Ever Since Life and Lyrics.
Found this at sputnik music.
I recall this tale very violently once before, in a time, place, and world where everyone was mentally screwed up by rap. So, here's what happened.
EXCLAIMER: This is completely and totally REAL.
----
I walked across the hallway down the Upper Penisula Hospital, located outside of Detroit. I took note of the two patients I was forced to work with today: Marshall Mathers the Third, who has been subject to being a misogynist, homophobe, violent, psychotic outlaw, rapist, murderer, and insult to humanity. I had experienced worse. He was locked up in a literal cell of an office with Rihanna and Lil' Wayne, both of which have had complete mental meltdowns due to harsh criticism and subject to mass media stupidity. I peered inside the metal circle of the metal door, and saw Mr. Mathers absentmindedly freestyling while peeling a rotting spanish onion, while Rihanna has brief seizures and half-singing the chorus to 'Love The Way You Lie' and half-slitting-her-own-wrists. He opened the door and saw the machine tubes strapped to Lil' Wayne, who's true name has never been revealed. Marshall began to make crack out of the rotting onions.
"Uh, hello, Mr. Mathers?", I silently asked for his attention. "THAT'S SLIM SHADY TO YOU, DAWG.", his voice tweaked as he violently twitched upward. I rolled my eyes, I got tired of that nickname the minute I listened to TSSLP. "Whatever, Shady,", shuttering as I said it, "we need you to-" He then got lost in his own world again. "HI, MY NAME IS-" "Okay, Slim, please, please just SHUT UP. Go hang yourself if you're going to keep that up.", I said back to him in my irritable tone, one that I rarely use towards patients, if not never. "Ah... I like your attitude. I need you to do something for me, Doc.", he smirked. Whenever he asks a request and smirks, I know it's something ridiculous. "What? You want me to get you more mushrooms, or maybe get you a paper to write another rap?", I asked with a hint of displeasure in my voice.
"No. Now, here's the deal,", he said, spitting at Lil' Wayne to shut him up. I twitched. "If you don't do this for me, I'm going to jump out this window, and detonate some hidden bombs here, therefore blowing up every single newborn child here and crippled patient. Anybody who's alive, I'm going to sing Untitled to them whilst cutting their eye out and forcing them to eat it." My jaw gaped. "How.. where... when?" Marshall then finished it for me: "I hid it underneath the floorboard in the main hall, and another one near the ambulances." I then wondered why I ever let him wander around the office. I was forced to put a shot into Rihanna to shut her the HELL up, and I then put an end to that tirade of hers as he continued to talk. "This is my request, dawg. Listen loud and clear."
"I released the Recovery album back in 2010. I then re-released it the next day, after after a series of re-releases, I currently had to end it at the re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re release, which featured an uncensored censor on an uncensored album next to the censored uncensored bonus uncensored track of the censored album to the uncensored double album." Listening to him was mind-boggling. I'd rather poke a spike through my brain then choke on Chicken Rotesserie while bashing my teeth against a hammer. "So, after the re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-RE release which was featured in an underground album near the underground scene on an underground, but not-underground underground EP, it changed one lyric in "25 to Life"'s third verse, sentence 19. That officially caused Pandemonium near 54 Sound Studios in Detroit. The head of Vulgar Music, Justin Bieber Ph.D. declared a quarantine of the area around 54. So, this is what you need to do: we need my new re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-RE release of the album that added in a four-second skit. I'll talk to you on this handmade radio I made out of parts of my di-I mean, wood. And if you don't do this, I'll rape your girlfriend while nuking the entire state of Wyoming and sending a bunch of rappers to shoot up the Red Cross building." I actually knew he would do it. He had once blew up the Eiffel Tower by accident, and has killed over 1400 people with his own voice. "Oh, and if you try to rip off that radio, it's attached with a microscopic bomb, dawg. If you even remotely take it off, unless you drop it by accident, well... let's just say you'll be hearing my albums in hell."
