Chapter 65: The King of Chaos
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 8:35 PM
The last digital and psychedelic echo of 'Drugs You Should Try It' cut off abruptly, sucked into the silence of the sound system.
The Observatory room hung in the void for a second. The atmosphere, which had been a purple and dreamy haze, dissipated.
Michael stood in the center of the stage, completely motionless.
He was shirtless. His skin shone under the spotlights, covered in a layer of sweat that reflected the light like oil. His chest rose and fell heavily, every breath a visible effort to recover oxygen after jumping on the monitors. His dark, curly hair was stuck to his forehead, and his eyes, now without sunglasses, swept the crowd with a feverish intensity.
The purple lights went out.
In their place, the stage emergency lights turned on. A bath of red light, deep and sinister, flooded the room. Michael looked like he was covered in blood. His shadow stretched behind him, gigantic and deformed against the backdrop.
The silence of the crowd was electric. They knew the show wasn't over. They knew the final piece of the puzzle was missing. The energy in the room shifted from admiration to physical tension. It was the calm before the storm.
Michael approached the microphone stand. He grabbed it with one hand, his knuckles white from the force of the grip. He leaned forward, almost whispering, but his amplified voice sounded like rasping thunder.
"This next song..." he said, and had to stop to swallow air.
The crowd leaned forward.
"I just released it yesterday," continued Michael. A crooked, almost manic smile appeared on his face. "It's barely been in the world for twenty-four hours."
A murmur ran through the room. Some already knew what it was. They had seen the tweet. They had heard the audio on Spotify that morning. The song's name was whispered in the front rows like a secret password.
"I know you haven't had time to learn it," said Michael, his voice rising in volume, gaining an aggressive edge. "I know it's new. I know it's ugly."
He straightened up, letting go of the stand and grabbing the microphone with both hands.
"But I don't give a shit," he shouted. "I want to sing it with all of you. I don't want you to look at me. I want you to move. I want to see you tear this place to pieces."
He pointed to the center of the floor, where the space had closed up after 'Paris'.
"Open it!" he ordered. "Open it right now!"
The crowd obeyed. The circle opened again, bigger, more dangerous.
Michael turned toward the DJ booth. T-Roc was standing, one hand in the air and the other on the sampler, his face illuminated by the red light, smiling like an executioner.
Michael nodded once.
T-Roc dropped his hand.
The sample of 'Changes' by Mala played. That distorted piano, pitched down, slow and menacing. Tu-tu-tu... Tu-tu-tu...
It wasn't music. It was a warning siren.
The sound was dirty, grainy, full of static hiss. It was the sound of something about to break.
Michael started jumping in place, to the rhythm of the sample, charging energy like an overheated battery.
"LETS GO!!!"
The sample looped once. Twice. The tension was unbearable.
And then, the 808 dropped.
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 8:38 PM
The saturated and broken 808 of 'Look At Me!' didn't play; it exploded.
It was a sonic detonation. The Observatory subwoofers, pushed beyond their logical limit, roared with distortion so dirty it made the air vibrate.
Michael didn't wait. The accumulated energy was released in an instant.
'Yeah, ayy, yeah, ayy, ya, yeah, ya, ayy!'
'Ayy, ayy, ayy!'
He wasn't singing. He was screaming. A primal howl, raspy and violent, that cut through the noise of the bass.
He started jumping. Not the rhythmic jumps of "Drugs", but frantic, uncontrolled jumps. He ran from one side of the stage to the other like a caged animal that had just seen the open door.
'I'm like: Bitch, who is your mans? (Ayy)'
'Can't keep my dick in my pants (ayy)'
'My bitch don't love me no mo' (ayy)'
'She kick me out, I'm like: Vro (ayy)'
Down on the floor, hell broke loose.
Jake and Nate had accomplished their mission. In the center of the room, they had opened a giant circle, a void in the middle of the crowd. And when the bass dropped, the void collapsed.
Hundreds of bodies collided at the same time. It was a war zone. It was the infinite mosh pit.
People flying through the air. Shoving. Screaming. Beer thrown toward the ceiling, falling like golden rain under the red emergency lights.
Michael approached the edge, eyes wide, feeding off the violence he saw below.
