty front door finally automatically locked behind them.
Inside, the bar manager and Kirstie stood with arms crossed and frowning faces as they surveyed the wreckage strewn across the now almost empty main bar.
“You know on nights like tonight, babe, I really wonder why I bother getting out of bed at all,” the bar manager said and sighed.
“I know what you mean boss,” Kirstie replied and hitched up her red right stocking.
“We’re closing early. The cleaners can sort this mess in the morning. Let me fix you a drink,” he said with a smile.
“I’d like that,” she replied and raised her eyebrows a little.
“A triple vodka?” he asked and placed his left hand knowingly on her right shoulder.
“A triple bloody Mary, yep, that would be jest fine.” Kirstie grinned, looked into his eyes and placed her hands upon his hips as she ordered.
UPTOWN GIRLS
Uptown, the Estee Lauder Awards ceremony was reaching its conclusion. Branson was profiling Angela. She filled her black Rodarte stretch lace dress so perfectly it looked like a work of art. Her long black hair was now untied and flowed sensually down her back.
“It’s time for us to have a close look at where Angela has come from and what she has been doing since she started charming the cameras of the world just a few short years ago,” Branson breathlessly informed the Kodak crowd.
On the screens appeared a high definition video package of Angela’s ‘colourful’ past as the daughter of a left wing French politician. Aretha Franklin’s Respect was playing.
“What you want
Baby I got it
What you need
Do you know I got it?”
The audience was shown clips of Angela “overjoyed” and hugging her mother after signing her first Chanel contract; her picture on the cover of Vogue France as a fashionable 16 year old Iyengar yoga protégée; playing golf with her besotted father and eminent Parisians; and Angela on location in London’s Battersea Park sensually modelling Agent Provocateur lingerie for a dozen photographers.
“Without doubt, at just 21 years of age, Angela Durand is already one of the world’s premier photographic models,” Branson gushed. “She was recently described by The New York Times as the face of our time.”
As Branson showed camera 4 a copy of a recent issue of Marie Claire magazine with Angela’s stunning face on the cover, Angela blushed and smiled shyly. Branson put his arm around her tiny waist.
“Thank you so much for being with us tonight, Angela. Good luck in the awards and, believe me when I say, we all look forward to seeing a whole lot more of you in the future!”
Angela performed a curtsy to the audience and flashed her best billion dollar smile at camera 3. The Kodak’s capacity crowd of 3500 were charmed and thrilled and made sure she knew all about it.
“Ladies UND gentlemen!! Angela Durand!! From France,” Branson announced proudly. “What a truly luscious woman from a truly special country. What a fine ambassador for European fashion and culture she is.”
As the crowd roared its approval, Branson and Angela embraced, air kissed, then waved from the awards lectern to the rapturous crowd.
“Please don’t touch that remote,” Branson purred. “Coming up right after these important messages from our sponsors, we reveal who is the winner of the Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards for 2009!”
Branson looked approvingly at Angela and then swept both his arms outward to highlight all the contestants.
“And don’t forget y’all, you can find lots of important information about Angela, about all the girls and the wonderful sponsors of tonight’s special presentation on our website. The address is on your screen right now.”
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