I rolled my eyes, but on the inside, I was kind of excited. "What to I have to deal with?", I nervously asked. "You gotta leave first, bird-face. Oh, and I want you to write a review of Recovery somewhere on your way." Although I didn't understand bird face I knew everything he commanded me to do he wanted done.
"Fine. I'll be at the metro by 8:30." "Contact me there, stud.", he said smirking. This skit he's adding better be worldwide-changing. I storm out the doors from the reception center, ignoring everyone's questions, then strip off my doctor's gown, revealing a black shirt, with my gray pants still on. 'Hey, Bird-face!', a scratched audio blurted from the radio. I snatched it out of my jeans pocket before opening the door to my jeep. "WHAT?!", I asked, irritated to the point of oblivion. "There's a weapon I snuck in at the glove compartment of your car. Use it on your way, you'll need it. Nobody crosses the border unless you're part of the Justin Bieber Supporter Squadron, or they might misidentify you as part of the Aftermath Resistance. And trust me, you do NOT want that to happen."
I groaned at got in the car, opening the glove compartment and sorting through the first aid supplies, packets, and papers, and found a SPAS-12 shotgun with a total of six full magazines. "I really need to watch where you go now. If you didn't place that bomb in the hospital, I would report your ass and they'd hall you off to Arkham.", I bitterly announced in the radio. "Just drive. I'll talk to you there." I pumped the shotgun, hearing the satisfying CLACK as it loaded the last magazine, put it in the seat next to me, driving off into the rainy evening.
---
On the border outside of Detroit, 8:26:39
---
I brushed back my blonde hair, then peered down at the metro station, an underground subway, not like the metro rail I'm used to. I step down the gravel, conceal my shotgun in my backpack full of first aid and protective armor, then unholster the radio. "Marshall? You awake?" The sound of his confused groan, and stumbling for his radio tells me otherwise. "Y-yeah, I'm here,", he yawned. "Alright, listen. Everybody's asleep, and that metro's going to come in about two minutes. I want you to make sure you have everything you need."
I took off my pack and sorted through it. A couple layers of protective armor, metro rail tickets, first aid supplies, the shotgun, two Mack-11s he SOMEHOW put into my backpack, and some spare change with extra money. I also had a small case containing a knife. It seemed good enough. "Yeah, pretty much, Marshall.", I said, absently chilling in the cold night. I should have brought a jacket. "When you get on that metro, there's no turning back. You're sure you're entirely packed?" It seemed like I had everything, so I explained all the supplies I had. "Anything I'm missing, Mr. Terrorist?", watching as the train came down the spiked railway to the left. "Just need to make sure your dignity's still in check. Anyways, when you arrive at the very outside of Detroit, talk to Tupac." "Whoa, I thought he was dead!", I exclaimed, incredously raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, well... I went back in time to save him. By the way, I ate your lunch in the hospital." I shook my head, about willing to believe anything at this point. I'd rather believe Chuck Norris went to Mars and conquered the universe than believe 2pac's alive, but I nonetheless responded, "Time Travel? A lot of stuff I don't know about you." "The train's here, Mathers. This is where we go."
"I'll be in contact, bird face. Just be careful.", he said, but he sounded so much more mature than the usual teenage sneer in his voice all the time, the sarcastic vocal capacity he seems to famously hold, almost hallow. I waited as the metal doors slided open, then gave the train ticketeer the tickets, and sat on a nearby chair, breathing nervously as the green walls seemed to stare at me, and I stared out the metal circle, saying goodbye to the Upper Pennisula.
