I'm not Chuck Liddell

I notice the stars. It’s not normal to see stars here. I've waited on the corner for the three blondes and the hairdresser for too long. When they arrive, drunker than I had left them, the gay fellow runs his hand front to back over the Mohawk he shaved on my head back in their hotel room. The girls grab me and cut a path through the crowd sloshing between the barricades, all the while complaining about a thirty block power outage due south. That explains the stars and I point them out but they didn’t seem to care. As I had predicted to myself hours ago, we're in a hip-hop club where the girls' presence causes immediate conflict. An angry woman smashes a bottle into a man’s head just for talking to one of them. Not long after this, a guy approaches me and says he sincerely thought I was Chuck Liddell. I cannot look like Chuck Liddell. Not in here. Not right now.