#WatchTheThrone Jun 1, 2016 2:34:04 GMT
Post by Andre Aquarius on Jun 1, 2016 2:34:04 GMT
Part 1: Royal Prelude
“Man down. Where you from, nigga? Fuck who you know, where you from, my nigga? Where your grandma stay, huh, my nigga? This m.A.A.d city I run, my nigga?” --Kendrick Lamar
What’s a young boy to the concrete jungle? Prey.
Andre: It’s gonna be okay! It’s gonna be alright, Kev! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
As I looked down at big bro, I could see the color in his skin fade and flush away. Blood pooled out from the gunshot wound placed in his gut and collected itself in a puddle. You wouldn’t have known his tank top was every white unless you were told so.
Andre: Kev! We gotta get you out of here!
Kevin: I’m scared, lil’ bro..
Tears dripped down his face. I could tell he was scared from the look he gave me and I could tell he was cold as I held his shaking hands in my own, both pressed against the hole in his stomach.
Kevin: I...don’t wanna die, lil’ bro.
Grandma always used to tell us “Don’t you boys be doin’ no gangbangin’! You gotta keep your head in them books and make somethin’ out of yourself. A black child’s potential is as endless as they choose it to be!” You know the fucked up part about this whole thing is that we wasn’t even doin’ no hood shit. When grandma told you that you was gonna grow up to be somethin’, you listened to what she was sayin’ and you buried yourself inside library text. Kev was seventeen years old and one of the smartest people I knew.
Kevin: I..I’m going to aren’t I?
You know that’s what it comes down to around here. You’re either the shooter or you end up with bullets fillin’ you up. You do hood shit? You die. You try to stay away from it? Well just look at this situation right here.
Andre: Don’t say that! Don’t you fuckin’ say that!
Needless to say, I was losing my shit. My bag had been tossed to the ground in a panic and papers were scattered about behind me.
My brother didn’t say anymore words after that. He just slumped back in my arms and twitched.
The tears in my eyes replicated those of my brother just moments before hand. Now let me ask you this.
What am I to the concrete jungle?
Part 2: Eternal Stupor
Wakin’ up in a bed that ain’t my own? Check. My vision a blur with my head spinnin’? Check. Havin’ my dick in the mouth of a girl whose name I don’t remember? Triple check that shit, bruh.
Andre: Don’t look at me.
My words seemed to go in one ear and right out the fuckin’ other as this lil’ doe eyed bitch was lookin’ up at your boy with that “Are you pleased, sir?” type look on her face.
: Andrreeeee baby, I-
I pushed that bitch off real quick. She ain’t wantin’ to listen to shit I’m tellin’ her, then I don’t want none. It’s whatever, homie. Head game was weak sauce anyway. So I snatched my phone up off the side table and strolled out a bedroom that smelled like stale cunt and fresh reefer only to be welcomed by a hallway littered with Solo cups and white frat homos sprawled out throughout the place. I was butt ass naked and not givin’ a fuck about it, breh.
I looked down at my iPhone, noticin’ about a dozen missed calls from one particular number. I dialed that shit up real quick, only havin’ to wait a second or two before the man on the other side of the phone picked it up.
: Earth child Andre. Where have you been? We have some things to discuss that I think you’ll find to be of the utmost importance.
Andre: My nigga ‘slim’ Jim Thuggin’!
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Where have you been, child?
Andre: To be honest with you, Jim, I have not a fuckin’ clue, man.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Meet me in one hour.
Andre: Fuckin’ where, bro? What’s the fuss about anyway? Can’t just be all vague and shit all the time. I need them sweet details, bruh bruh.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: I’ll be in the usual spot. It’s about your professional status.
Andre: Fuck, alright alright. Be there soon.