I found a pack of food in my outer packet, began to chew on some chips, very crunchy and good. "HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!! MY NAME'S HAROOOOOOOOOOLD!", I had a gleeful screech from the left of me, and looked at the left. He was fat, wearing a stupid hat, and in the worse clothes I had ever witnessed: brown lipstick, red hair, yellow jeans, and a pink shirt, which stated "I follow Mega***!", a metal band made by Dave Mustaine. Surprisingly, we were the only people on this train, apart from a wandering Labrador which I could only guess was his. "Hi...", I said, already annoyed. "U WANNA BE FRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENDSSSSSSS?", he extended his sentence, getting saliva in my gray eyes. "Yeah, whatever...." "AWEEEEEEEEEEESOOOOOOOOOOOOOMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEE! I usually end up raping and looting everybody who turns me down, but I have a feeling about you!" I was just about to plug in my iPod and deafen myself, before Marshall spoke in a dark tone this time, so serious I actually follow.
"Kill the fat weirdo." I grabbed my Mack-11 and blew a cap. There was a dog licking my brown shoes, I couldn't help but shoo the dog away before he started to lay down on his master's body. Definitely saddening, but nonetheless boring. I feel into a deep sleep.
---
Outside of Detroit, On the Train: 3:28 am
---
I was awakened by an annoying computerized sound: "NOW STOPPING OUTSIDE OF DETROIT. PLEASE EXIT TO THE LEFT, AND EXIT WHEN THE DOORS HAVE OPEN. HAVE FUN!" I wanted to strangle whoever that was. I then peeked over at Harold, who's dog had eventually got bored of and was absentmindedly biting his loose shoelace. Kind of creepy.
I was then introduced to Tupac. I couldn't believe it. His black skin looked flawless and without any bullet holes, and that deep black moustache still remained on him. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, blue jeans, and black shoes. He looked better than ever, so I wondered how old he was now. Probably in his 40's. "Sup, dawg, I've been expecting you. Follow me. We're going to 22 Aracia Avenue."
This made me groan even more, but Tupac knew that it was an ironic groan. That was the name of an Iron Maiden song. "So, what are we going up against?", I asked after a long perioid of silence.
"Well, we're neutral in this conflict. We've got the Justin Bieber Supporter Squadron, run by Justin Bieber, Ph.D. It's made up of at least one hundred members, now it's been reduced to sixty-seven, but still putting up a fight. The Rebecca Black Resistance is currently the dominating force, with more experience and members, not to mention a better leader. So, we just have to wait until they eventually kill eachother. Then, that's when we come in. While they're distracted, we have to send in an armored truck containing the East Coast and West Coast Legions, who currently have an alliance. We just have to help defend the truck. Once we reach 54 Sound, they'll take care of it for us while we storm in through the rest of the building. Once you reach the studio room, break in, and yank the album. We'll escape through a lift to the top of the building, then escape via a helicopter. Unfortunately, it will be carrying out far too many wounded, so they've attached a rectangled platform hooked up beneath the helicopter. We just have to stand on that and maybe rain some fire before they finally escape."
And this point, I would think invading the Pentagon sounded easier.
And sure enough, I was right: 22 Aracia Avenue was definitely a parody. I was then introduced to a zombie. I recognized him as Eddie the Head. His long hair was fuzzled up like he had just electrocuted himself, but he looked sturdy for a dead person. He's dressed in a black jacket with a yellow shirt underneath, with black jeans. "Welllllcoommmeeeee...", he hissed. "Thisssss issssssss the birrrrrrrrrrd facccccccccccccee?" Great, that's now an official nickname. "Yep, he's here to help us. We've got twenty hospital trucks going off right now, containing about 300 in total. We'll have our own ambulance, and you'll be riding shotgun. Eddie, you'll be in the back with an explosive-bolted crossbow." I never noticed the click of the weapon in the dead man's hands. It was tattoed like flames, with the occasional black dots here and there. It also had a scope, and the canteen looked like enough for sixteen arrows, eight of them normal arrows, the other eight explosive. "We'll give you a Ppsh-41, you know, from Russia, with an extended mag, Martin.", 2pac snapped me back to reality, handing me a gun with a drum-shaped magazine. "Get in.", he said, once the twentieth ambulance left.
