“That’s nice. That’s real fawkin’ nice.”

THE smartphone clicked and whirred as Gregg “Opie” Hughes, the King of Broadcast Radio, snapped a photo of the sunset, and then another. The view from the ceiling-high windows in his $7 million apartment – which Anthony had never once visited – was nothing to poke a stick at.

Shit, he thought, That gives me a great idea for a bit. Deftly opening Apple Notes with the seasoned fingers of a media mogul, he penned a quick little taste of some yooma for his fans:

ASK VIEWERS ABOUT THE BIGGEST STICKS THEY HAVE FOUND AND WHERE. PEPPER IN: WHY CAN’T YOU BUY STICKS IN STORES? #ENDSTICKCONTROL.

“Fawk yeah,” he muttered to himself, turning away from the window, “Hey, Lyns. Come ovah here a sec, wouldja?”

Lynsi Smogi, Opie’s beautiful wife of ten happy years, strode over and stopped abruptly within five feet of him. Reading the stick-note out loud, he stared her in the eyes, waiting for her reaction. She furrowed her brow for a moment, then let out one of her trademark chuckles, or “teensy laughs”, as Opie had taken to calling them. She laughed so quietly and shortly so as not to wake up the others in the building, she had told him.

“That’s great, hun.” she said, absent-mindedly. She had a lot on her plate lately: having a major entertainment icon as a husband, especially one who runs the TGI Friday’s circuit all week, had her constantly pre-occupied. Where would he perform next? How does he stay so handsome at this age? How is he still so funny? These are just some of the thoughts that presumably ran through her head on an hourly basis.

And just as quickly as she had come, she was gone. Opie snapped another seven professional-quality pics of the sunset for good measure, and headed out the door after uploading them to Twitter.

The delectable aroma of well-done steak, smothered in ketchup, mixed with the wonderful mustiness of an unopened storage room wafted into Opie’s nostrils as he entered his pride and joy: FH Riley’s, in the heart of Huntington Village, right on New York Avenue. As he entered, every diner – immediately recognising him from his two decades in the biz – stood and applauded. A chant rang out: Opie, Opie, Opie. Humbly, he waved them down. Being a lover of all life and believing that all creatures great and small have souls, Opie avoided stepping on not one but three cockroaches on his way to his reserved table.

The authentic antique brickwork of the walls comforted Opie, as did the high-quality varnished floorboards. He smiled softly and winked at his favourite rat, Remy, who tipped his usual chef’s hat before scurrying back into his hole. Of course, one final obstacle stood between him and his table – a legion of fans. Not five but ten fans were here, and a chant broke out.

“Opie! Opie! Opie! Opie!”

“Tell us a joke, Opster!”

“Show us what you got, Psycho!”

They were stomping their feet on the floor, now. Not wanting to disturb his brother – part-owner of FH Riley’s – he waved in a request for silence, which was met immediately.

“Fawkin’...”

The crowd leaned forward expectantly.

“Fawkin’… Why can’t you buy fawkin’ sticks in stores, huh? I say we need to Hash Tag End Stick Control Now!”

The laughter was cacophonous. Plates fell off tables and wine glasses smashed against the floor as the pounding of their feet against the high-quality floorboards overwhelmed the incredibly well-built restaurant’s foundations. They howled and howled, begging for more, but it was time to eat. After only 54 minutes, he was served the house special: boiled steak, very well-done, and microwaved freedom fries. All for the low cost of $30 – of course, as one of the richest men in the entertainment industry, $30 was meaningless to the Opster.

He chatted with his adoring fans, who stared lovingly as he spoke through mouthfuls of steak so as not to waste their time by making them watch him chew. As an offer to one lucky regular, he picked a worm out of the middle of his boiled steak and threw it into their waiting mouth. Finally, he started the stream, loading up the true mogul’s streaming app – Instagram Live – and began blowing everybody’s minds. As usual, he broke a personal record – 21 viewers! – within just an hour of streaming. The non-viewer fans in the restaurant laughed and laughed as he slowly panned the camera across them, lingering on their faces and loudly discussing their eating habits and meal choices with his viewers.

He covered a veritable cavalcade of interesting topics: the haters, stick control, largest sticks and where viewers found them (the largest being a redwood branch), the injustice of his firing from Sirius (which he didn’t need anyway, he was carrying THEM), and the sharks that one needed to be wary of to succeed in entertainment. Finally, he put the phone away, and his fans sighed. Always leave ‘em wantin’ more, he thought, and headed to the bus stop.

Lynsi was nowhere to be seen at home. Probably out fetching a bit of mountain dew for him to warsh down that delicious meal from F.H. Riley’s, in the heart of Huntington Village, New York Avenue. Something to warsh it down. Warsh it down. The kids, mysteriously, were gone as well, with only a small post-it note on the fridge. Squinting at it, he slowly read aloud:

Gregg Opie,

The kids and I are going to mom’s for a while. This has become too much pressure on us as a family and I think it’s just not really working out right now. I hope we can fix this, I really do, but I need a break. Lynsi

Shit, thought the Opster, is the shower broke or somethin’? How am I supposed to fix a fawkin' pressure problem? I guess I’d better call some loser plumber who makes nowhere near what I make.

The smartphone clicked and whirred as Gregg “Opie” Hughes, the King of Broadcast Radio, snapped a photo of the night-time streets of New York, and then another. Dropping the note to get the perfect angle on a homeless man being kicked by a gang of youths, his laughter was cut short as he noticed something was written on the other side of it.

P.S. Rich Vos will be performing at Mcqiures Long Island on March 2, 8pm. Tickets can be found at richvos.com