Play some mind games

The bouncer on the left grins like a retarded child, still basking in the afterglow of scoring a couple hot numbers (which are probably fake, anyway). He gradually turns his attention to you, pocketing the slip of paper and trading it for another (an invitation list, perhaps). With a sneer and elephantine Scottish accent, he calls, "Name?" He clearly doesn't think much of you, or, more likely, doesn't think much of anything at all. This could be fun.

The burly Scotsman is taken aback as you suddenly break into violent hacking and wheezing, barely eking out a name. Eventually the sickness subsides and you recompose yourself before the gentleman.

"What was that?" asks the bouncer.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mate," you say, "You know this London air. The name's--"

The pawn moves exactly as commanded by your invisible hand; the bouncer backs away and throws his arms up in disgust, just long enough to spy a name or two on the coveted VIP list. "What are you doing??" he bellows, pushing you off and pulling a napkin to cleanse himself of your second volley. "Don't you have any manners?"

You recover from the second fit and clear your throat conspicuously. "Sorry, Mate, sorry," you tell him, "I'm alright now."

"You better not pull a stunt like that again, Pal." You assure him that you won't. "Now what's your name? If you can even say it this time."

The bouncer checks your reply and looks you up and down, probably in disbelief. "You mean to tell me you're Robert Gellar?" He has this look about him like, "This dumb fuck is at the top of the VIP list?" You confirm your identity and start to pass.

"Not so fast, Pal," he says, tentatively placing his hand on your shoulder. "I'm not stupid. You could be the sickest man in the world; that didn't sound like no Robert Gellar back there." But he really -is- that stupid. There's something in your blood that says so. You stare him right in the eyes and pronounce exactly what this meathead needs to hear.

"Oh yes it did."

In that instant the big man's puny mind is laid bare before you. You throw your own words into the black hole that is the Scot's brain and watch as they swirl into the blackness. "I...um..." the bouncer babbles incoherently.

"Confused? Let me help you," you pull your wallet and show it to the oaf, "I'm Robert Gellar. Here's my ID. I'm Robert Gellar. I'm Robert Gellar."

The bouncer shakes his head and flutters his eyes a little bit, looking around to his partner as he gets back into gear. "Right," he says, clearing his throat. "Go right in, Mr Gellar. Sorry to bother you."

Oh, it wasn't much bother at all.