I sat against the white seat, cold and solid enough to leech the body heat off your skin. Tupac was half-driving, half-leaning out the window with a shotgun. Then there we were, arriving at the 54 Sound Studios, completely quarantined. Gunfire rained through the sky, as did explosions and downed vehicles. "MOVE IN!", Eddie screamed from behind, finally carving a thorough hole in the back of the truck with his elbow bone (which I'd imagine is pretty sharp), then aims out the window.
As we progresed, I took down at least thirteen members as we went forth. Somebody tried to kamikaze themselves by running up with a sword to Tupac's window. He had just dig his fingers into his face before throwing the attacker down and crushing his face beneath the wheels. We were screeching down the battlefield at high speed, Eddie doing a good job of cleaning up crowds, Tupac doing a good job of manuevering, and I hope I was doing a good job, for I was never trained for this kind of crap. I soon ran out of magazines, before an explosion rattled my senses, earsplitting. The vehicle was flipped over, literally doing a 360, bashing my head against the cold white walls, Tupac barely clutching the wheel, my shotgun lost and his feet flying in the air. The impact flew Eddie back, crashing him through the windows.
The vehicle then crashed down on the surface with a harsh bang, just breaking into 54 Sound. I then flew straight out of the window, sliding across the tile with my ankle. I gathered my bearings: I was still alive, but badly injured with a limp. Tupac was pulling pieces of glass out of his head and fumbling through my first aid supplies, getting cut medicine and appyling gauze on his wounds. Eddie was the most crippled, but he's already dead. "Can you walk, Eddie?", I called out, finding that my vocal cords have suffered damaged somehow. I force myself to cough out a piece of glass. "Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.... Goooooooooo.... Get alllllbummmmm.... killllllllll Mathersssssss.....", he then slipped out of reality, into unconsciousness. "I'll carry him. He's still alive.", Tupac said. "You'll have to get me in the elevator because of Eddie. You go up the stairs." I nodded and watched them go up the wired lift as I dashed upstairs, snapping off hostage's ties as I ran, them thanking me and crying freedom. In about five minutes, I had made it to the third studio, and Tupac had been waiting there with a barely-conscious Eddie. "Take Eddie.", I left him off, hauling him into a nearby studio, placing him on the floor, concealed. "STAND BACK!", he zips an explosive bolt on the locked door, and it then explodes, getting gravel in the hell of my boot. I pick it out before rushing in to get the album.
I then began to hear screams down below.
"You better run now, Birdie.", Tupac snarled, loading an explosive bolt. "But you're low on ammo and hurt! I can't..."
"Go. Finish your job. Go off on the helicopter. Save Eddie. Kill Marshall.", that makes two requests for Shady to die. "It's okay, everybody thinks I'm dead anyways." I heaved up Eddie, waving one last goodbye, a frown on my face, and I took the lift to the roof. Eddie had somewhat regained consciousness, and was somehow able to stand, albeit painfully. I rushed onto the roof, the helicopter waiting for me.
"GET YOUR ASSES ON HERE!", the pilot yelled. Eddie draged himself onto an empty spot in the helicopter before passing out again. "On the platform, bud." I noticed the hooked up platform, wired and everything. I stepped onto it, surprisingly sturdy. "You got the album, kid?" I nodded. "We're moving, people!", as if the whole purpose of sitting there was for me to get the LP.
I was able to put the album into my CD player, and surprisingly... I liked it somewhat. Even though everybody said it sucked major balls and that it should be buried alongside Hitler's grave in Germany. I couldn't stand Untitled, Love the Way You Lie, or No Love at all.
---
"Well, Marshall, here you go. I hope you give one in to our friend, Tupac. Eddie's recovering, and..."
"I have something to confess.", he interrupted. "The skit I told you about, the whole reason you got the album?", I nodded, knowing I had made some mistake. "It sucks balls, so I'm not gonig to release it."
I stared at him, my jaw gaping. "I should have done this a long time ago, Marshall."
I cocked my Mack-11 at him, and even though he had that psychotic smile on his face, he knew that I wasn't giving him a 21-gun salute, even though he was going to his death, there was no remorse in those eyes.