I clicked the phone off before heading back into the room to retrieve my things and throw my clothes on. The bitch that was fellatin’ ya boy before was now passed out in a pool of her own vomit. Close call on that shit. I ain’t tryna get no ham and cheese sandwich remnants on my hangdown just because lil’ miss whose name was prolly somethin’ like “Amber Johnson” from some white ass state like Wisconsin can’t keep down a couple of Summer Shandy’s. Fuckin’ pathetic. She turned a bit as I proceeded to step between them unconscious frat faggots at my feet like I was dodgin’ some laser beams on my way to rob a jewelry store or somethin’.
Andre: Fuckin’ noon already. Son of a bitch.
I made my way out past a couple of slidin’ doors and out into the that hot California weather. I’m just finna assume it was California, cause I ain’t tryna party in some faggot ass part of the world like Florida. My hand moved to cover my eyes and block at them bright ass sun rays.
Andre: Yep, it’s Cali.
Parked in this nigga’s front yard was something that seemed all too familiar, a white and black moped covered in bullet holes with the words “DANK RIDERS GANG” written across the side of it.
Andre: The fuck happened to this thing?
I climbed on and started it up, listenin’ to the small engine sputter to life as I rode off to meet ol’ man Jimothy.
Part 3: Return of the Lightskin Prodigy
My shot up little mow-beel pulled up into the Shell gas station parking lot. I quickly parked in the spot to the right of this slick ass Mercedes Benz. The owner of the vehicle, Jim Thuggin’, was leaned against the passenger side and smokin’ at a fat ass cigar as he watched me pull into the lot. As I threw my leg over and got off the moped, Thuggin’ continued to look on with that neutral ass expression on his face.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: You’re late, Earth child.
Andre: Did you really expect me to be on time?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: What kept you?
Andre: Lousy head from a basic bitch. What’s this whole thing about anyway?
Thuggin’ took a couple more puffs of his cigar with his right hand as his left reached up with a rolled up packet.
Andre: The fuck is that?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Your new contract?
Andre: New contract? For what?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Have you forgotten what it is that you do for a living?
Andre: Nah, bruh bruh. I’m just confused as to why you want me to come here so you can show me a contract. My ass is already employed and on the warpath, my dude.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Not at the moment you aren’t.
Andre: What you tryna say, Jim?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: There was a mass exodus. Apparently a bunch of documents were carelessly dropped into a paper shredder. It’s all a mess and it would probably be best to leave it at that.
Andre: You sayin’ I’m unemployed or somethin’?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Precisely.
Andre: Kinda surprised that faggot ass ol’ massah would be stupid enough to toss a contract as valuable as mine out like that. Fuck it, his loss I guess.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: We haven’t spoken much since Mexico.
Andre: I don’t even know what the fuck happened down there, breh. I was faded out my mind. Last thing I remember was talkin’ to Joey Chestnut and fightin’ Godzillas and shit.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Does that mean you aren’t aware of the location of your brothers in arms?
Andre: Not really. I don’t even know how the fuck I ended up back in Cali, man. I just woke up here.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: You’ll have to keep an eye out. I will do the same and let you know if I make contact.
Andre: Alright, well you mind tellin’ ya boy what’s up with that treasure map you’ve been holdin’ onto?
Jim extends an arm out, handing over the coiled up parchment like the nigga in an RPG handin’ out side quest instructions or some shit. I take it from his hands, turnin’ it over to examine it’s thickness which seems to be rivaled only by Mr. Kunta’s own man piece.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: I think you are going to want to hear what that has to say.
My hands ran to the top of the paper, causing the rubber band that held it in place to pop up in the air before droppin’ to the ground. As I unrolled it, I shot a curious glance back at this Mr. Miyagi ass nigga.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Valentine Wrestling Syndicate, your new place of employment. I think you’ll find the pay quite pleasing.
I took another look over the contract in front of me, my eyes growing wide at the number displayed.
Andre: Holy fuck, breh! That’s a whole lot of green! Massah JewFuck sure as hell wasn’t dishin’ it out like these people is. Who runs this place anyway?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Some indie veterans.
