In a city far away there used to work at an exclusive after hours club a Veteran Bouncer who’d been on the scene since Methuzela (maybe eight years). He’d seen it all at least once and met them all twice going up and falling down the ladder of celebrity. His own climb to bouncer eminence had been painful and he still smarted from the days when he worked as an assistant on off nights when no who was no one could get in all night. At the top of his game, he was now in charge of private parties where his eagle eyes were merciless when it came to weeding out the legitimate guests from the riffraff and crashers; Charon had nothing on him.
One evening he was working a gathering so exclusive that even the regulars were persona non grata. There was a rigid guest list so sexually servicing or bribing the bouncer cut no ice tonight. If Christ the King had shown up without an invite, he’d have been given the gate too. The Bouncer been holding down the fort for an hour or so when a pale gentleman with a pockmarked face materialized in front of the lectern. Silently contemplating this sorry specimen with its greasy black hair which hung down below the collar of a dark suit, the Bouncer inquired bruskly, “And just where do you think you’re going, buddy?”
The man said nothing.
“Look, this is a private party, got an invite?”
Again the man said nothing and beckoned with a crooked finger.
“Whatareya crazy,” the Bouncer sputtered.” I can’t leave here to discuss this, it’s too busy.”
Motioning mysteriously again, the man in black smiled a crooked
smile, and the Bouncer, feeling a sharp pain in his chest, keeled over
on the spot with a massive and fatal heart attack.