The girls are shrieking. There's a Killer in the pool. Not just one, but three Killers, all variously pickled after a full night on the cocktails.
There's Ronnie Vannucci, the drummer, who got the shrieking started by stripping down to his undies. The singer, Brandon Flowers, chose to keep his kit on - he's the bony one with the dodgy 'tache. Then there's Dave Keuning who went in topless. Keuning's the guitarist. You can tell by his tight pants and frizzy hair.
It was around midnight when all three of them took a running jump into the water. You should have heard the cheer go up around the bar. Quick as you like, a couple of random girls joined them, and now they're all splashing it up for the cameras, giggling hysterically in the confetti of applause, disco lights and flashbulbs. There isn't a party in the world that can't be improved by chucking a few rock stars in a pool, and this is no exception. The edge of the pool has been monopolised by people pointing mobile phone cameras into the water.
But the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel has its own rules about jumping in pools - like "don't" and "especially not if you're stuffed full of mojitos and those little shrimpt things that come around on trays." So the fun is short-lived. The way the squad of security no-necks come charging into the party you'd have thought it was a life-or-death situation involving a small child and not a bunch of soggy rockers having a giggle.
"Pool's closed, people. You guys, you gotta get out. Now!"
"All right, last warning. You - out! Now! And you. Out!" The grunts are swarming the rim. They're breathing so hard, it sounds like growling.
Flowers, Vannucci and the random girls sensibly paddle to the side and dredge themselves out. But not Keuning. He's lying on his back in the middle of the pool with a serene smile, doing a kind of gentle rolling backstroke. If it weren't for his rock frizz straggled across his face like seaweed, he'd look almost balletic, windmilling his arms in long languid strokes and fluttering his feet.
Suddenly a hacky sack lands in the pool next to his head. The spell is broken. Keuning slashes his way upright, standing chest-deep in the water.
"Who the fuck threw this?" Keuning yells.
"I did," says the largest of the meatheads - a buzzcut giant about 300lbs. "Now get out of the damn pool!"
And you would, if you saw this guy. You'd get out of the pool. Sharpish. But Keuning's just standing there, his eyes blazing. "How about you get in the pool?" he yells. "Let's dance motherfucker!"
Laughter breaks out throughout the bar. The funniest part about it is Keuning's not kidding - the soft-bellied pasty rocker with the girly hair wants to fight the Fridge. And what's more, he nearly does. When he eventually gets out of the pool he gives the feller a shove, triggering the typical meat-head overkill response. They jump him, prone him out and yank him out of the hotel in a full nelson, leaving soggy footprints as he goes. And all the way, Keuning is snarling at them: "You fucking bitches! You feel good about yourself now? Fucking bitches!"
"Ha ha!" Vannucci's standing there in his black Y-fronts, rubbing his hands like it's Christmas. "This one is for the book!"
Full article here.
Source: GQ UK (_killmenow_).
Dave cracks me up. That quote is genius. It might be the best quote of the past 20 years. ;)