Andre: Interestin’ shit for sure. When do I start?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Sunday.
Andre: This Sunday?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Indeed.
Andre: Alright, where do I gotta go then?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: New Jersey.
Andre: For real though? Is that supposed to be any better than Mexico?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: I think you may take pleasure in your interactions with the women of that area.
Andre: That’s a given, but Jersey’s still fuckin’ nasty, bro.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Are you interested in the offer?
Andre: Of course I’m fuckin’ interested! You see the salary, homie?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: That is good to hear. I’ll call them shortly to inform them of your interest.
Andre: Wait, Sunday? How the fuck do I start Sunday if I ain’t even signed this shit yet?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: I may have told them that you would end up signing. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you have a matchup to prepare for.
Andre: Easy, bro. Training only cost me a smile and a twenty dollar bill.
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: I do not know if marijuana and sex with loose females is the best way to get ready for professional sports.
Andre: It’s worked this far. Shit, I was on a two month win streak before this contract shit and that was all fueled by blunts and blowjays, ya feel me?
Dat nigga Jim Thuggin’: Do what you will, Earth child Andre. Just know that you have quite the opportunity here. I expect it not to be wasted.
Thuggin’ tossed the butt of his cigar aside before walkin’ around to the other side of his Mercedes and climbin’ in. I watched him drive off as I took another look down at the contract in my hand.
Andre: These muhfuckers better be ready for Prince Lightskin.
Part 4: Lighstkin Era
The road was wavin’ around, meltin’ beneath my ass. With every corner that I found myself turnin’, there were arrays of colors not familiar to sober eyes. The effects of foreign substances in my system had done what they were meant to do and sent me on that path to enlightenment. As this dope ass lil’ moped ripped across the interstate, thoughts of fuck boy genocide were swirling around in my head. This week’s target: Massah Johnny Gillmen.
Andre: I ain’t even needin’ no mic or generic cameraman for this shit. We about to do it right up in here. I’m finna cut that fat ass promo this week for the only worthy ears I know, my own. Plus, what good is it gonna do to be lookin’ into a fish eye lens and tellin’ some fuck boy that I’m comin’ to rough him up? It ain’t like he’s gonna be listenin’ in. I mean, do they ever? I’ve spent months tellin’ muhfuckers that I’m the goat of this business, but they be tryna laugh at it until you land that elbow to the side of the head and leave them in the hospital with a bad case of bruised frontal lobe. “Oh no! You gave me a concussion! Waaaaahhh! My poor, poor career, shortened by years all because I was a fuckin’ retard who thought it would be a good idea to try my stand up game against that mean little negro boy!” Get over yourselves, pussies.
So this Miyagi muhfucker known as Jimothy Thuggin’ came to me with the paper in hand and I just couldn’t resist. Valentine Wrestling Syndicate is givin’ out them fat ass contracts in an attempt to get some decent talent up in they ranks. I smell that desperation and while I find it a bit pitiful, I also like my green, ya feel me? I wonder if Thuggin’ told them what they were actually gettin’ themselves into with signin’ my ass. Do they fear me as they should? Are they aware of the sheer fuckin’ dominance that I’ve found myself enjoyin’ since that strategy started to click earlier this year?
Let’s face it. I’m only one of ten dudes in the entire fuckin’ company. That’s what? Nine weeks as it stands now before I’ve undisputedly run through each and every one of them and taken the gold, the respect, the marketability, and superstardom for myself? Lightskin Conor McGregor takin’ names with the words as it stands right now. The fists? Now that’s a whole different horror all in itself. See, I didn’t need to spend a decade on the indies tryna win over the hearts of a bunch of fuckin’ neckbeards wearin’ Hot Rod t shirts to raise my stock sky fuckin’ high. In less than a year, I’ve done what the “professionals” struggle to come close to as they drain they fuckin’ souls from they own body just tryin’ to make it.
