You are Dave Strider. You are currently the hottest new producer/DJ of the year, and you suppose life could not be better. You moved from Houston to the metropolis of New York, with your bro, Bro. He is your best friend and manager, scoring you gigs across the country, and soon enough, the world. He has been with you during your sickeningly rapid rise to fame, and doesn't really give a shit about it, and still ironically demeans you and treats you like he did when you were still a scrub. However, despite his constant company, you feel shatteringly lonely. You haven't spoken to your friends, John, Jade, and Rose, since any of this sweet deal started erupting. What a diva thing to do. It's not like you did it intentionally though. That'd be really uncool.
You stand in total darkness. Not really though. Your eyes are just closed. You hear the drone of the bass and synth and the wild screaming of the crowd, weakened by the sound of your monitor speakers, shouting for more, half of them probably drooling on their own shirts, courtesy of whatever drugs have been pumped into their systems over the course of the night. You reach forward and feel the treble and mid range knobs between the fingers of your right hand, and with the other you reach for the second deck and set the last eight beats of the measure before the drop to re-loop, precisely four times. As the moment slides toward you, you gently nudge the treble and midrange towards the right, slowly knocking the synth and vocals back into full swing, the crowd rising with them. The drop is about to hit, but you slam down on the auto-loop to quickly snap back to the start of the measure. Building anticipation is the one thing you can't ever forget, you think as Bros words echo through the back of your mind. You kick off the loop to the brief moments before the main bass-line starts back up, and open your eyes and glance up at the crowd.
They love this shit.
You're winding down now. Fifteen minutes left till your set is over and whatever tool that's playing to clean out the drunk, wasted stragglers goes on. You swear you feel your phone vibrating in your pocket, but you think nothing of it. You chalk it up to the bass buzzing up your legs from the floor, and either way, it's uncool stage etiquette to check your phone while you're playing. Unless it's to send a picture of a cute babe in the front row to Bro. He loves that shit. For some reason.
Almost two hours later, you're finally leaving the venue. You jump into the back of a sleek black town-car, and Bro is already in there playing with a synthesizer app on his phone.
"You did good tonight, little man." You nod half-assed. "Yeah."
"You're not getting an early case of the pussy-outies are ya? I thought I taught you better than that." You shoot him an obviously dirty look. "No, I'm just the living embodiment of sexiness for millions of idiots right now. Even sex gods need a break." But you really are just exhausted.
You lie down against the plush seats on your side of the car, and pull out your phone to check for any messages, and your heart sinks as the words light up on the screen.
- ectoBiologist [EB] pestered you at 00:43 -