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Feature Story July 24, 2003
 
Feis The Music! Buns Moons Moscow Nightclubs
By Mark Ames Browse author Email
 
Page 6 of 7
 
When Buns' motorcade arrived, Schliefer, Johnny the black bodyguard, and the TV and photography crew popped out of their respective cars. Schliefer, clutching two cell phones and the blue tooth, met First's PR director by the gate and asked her to open it to allow Buns to drive in.

The request was denied. However, Buns' foot entrance was almost as spectacular. While a crowd of spectacularly dressed women stood by the smaller opening, the flathead okhraniki dramatically opened the archway-wide iron gate to allow Buns and his entourage to walk in VIP. The huge guards formed an arm-to-arm barricade to form a kind of sub-gate made of flathead muscle, keeping all but Buns and his tight entourage from entering.

Buns and his entourage, which now included a groupie chick picked up from Shambala, were seated in a choice corner sofa area. Jeremy, as Buns, must have been thinking to himself, "I wonder what kind of summer internships the other students are doing?" With models Lena and Ksenia on either side of him, bodyguard Johnny guarding the front, and a TV camera and photographer filming his every move, Buns was now the star of First. Girls -- and I mean the thin, 6-foot type Salnikov model girls - gravitated towards Buns' table.

Schliefer, meanwhile, was busy nervously pestering First's PR woman. He gave her a copy of Buns' CD single and asked her to play it, and also demanded a round of Pina Coladas.

"Does Buns have a business card?" she asked.

"Hey, Buns does not need a business card," Schliefer/Kowitz shot back.

"Well does he have contact information?"

Schliefer took the CD single and wrote: "www.buns.com" and "buns@buns.com" and handed it back to her.

"Thank you very much," she said. "You understand this is what we have to do in PR."

Schliefer handed her another autographed disk, this one signed by Buns. "He wants you to have this. He signed it for you. He wants you to play his song."

Shortly afterwards, the PR woman told Schliefer that the song was "too slow" for First, but that in about an hour Buns McGillicuddy could take to the DJ stage and say hello to Moscow and announce the release of the single.

In the meantime, an insanely beautiful, tan girl in a revealing Hawaii blue halter top and tight shorts [see photo top left] ingratiated herself into Buns' circle. The groupie who followed from Shambala was being rudely ignored; she stood by the side with a stupid, uncomfortable smile on her face.

At one point, Dave asked the aggressive Hawaiian girl, "Do you know Buns McGillicuddy's music?"

"Of course!" she said. "I have all of his records."

"He only has two records," Dave said.

"Well, I like the second one better."

Ten minutes later, Buns was moving out from his sofa-VIP with the Hawaiian girl on his arm, as Schliefer and Johnny made room. She agreed to go have a private moment with Buns in the back of his Mercedes.

Stop and think about it for a second: a nice college student from Connecticut, for his summer internship, is turned into a New York superstar, surrounded by models and cameras, feted in the top nightclubs, and is now about to get his dick sucked by a girl so beautiful that most Americans only see her type in magazines or movies.

And this is where entropy started to

kick in.

They moved into the back seat, while Schliefer nervously lurked outside, and Johnny stood guard with his arms folded, a Negroidal scowl on his face.

Within a few minutes, they got out

of the car.

"What happened? What happened, Buns?" Schliefer nervously asked.

"She asked for 300 dollars," Jeremy said.

Schliefer pounced on the girl in disbelief: "Buns? This is a famous guy and you're asking money from Buns?"

"There are a lot of famous people,"

she said.

Well whattaya know: the prostitute was the smartest person all night.

The Merc Turns Pumpkin

From there it was downhill. The PR woman abandoned Schliefer and switched off her phone, so Buns wasn't going to be able to make his announcement.


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Ames
Browse author
Email Mark Ames at editor@exile.ru.
 
 
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