That contract and value on my head was pretty fuckin’ rich in itself, but I’ve been smilin’ ever since I found out the first faggot comin’ on down to the stage to try to win themselves a shattered orbital bone. Apparently, numero uno is this man Massah Gillmen! You know why I’m so fuckin’ thrilled to face this dude right here? It’s because I’m everything that he aspires to be. The wild and crazy guy hangin’ out on the shore, actin’ like he owns the place without even bein’ introduced to yours truly yet. I take much more pleasure in exercisin’ my right professional right to brutality when I know that it’s someone who is simply a lesser version of myself.
I mean, tunin’ in to this man’s old promo shit is just downright painful. This is THAT guy, king of the “suh” dudes. This is the Freddy Prince Jr. of VWS while ya boy Mr. Kunta is legit, on that Prince William grind, dippin’ rod inside of that Kate Middleton level cunt whenever I choose to. Is this man an actor? Holy shit, it’s like he’s been keepin’ track of me and tweakin’ the shit he does to try to live that lightskin lifestyle. Tell me, when the fuck did Kidz Bop start thinkin’ it was okay for them to try to cover Wu Tang? Do I need to keep throwin’ more insults this lil’ boy’s way? Can I just get to the part where I show him REAL Shaolin shadow boxin’ by bringin’ the ruckus down upon him?
Usually when you come into a company, you’re not finna know too much about who it is that you’re put against, but that simply ain’t the case. A quick look through a bio and tape on a match or two is all I’ve needed to figure out this one dimensional fuck boy. I became an expert in a few minutes of research, an author capable of writin’ a Johnny Gillmen biography if I wanted to. Of course, I’ll choose not to as I wish only to produce things that are of value. I’d sue this faggot for gimmick infringement, but he’s just not a real threat to my brand in any way, a dollar store knock off. I’m afraid that Massah Johnny is simply outmatched as you just can’t beat the real thing. Clone of a clone type homo on that Multiplicity grind.
I see this suh dude faggot on his positivity grind, thinkin’ that a win that helped him gain title opportunity is somethin’ that’s gonna lead him on the path to true main event status. If this were a VWS without Andre Aquarius, then maybe, just maybe...that positivity and belief in himself would lead him to the throne and help him keep it, but this is my beach now. The Shrek of California sands hath returned to the swag swamp to kick his lazy eye lookin’ ass up out with that ever so intimidating negro roar. They wanna send me to the East coast? Shiiiit, I’ll own that territory too.
It’s all lightskin country with me around, VaporWaveSyndicate if you will. I’ll let’em all know that the trendsetter is here. #BeachKrew is somethin’ that I continue to live by and an umbrella that I’ve thrived under. The sub-division known as Lightskin Nation, now that’s truly a sight to behold. Poor lil’ Johnny, he’ll never see it comin’. I mean, really, he won’t see it comin’. I guess the front office was just like “Oh, he’s half a retard AND he’s half blind? Oh well, whatever fills up a spot on the roster, right?” Blind jokes. Yep, gotta get one of them in there. Is this the part where I gotta follow that celebrity trend of issuin’ a public apology over Twitter, because this faggot is easily triggered? Yeeeah, I ain’t about that PC life, breh.
This week, just like every other week from here on out, is mine to take and fuckin’ own and Johnny Gillmen is on MY plantation now. I’m the one with that leather in my hands, the one with the whip who’s about to turn Johnny “nae nae” Gillmen inside out and send him to the pit of irrelevants, of forgotten has beens along with Soulja Boy and all them other trend ridin’ faggots. When All In comes around, that’s exactly what I’ll be doin’ while Massah Gillmen walks away broke and broken, feelin’ like he just made a bet that he can’t cover as he receives the kind of beatin’ that makes a nigger submit and go by the name Toby. Mr. Kunta becomin’ Mr. One ‘N Zero?
Fade to lightskin.