When the store lights go off, Macklemore is standing in the donation room of Goodwill. He is elbows-deep in a canvas donation bin of someone else’s clothes.
The bright florescent lights of the donation room remain on. Macklemore extricates one arm from the donation bin and looks at his giant gold watch (secondhand, not always correct).
Closing time, Macklemore thinks to himself. He begins to idly hum “Closing Time” by Semisonic. He continues to root through the donation bin, pushing side stained 5K t-shirts and old jeans to pull out uniquely patterned button-ups.
Generally, customers are not allowed in the donation room of Goodwill. But, Macklemore had provided a huge upsurge in business with the release of his hit song “Thrift Shop,” which specifically namedropped Goodwill, he assumed. He assumed he would be welcome. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, at least.
Fifteen minutes later, Macklemore is finished. All the uniquely patterned buttons up have been removed from the donation bin, along with a scarf and yet another giant fur coat. He picks the pile up from the linoleum of the donation room floor and scurries to the door that separates the donation room from the sales floor.
“Oh, I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed back here,” he mutters to himself, practicing. “Won’t happen again… I found these, though…” He pushes the door.
It doesn’t budge.
He jimmies the doorknob and pushes harder. It still doesn’t budge. It’s locked.
“Hello?” Macklemore says aloud. His voice echoes to the high ceilings. “Hello? Unlock the door!”
No one answers. He sets his chosen items aside and slams his shoulder into the door. “Hello!” he says again louder. “I’m in here! I’m Macklemore!”
Through the windows in the donation room, Macklemore peers into the storefront. All the lights are off and it is silent. The Goodwill is closed and the doors are locked.
He sprints across the room, sweat gathering at his temples, and tries the door that leads outside. It doesn’t move.
“Why don’t they turn off the lights in here when they close?” Macklemore says. He scrubs his hand across his forehead. “Why don’t they check for customers?”
He bangs his fists on the door. “Hello? Hello!”
The only response is the buzz of the fluorescent bulbs overhead.
He turns and leans back against the door. He slides down, slowly, until he is sitting on the linoleum with his knees to his chest. The lights reflect oppressively off the stained white floors and walls.
“I’m trapped,” Macklemore whispers, gazing at the aisles and aisles of donation bins. He knows inside each bin is at least one wonderful item, one come-up waiting to find him and guide him to nightclub glory. And yet, here, trapped within the well-lit rows, he does not feel excitement or joy. He was so used to appearing in Goodwill, snatching one or two things, and disappearing back in into a world of expensive mixed drinks and speed boats. Now he was trapped, locked up with other peoples’ discarded items, marinating in the stench of unwashed clothes. Goodwill as an idea had lost its kitsch. Goodwill was now his reality. Like so many others, he had no where else to go.
Two hours later, Macklemore is lying inside a donation bin. The room is cold. He burrows beneath the fur coat he found so gleefully just hours ago, but still he shivers. The buzzing lights burn through his eyelids and keep him from sleep. He is thirsty. He is alone. He thinks of the song that made him famous, and his stomach turns. He wonders if he will ever be the same again.
R. Kelly stood underneath the all-seeing eye of the Illuminati-level V.I.P. tent of the 2013 Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival, casually smoking a cigar and wearing a headband for the first time ever. His publicist told him he looked like Frank Ocean, but he didn’t know who that was. R. Kelly was sweating through his suit. He didn’t care.
Kanye West wanted to be God, so he built a space station where he could be. It was almost the size of the earth—bigger than the moon at least—but it did not interfere with the already established earth’s gravitational fields. The scientists had figured that all out; they said it was important.
Kanye flew to the space station with Jay-Z in the co-pilot seat. They listened to their songs on the radio. It wasn’t really the radio because they were in a spaceship, but Kanye had queued up “Watch the Throne” on his iPhone. It wasn’t as good as when he was younger and would hear his own song come on the radio totally by accident, but it made him remember those times—he remembers every single one of those times.
Everything about Kanye’s space station world would be fresh and new. It would be full of diamonds, comfortable chairs, different kinds of alcohol, and life. And all of that life would be Kanye’s. All the other things would be Kanye’s, too, but he already had a lot of those things. It was the life he was excited about. The air that newborn babies breathed would be his air, the last breath that dying old people breathed would be his breath. He thought about all of these things and felt warm with the hugeness, the responsibility of it all. He felt he was ready to be God.