Found this at sputnik music.
I recall this tale very violently once before, in a time, place, and world where everyone was mentally screwed up by rap. So, here's what happened.
EXCLAIMER: This is completely and totally REAL.
----
I walked across the hallway down the Upper Penisula Hospital, located outside of Detroit. I took note of the two patients I was forced to work with today: Marshall Mathers the Third, who has been subject to being a misogynist, homophobe, violent, psychotic outlaw, rapist, murderer, and insult to humanity. I had experienced worse. He was locked up in a literal cell of an office with Rihanna and Lil' Wayne, both of which have had complete mental meltdowns due to harsh criticism and subject to mass media stupidity. I peered inside the metal circle of the metal door, and saw Mr. Mathers absentmindedly freestyling while peeling a rotting spanish onion, while Rihanna has brief seizures and half-singing the chorus to 'Love The Way You Lie' and half-slitting-her-own-wrists. He opened the door and saw the machine tubes strapped to Lil' Wayne, who's true name has never been revealed. Marshall began to make crack out of the rotting onions.
"Uh, hello, Mr. Mathers?", I silently asked for his attention. "THAT'S SLIM SHADY TO YOU, DAWG.", his voice tweaked as he violently twitched upward. I rolled my eyes, I got tired of that nickname the minute I listened to TSSLP. "Whatever, Shady,", shuttering as I said it, "we need you to-" He then got lost in his own world again. "HI, MY NAME IS-" "Okay, Slim, please, please just SHUT UP. Go hang yourself if you're going to keep that up.", I said back to him in my irritable tone, one that I rarely use towards patients, if not never. "Ah... I like your attitude. I need you to do something for me, Doc.", he smirked. Whenever he asks a request and smirks, I know it's something ridiculous. "What? You want me to get you more mushrooms, or maybe get you a paper to write another rap?", I asked with a hint of displeasure in my voice.
"No. Now, here's the deal,", he said, spitting at Lil' Wayne to shut him up. I twitched. "If you don't do this for me, I'm going to jump out this window, and detonate some hidden bombs here, therefore blowing up every single newborn child here and crippled patient. Anybody who's alive, I'm going to sing Untitled to them whilst cutting their eye out and forcing them to eat it." My jaw gaped. "How.. where... when?" Marshall then finished it for me: "I hid it underneath the floorboard in the main hall, and another one near the ambulances." I then wondered why I ever let him wander around the office. I was forced to put a shot into Rihanna to shut her the HELL up, and I then put an end to that tirade of hers as he continued to talk. "This is my request, dawg. Listen loud and clear."
"I released the Recovery album back in 2010. I then re-released it the next day, after after a series of re-releases, I currently had to end it at the re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re release, which featured an uncensored censor on an uncensored album next to the censored uncensored bonus uncensored track of the censored album to the uncensored double album." Listening to him was mind-boggling. I'd rather poke a spike through my brain then choke on Chicken Rotesserie while bashing my teeth against a hammer. "So, after the re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-RE release which was featured in an underground album near the underground scene on an underground, but not-underground underground EP, it changed one lyric in "25 to Life"'s third verse, sentence 19. That officially caused Pandemonium near 54 Sound Studios in Detroit. The head of Vulgar Music, Justin Bieber Ph.D. declared a quarantine of the area around 54. So, this is what you need to do: we need my new re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-RE release of the album that added in a four-second skit. I'll talk to you on this handmade radio I made out of parts of my di-I mean, wood. And if you don't do this, I'll rape your girlfriend while nuking the entire state of Wyoming and sending a bunch of rappers to shoot up the Red Cross building." I actually knew he would do it. He had once blew up the Eiffel Tower by accident, and has killed over 1400 people with his own voice. "Oh, and if you try to rip off that radio, it's attached with a microscopic bomb, dawg. If you even remotely take it off, unless you drop it by accident, well... let's just say you'll be hearing my albums in hell."
