[MJFAs 2019 Winner - Best Short Story]
The fourth day of the week.
The day before Friday.
Just any other day.
But to Valerie, it's everything. It's the one day that she belongs to Michael Jackson.
Sex, drugs, and alcohol are his life. He doesn't d...
~Warning: this chapter contains strong adult themes such as hardcore drug usage & sex~ Also, this song really fits the mood; play it when you see this: ~
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~A FEW DAYS LATER, XPOSED GENTLEMAN'S CLUB~
The music in the club blared and the glass windows at the bar vibrated from the bass. A hot pink neon sign with the establishment's name in cursive was glowing on the red brick wall, and the T-shaped stage was lined with luminous white light. There was a reflective steel pole in the centre, and men were swarming; playboys, pleasure-seekers, millionaire bosses, and somewhere among them, Michael Jackson himself. With the second leg of the tour done, what better way was there to spend his free time than hang out at classy clubs and get high? Hat and shades on, he kept a low profile while sat at the bar with Marvin where they chatted over whiskies, observing the pairs of long legs in stilettos and g-strings with folded dollar bills tucked in around the sides as they passed them by.
Around them, numerous decorative tables were housed with mostly male occupants. The scent of fine cigar smoke permeated through the hot and hazy air and the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses filled the club. It was a high-end place which opened just two years ago. Michael wasn't too worried about being discovered; for the time being at least, he was just another man indulging in a fantasy. He expertly puffed from his joint every now and then, feeling his head get a little lighter with each hit.
Whenever people asked him why he smoked so much, Michael would always answer the same thing: that it helped him cope with the pressures of fame and the demands of stardom. Being America's biggest music icon was a tough gig. After a good, long smoke session, his vocal cords would be hoarse—not particularly ideal for a singer. So he resorted to lip-synching. Of course, Michael knew every effect of the wide choice of drugs that he relied on to unwind. He knew that it would poison his body and rot his brain. He knew that he should be strong enough to stop, or at least try, but he also knew that he was addicted. He loved the rush. He loved how it cleared his ever-racing mind and besides, it made the sex feel 10 times better.
"Does Mike see anyone he likes?" asked Marvin, in a singsong tone.
"That exit sign looks pretty good to me,"
Marvin chuckled. Michael was picky with his women, but the ones he liked, he usually got.
"I don't know, Marv," he continued. "They all look the same to me. They all got their tits and ass out. And like 10 pounds of makeup on."
"We can stick around for a little longer; it's only 10," suggested Marvin. It was too early to end their night.
He took a long, deep drag from his blunt, thick white smoke leaving his lips and curling up into the air as he responded, "I guess. Ain't like I got a girl to go home to."