'That bitch don't wanna be friends (ayy)'
'I gave her dick, she amen (ayy)'
'She put her tongue on my dick (ayy)'
'Look at my wrist, about ten (ayy)'
He crouched down, screaming at the people in the front row, who were trying to grab his legs.
'Just got a pound of the boof (ayy)'
'Brought that shit straight to the booth (ayy)'
'Tommy my Hilfiger voots (ayy)'
'She said: Wan' fuck? Bitch, I do (ayy)'
The energy was so high it felt like the roof was going to cave in. It wasn't a rap concert. It was a hardcore punk show.
On the side of the stage, Sam held the VHS camera steady, even though his hands were shaking. He was recording the chaos. He knew, as he looked through the grainy viewfinder, that these images would be historic. He was capturing the birth of a movement.
Michael straightened up and pointed the microphone at the crowd for the key line.
'You put a gun on my mans (ayy)'
'I put a hole in your parents (ayy)'
'I just got lean on my Ksubis (ayy)'
'I got a Uzi, no Uzi'
And then, the chorus. The chant.
'Fuck on me, look at me, ayy!'
'Fuck on me, yah, look at me, ayy!'
'Look at me, look at me, yah!'
'Fuck on me, yah!'
A thousand people were screaming the phrase "LOOK AT ME" in unison. It was a deafening roar that competed with the sound system.
Michael jumped, beating his chest, totally possessed by the song.
'Look at me, yah, fuck on me!'
'Look at me, fuck on me, yah!'
'Look at me, fuck on me! Yah, ayy!'
Sweat flew from his body every time he moved. He no longer felt tiredness. He didn't feel pain. He only felt the absolute power of having a thousand people obeying his chaos.
The song continued with the second verse, the fastest and most aggressive one. Michael didn't miss a syllable, spitting the words with lethal precision.
'I took a white bitch to Starbucks'
'That little bitch got her throat fucked'
The crowd laughed and screamed, celebrating the absurd vulgarity of the lyrics.
'I like to rock out like I'm Misfit'
'My emo bitch like her wrist slit'
It was the climax of the night. Michael knew he couldn't raise the energy any higher than this. They were at the peak.
The last chorus arrived, a wall of white noise and distortion. Michael ran toward the drums (T-Roc's table), jumped on top of it, and screamed the final lines from the heights, looking down at his empire of chaos.
"LOOK AT ME, YAH!"
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 8:41 PM
The final distortion of 'Look At Me!' cut off abruptly, leaving an electric hum in the air.
Michael stood at the edge of the stage, bare chest heaving violently, shining with sweat under the red emergency lights. Below, the mosh pit had stopped, but the energy was still there, vibrating, a hungry beast wanting more.
A chant started in the back and spread like wildfire to the front.
"ONE MORE! ONE MORE! ONE MORE!"
Michael wiped his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat getting into his eyes. He smiled. A tired but triumphant smile.
He walked to the center of the stage and raised a hand. Palm open.
He didn't have to shout. The crowd, seeing the gesture, began to quiet down, the roar lowering to an expectant murmur. They wanted to know what he was going to say.
Michael brought the microphone to his mouth. His voice was hoarse, torn by the screams of the previous song.
"I got one more," he said, panting. "I have one bullet left in the chamber."
There were shouts of approval.
"But listen," Michael continued, lowering his tone to something more confidential. "No one has heard this. It's not on SoundCloud. It's not on Spotify. I haven't even uploaded a teaser."
The silence became total. A thousand people held their breath. In the internet age, exclusivity was the most valuable currency.
"It comes out tomorrow officially," said Michael. "But I don't give a shit about the release schedule. I want to show you my next song exclusively first. Because you guys made tonight legendary."
He turned toward the DJ booth. T-Roc was already ready, with a knowing smile under his cap.
"T-Roc," said Michael. "Show them who's boss."
The aggressive red lights went out.
In their place, slow, heavy white strobe lights began to flash to the rhythm of an invisible metronome.
T-Roc dropped the 'Boss' beat.
First, the piano. Three dark, ominous, and repetitive notes. Dun... dun... dun-dun-dun.
The crowd didn't know the rhythm, but they felt it. It was heavy. It was a march.