I rolled my eyes, but on the inside, I was kind of excited. "What to I have to deal with?", I nervously asked. "You gotta leave first, bird-face. Oh, and I want you to write a review of Recovery somewhere on your way." Although I didn't understand bird face I knew everything he commanded me to do he wanted done.
"Fine. I'll be at the metro by 8:30." "Contact me there, stud.", he said smirking. This skit he's adding better be worldwide-changing. I storm out the doors from the reception center, ignoring everyone's questions, then strip off my doctor's gown, revealing a black shirt, with my gray pants still on. 'Hey, Bird-face!', a scratched audio blurted from the radio. I snatched it out of my jeans pocket before opening the door to my jeep. "WHAT?!", I asked, irritated to the point of oblivion. "There's a weapon I snuck in at the glove compartment of your car. Use it on your way, you'll need it. Nobody crosses the border unless you're part of the Justin Bieber Supporter Squadron, or they might misidentify you as part of the Aftermath Resistance. And trust me, you do NOT want that to happen."
I groaned at got in the car, opening the glove compartment and sorting through the first aid supplies, packets, and papers, and found a SPAS-12 shotgun with a total of six full magazines. "I really need to watch where you go now. If you didn't place that bomb in the hospital, I would report your ass and they'd hall you off to Arkham.", I bitterly announced in the radio. "Just drive. I'll talk to you there." I pumped the shotgun, hearing the satisfying CLACK as it loaded the last magazine, put it in the seat next to me, driving off into the rainy evening.
---
On the border outside of Detroit, 8:26:39
---
I brushed back my blonde hair, then peered down at the metro station, an underground subway, not like the metro rail I'm used to. I step down the gravel, conceal my shotgun in my backpack full of first aid and protective armor, then unholster the radio. "Marshall? You awake?" The sound of his confused groan, and stumbling for his radio tells me otherwise. "Y-yeah, I'm here,", he yawned. "Alright, listen. Everybody's asleep, and that metro's going to come in about two minutes. I want you to make sure you have everything you need."
I took off my pack and sorted through it. A couple layers of protective armor, metro rail tickets, first aid supplies, the shotgun, two Mack-11s he SOMEHOW put into my backpack, and some spare change with extra money. I also had a small case containing a knife. It seemed good enough. "Yeah, pretty much, Marshall.", I said, absently chilling in the cold night. I should have brought a jacket. "When you get on that metro, there's no turning back. You're sure you're entirely packed?" It seemed like I had everything, so I explained all the supplies I had. "Anything I'm missing, Mr. Terrorist?", watching as the train came down the spiked railway to the left. "Just need to make sure your dignity's still in check. Anyways, when you arrive at the very outside of Detroit, talk to Tupac." "Whoa, I thought he was dead!", I exclaimed, incredously raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, well... I went back in time to save him. By the way, I ate your lunch in the hospital." I shook my head, about willing to believe anything at this point. I'd rather believe Chuck Norris went to Mars and conquered the universe than believe 2pac's alive, but I nonetheless responded, "Time Travel? A lot of stuff I don't know about you." "The train's here, Mathers. This is where we go."
"I'll be in contact, bird face. Just be careful.", he said, but he sounded so much more mature than the usual teenage sneer in his voice all the time, the sarcastic vocal capacity he seems to famously hold, almost hallow. I waited as the metal doors slided open, then gave the train ticketeer the tickets, and sat on a nearby chair, breathing nervously as the green walls seemed to stare at me, and I stared out the metal circle, saying goodbye to the Upper Pennisula.