Jay-Z couldn’t read thoughts or anything, but he could tell Kanye was thinking emotions, so he patted Kanye on the back.
“Thank you, Jay-Z,” Kanye said.
The space-cruiser pulled up to the space world, and as it pulled in close the space world was all they could see.
“I never realized how big bigger than the moon is until now,” said Kanye.
“I know, Ye.” Jay-Z said.
As he stepped out of his ship, Kanye realized something that terrified him: there were no people here. He was alone.
He walked past the robot offering to give him a tour, and he walked across the hangar—away from space and away from the only other world he had ever known toward the heart of his own world.
He didn’t have to walk too far, maybe thirty minutes. He opened a few doors (he had all of the keys). He walked down a few hallways.
All of the sudden, he was there. The center of his space station world was hollow. The scientists said it had to be that way. He could not see across to the other side. It was thousands of miles across. And thousands of miles down and thousands of miles up. The abyss.
Jay-Z had followed him there. He sat next to Kanye, and they both dangled their legs over the ledge. They sat there a while, letting their legs swing. Jay-Z was good at quiet. Kanye began to quietly cry. His tears settled into the bottom of the abyss. He knew there were ships full of people on their way, but somehow that didn’t matter.
“What’s wrong?” Jay-Z asked.
“It’s just another empty world.”
Anonymous asked: ARE YOU GUYS FUCKING DEAD MAN!?
working on a long-form erotic fanfiction, it’s an A$AP rocky x 2 chainz x drake x kendrick lamar orgy. currently at 60k words
Drake looks at his phone. Still no calls nor texts. He hoped at least one or two of his friends would wish him a happy birthday. The date is on his Facebook and everything.
He begins to smear cream cheese frosting on the cake he baked for himself. He puts a large dollop from the can on the top of the cake and tries to smooth it out with a knife.
But, the icing doesn’t smooth out. Instead it rolls around in a glob atop the cake, pulling up large chunks with it. Drake hadn’t let the cake cool long enough.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” Drake whispers, setting the knife down. Tears well up in his eyes. “Happy birthday dear Aubrey. Happy birthday to you.”
MC Ride stood on the balcony in balmy Sacramento, his arms outstretched. His third album had just been released. He was taking in a moment of wind and silence.
“Stephen!” screamed Zach Hill from below. “What the hell are you doing? Get down from there!”
MC Ride did not answer to his old, human name. He glanced down at Zach Hill and the drummer exploded into glowing green ash. Flatlander scurried for cover.
It was now time. MC Ride took a powerful leap off the balcony. Just as it seemed he would fall to his demise, a breeze took him high into the sky. Wings of dark, dark glass burst from his back, his tattoos glowing a ghastly white. He flew up into the sky, higher, higher, until he was but a speck in the sun’s rays.
Minutes later, the sun turned black. The sky shone lavender, and the animals of the forest let out a piercing chant. “GET GET GET GET GOT GOT GOT GOT,” again and again in rhythm until the words meant nothing.
MC Ride was now the god of all rappers. The god of all creation.
The Detroit morning glowed a hazy grey-blue through the window. Eminem woke in his bedroom, swathed in fine linens and silk pajamas. It was early, but he couldn’t go back to sleep, despite his best efforts. His daughter would be up in a few short hours, his wife likely as well. He didn’t know where they were. He stood up out of bed.
Eminem walked to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet, lid down, head in his hands. I don’t know what I’m doing up at this hour, he murmured into his hands. Eventually, he let loose a deep sigh and stood to wash his face. He looked in the mirror.
Who stared back? Was it Eminem? Was it Marshall Mathers? Slim Shady, the REAL Slim Shady? B. Rabbit, the heroic reflection of Em himself? The faces cycled past him at a dizzying speed. His eyes widened and he punched the mirror, shattering him, lacerating his hand with scores of small cuts.
He sat down on the floor and sobbed loudly. One thought persisted in his rage-addled head: Who am I?
Anonymous asked: Best of luck to you in your future endeavors! You're a real talent and your fan fiction always made my day. Hope to see more in the future down the road, I'll buy ten copies if a book ever comes out!
Thanks! I’ll write some new shit soon, promise. ALSO 2 CHAINZ JUST HAD A FUNERAL.