And then, the 808 entered.
It wasn't the broken, dirty bass of 'Look At Me!'. It was a clean, round, massive bass. A hit felt in the stomach, not the ears.
The energy in the room changed. It stopped being a chaotic riot and became something more organized. More arrogant.
Michael changed his posture. He straightened up, puffed out his chest. He was no longer the screaming punk. Now he walked with the arrogance of a king inspecting his kingdom.
He was about to teach them the future.
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 8:43 PM
Michael walked across the stage, every step synchronized with the heavy, clean hit of the 'Boss' 808. He wasn't running anymore. He wasn't jumping like a maniac anymore.
Now, he was parading. He had the arrogance of someone who knows he has already won.
'Ooh, yeah... Michael! ...Yeah'
He shouted his name in the intro, claiming the song.
'Yeah, I came in with the sauce, ooh'
'Yeah, I came in with a saw, yeah'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
'Yeah, I came in with the sauce, ooh'
'Yeah, I came in with a saw, ooh'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
The crowd didn't know the lyrics —no one had heard it before—, but the rhythm was so hypnotic and Michael's confidence so absolute that it didn't matter. They raised their hands in unison, obeying the flow.
Michael leaned toward the audience, marking every word of the chorus.
'Walk in the trap like a boss (ooh)'
'Walk in the trap like a boss (brr)'
'Walk in the trap like a boss (ooh)'
'Walk in the trap like a boss (trap)'
'Yeah, I came in with the sauce, ooh'
'Yeah, I came in with a saw, ooh'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, ooh'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, ooh'
He entered the verse, acting out every line with theatrical bravado.
'Walk in the trap, Ric Flair, ooh'
'Fuck a nigga bitch, don't care, damn'
'Throwing up racks in the air, damn'
'Told that bitch "Lil Pump yeah, ooh"'
He pointed to himself when saying his name. The people screamed.
'Damn, I just broke my wrist'
'100 on my wrist, can't tell me shit'
'Pop 4 xans then I fucked a nigga's bitch'
'Never went to school 'cause I was always flippin' bricks'
He smiled arrogantly singing that line. The lie of the character was delicious. Him, the honors home-schooled student, selling them the fantasy of the drug kingpin. And they were swallowing it whole.
'Aye, yeah I came up with the sauce'
'Damn, yeah I sold crack in the halls'
'Damn, Michael, bands on top'
'Damn, gave my mom 2 Glocks'
He inserted his name with force. "Damn, Michael". He made sure they knew who the boss was.
He reached the last chorus. Michael climbed onto the center monitor one last time. Not to jump, but to look at his kingdom from above.
'Damn, everybody do wanna be me'
'Lookin' at my neck and it's Fiji, ooh'
'Damn, everybody do wanna be me'
'Lookin' at my neck and its Fiji, ooh'
'Yeah, I came in with the sauce, ooh'
'Yeah, I came in with a saw, yeah'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
'Yeah, I came in with the sauce, ooh'
'Yeah, I came in with a saw, ooh'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
'Bitch, I flex, Rick Ross, yeah'
He spread his arms, receiving the energy, feeling untouchable. It was the confirmation that his "Hype Era" was going to work.
He couldn't just make them cry; he could make them feel invincible.
The beat ended with a dry, definitive hit.
T-Roc cut the sound instantly.
Michael stayed there for a second, standing on the monitor, breathing heavily, absorbing the image of a thousand people screaming his name.
"DEMIURGE! DEMIURGE! DEMIURGE!"
He stepped down from the monitor. He walked to the center of the stage. The silence of the music made the screams deafening.
He brought the microphone to his mouth one last time. He didn't give a speech. He didn't say "see you soon".
"Thank you," he said, simple and direct.
He extended his hand and opened his fingers.
The microphone fell.
THUD.
The dull sound of the hit against the floor resonated in the speakers, a brutal full stop.
Michael turned around.
He walked away toward the shadows of the side wings. He didn't wave. He didn't look back. He simply disappeared into the darkness.
T-Roc cut the stage lights. Everything went black.
The crowd was left in the dark, screaming for more, hungry, electric. But Michael was already gone.
The show was over. The legend had begun.