I found a pack of food in my outer packet, began to chew on some chips, very crunchy and good. "HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!! MY NAME'S HAROOOOOOOOOOLD!", I had a gleeful screech from the left of me, and looked at the left. He was fat, wearing a stupid hat, and in the worse clothes I had ever witnessed: brown lipstick, red hair, yellow jeans, and a pink shirt, which stated "I follow Mega***!", a metal band made by Dave Mustaine. Surprisingly, we were the only people on this train, apart from a wandering Labrador which I could only guess was his. "Hi...", I said, already annoyed. "U WANNA BE FRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENDSSSSSSS?", he extended his sentence, getting saliva in my gray eyes. "Yeah, whatever...." "AWEEEEEEEEEEESOOOOOOOOOOOOOMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEE! I usually end up raping and looting everybody who turns me down, but I have a feeling about you!" I was just about to plug in my iPod and deafen myself, before Marshall spoke in a dark tone this time, so serious I actually follow.
"Kill the fat weirdo." I grabbed my Mack-11 and blew a cap. There was a dog licking my brown shoes, I couldn't help but shoo the dog away before he started to lay down on his master's body. Definitely saddening, but nonetheless boring. I feel into a deep sleep.
---
Outside of Detroit, On the Train: 3:28 am
---
I was awakened by an annoying computerized sound: "NOW STOPPING OUTSIDE OF DETROIT. PLEASE EXIT TO THE LEFT, AND EXIT WHEN THE DOORS HAVE OPEN. HAVE FUN!" I wanted to strangle whoever that was. I then peeked over at Harold, who's dog had eventually got bored of and was absentmindedly biting his loose shoelace. Kind of creepy.
I was then introduced to Tupac. I couldn't believe it. His black skin looked flawless and without any bullet holes, and that deep black moustache still remained on him. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, blue jeans, and black shoes. He looked better than ever, so I wondered how old he was now. Probably in his 40's. "Sup, dawg, I've been expecting you. Follow me. We're going to 22 Aracia Avenue."
This made me groan even more, but Tupac knew that it was an ironic groan. That was the name of an Iron Maiden song. "So, what are we going up against?", I asked after a long perioid of silence.
"Well, we're neutral in this conflict. We've got the Justin Bieber Supporter Squadron, run by Justin Bieber, Ph.D. It's made up of at least one hundred members, now it's been reduced to sixty-seven, but still putting up a fight. The Rebecca Black Resistance is currently the dominating force, with more experience and members, not to mention a better leader. So, we just have to wait until they eventually kill eachother. Then, that's when we come in. While they're distracted, we have to send in an armored truck containing the East Coast and West Coast Legions, who currently have an alliance. We just have to help defend the truck. Once we reach 54 Sound, they'll take care of it for us while we storm in through the rest of the building. Once you reach the studio room, break in, and yank the album. We'll escape through a lift to the top of the building, then escape via a helicopter. Unfortunately, it will be carrying out far too many wounded, so they've attached a rectangled platform hooked up beneath the helicopter. We just have to stand on that and maybe rain some fire before they finally escape."
And this point, I would think invading the Pentagon sounded easier.
And sure enough, I was right: 22 Aracia Avenue was definitely a parody. I was then introduced to a zombie. I recognized him as Eddie the Head. His long hair was fuzzled up like he had just electrocuted himself, but he looked sturdy for a dead person. He's dressed in a black jacket with a yellow shirt underneath, with black jeans. "Welllllcoommmeeeee...", he hissed. "Thisssss issssssss the birrrrrrrrrrd facccccccccccccee?" Great, that's now an official nickname. "Yep, he's here to help us. We've got twenty hospital trucks going off right now, containing about 300 in total. We'll have our own ambulance, and you'll be riding shotgun. Eddie, you'll be in the back with an explosive-bolted crossbow." I never noticed the click of the weapon in the dead man's hands. It was tattoed like flames, with the occasional black dots here and there. It also had a scope, and the canteen looked like enough for sixteen arrows, eight of them normal arrows, the other eight explosive. "We'll give you a Ppsh-41, you know, from Russia, with an extended mag, Martin.", 2pac snapped me back to reality, handing me a gun with a drum-shaped magazine. "Get in.", he said, once the twentieth ambulance left.
I sat against the white seat, cold and solid enough to leech the body heat off your skin. Tupac was half-driving, half-leaning out the window with a shotgun. Then there we were, arriving at the 54 Sound Studios, completely quarantined. Gunfire rained through the sky, as did explosions and downed vehicles. "MOVE IN!", Eddie screamed from behind, finally carving a thorough hole in the back of the truck with his elbow bone (which I'd imagine is pretty sharp), then aims out the window.
As we progresed, I took down at least thirteen members as we went forth. Somebody tried to kamikaze themselves by running up with a sword to Tupac's window. He had just dig his fingers into his face before throwing the attacker down and crushing his face beneath the wheels. We were screeching down the battlefield at high speed, Eddie doing a good job of cleaning up crowds, Tupac doing a good job of manuevering, and I hope I was doing a good job, for I was never trained for this kind of crap. I soon ran out of magazines, before an explosion rattled my senses, earsplitting. The vehicle was flipped over, literally doing a 360, bashing my head against the cold white walls, Tupac barely clutching the wheel, my shotgun lost and his feet flying in the air. The impact flew Eddie back, crashing him through the windows.
The vehicle then crashed down on the surface with a harsh bang, just breaking into 54 Sound. I then flew straight out of the window, sliding across the tile with my ankle. I gathered my bearings: I was still alive, but badly injured with a limp. Tupac was pulling pieces of glass out of his head and fumbling through my first aid supplies, getting cut medicine and appyling gauze on his wounds. Eddie was the most crippled, but he's already dead. "Can you walk, Eddie?", I called out, finding that my vocal cords have suffered damaged somehow. I force myself to cough out a piece of glass. "Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.... Goooooooooo.... Get alllllbummmmm.... killllllllll Mathersssssss.....", he then slipped out of reality, into unconsciousness. "I'll carry him. He's still alive.", Tupac said. "You'll have to get me in the elevator because of Eddie. You go up the stairs." I nodded and watched them go up the wired lift as I dashed upstairs, snapping off hostage's ties as I ran, them thanking me and crying freedom. In about five minutes, I had made it to the third studio, and Tupac had been waiting there with a barely-conscious Eddie. "Take Eddie.", I left him off, hauling him into a nearby studio, placing him on the floor, concealed. "STAND BACK!", he zips an explosive bolt on the locked door, and it then explodes, getting gravel in the hell of my boot. I pick it out before rushing in to get the album.
I then began to hear screams down below.
"You better run now, Birdie.", Tupac snarled, loading an explosive bolt. "But you're low on ammo and hurt! I can't..."
"Go. Finish your job. Go off on the helicopter. Save Eddie. Kill Marshall.", that makes two requests for Shady to die. "It's okay, everybody thinks I'm dead anyways." I heaved up Eddie, waving one last goodbye, a frown on my face, and I took the lift to the roof. Eddie had somewhat regained consciousness, and was somehow able to stand, albeit painfully. I rushed onto the roof, the helicopter waiting for me.
"GET YOUR ASSES ON HERE!", the pilot yelled. Eddie draged himself onto an empty spot in the helicopter before passing out again. "On the platform, bud." I noticed the hooked up platform, wired and everything. I stepped onto it, surprisingly sturdy. "You got the album, kid?" I nodded. "We're moving, people!", as if the whole purpose of sitting there was for me to get the LP.
I was able to put the album into my CD player, and surprisingly... I liked it somewhat. Even though everybody said it sucked major balls and that it should be buried alongside Hitler's grave in Germany. I couldn't stand Untitled, Love the Way You Lie, or No Love at all.
---
"Well, Marshall, here you go. I hope you give one in to our friend, Tupac. Eddie's recovering, and..."
"I have something to confess.", he interrupted. "The skit I told you about, the whole reason you got the album?", I nodded, knowing I had made some mistake. "It sucks balls, so I'm not gonig to release it."
I stared at him, my jaw gaping. "I should have done this a long time ago, Marshall."
I cocked my Mack-11 at him, and even though he had that psychotic smile on his face, he knew that I wasn't giving him a 21-gun salute, even though he was going to his death, there was no remorse in those eyes.
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