Chapter 93: The Tiger and the Syrup
Friday, February 26, 2016 (Morning)
The Van Nuys high school parking lot was empty and silent. The morning sun reflected off the gray asphalt.
Until the monster awoke.
VRRRROOOOOOM.
The V12 engine of the Lamborghini Aventador roared, a sound that seemed to tear the air apart.
Michael was behind the wheel. The car was a neon lime green so bright it hurt to look at. He was wearing the yellow Gucci sunglasses, the monogrammed pants, and the faux fur jacket open over his bare chest. His (rented) gold chains clashed against his skin with every vibration of the engine.
Cole Bennett was standing at the school's main entrance, camera ready on a stabilizer. He signaled with his hand.
"ACTION!"
Michael stepped on the gas.
The car shot forward. The acceleration pinned him to the leather seat. In two seconds, he crossed the parking lot. Michael slammed on the brakes right in front of the camera, screeching the tires and leaving a black mark on the ground.
The scissor door rose toward the sky.
Michael didn't walk out. He jumped out of the car.
In his right hand, he held two stacked white Styrofoam cups ("double cup"), filled with bright purple liquid. In his left, a bundle of hundred-dollar bills (props).
"'GUCCI GANG'! 'GUCCI GANG'! 'GUCCI GANG'!" screamed Michael, looking directly into Cole's lens.
He wasn't acting like the melancholic boy from 'Lucid Dreams'. He was acting like a maniac. His movements were spasmodic, exaggerated.
Without hesitation, he climbed onto the hood of the Lamborghini.
His leather loafers stepped on the half-million-dollar bodywork. If the rental company owner had been there, he would have had a heart attack. But Michael didn't care. The character didn't respect money; the character burned it.
He started dancing on the car, spilling some of the fake "lean", throwing the bills into the air while the song blasted from external speakers.
'Spend three racks on a new chain! My bitch love do cocaine, ooh!'
He gestured to the camera, sticking out his tongue, showing his teeth.
Cole ran around the car, capturing low angles, Dutch angles, zooming in on the chains, on the Lamborghini logo, on Michael's dyed face.
"YES! MORE IGNORANT! MORE STUPID!" shouted Cole, directing the chaos.
Michael jumped off the car, almost slipping, but turning it into a dance move. He approached the camera and shouted the chorus one more time, fogging up the lens with his breath.
"GUCCI GANG!"
"Cut!" shouted Cole.
The music stopped.
Michael stood still for a second, catching his breath. He looked at himself. He was standing in front of a school, dressed like a millionaire clown, on top of a supercar.
He burst out laughing. It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever done in his life.
"We got the entrance," said Cole, reviewing the shot. "It looks incredibly expensive and tacky. It's perfect."
"Good," said Michael, lowering his glasses to look at his director. "Because that was the warm-up. Bring in the cat."
Friday, February 26, 2016 (Noon)
The team moved inside the school.
The main hallway no longer looked like an educational institution. It looked like the inside of a hallucination. The lockers were covered in neon pink and lime green vinyl. The ceiling lighting had been replaced by black light tubes and colored gels that made everything glow with radioactive intensity.
Michael adjusted his Gucci faux fur coat. It was hot under the lights, and sweat was starting to make the gold chains stick to his bare chest.
"Bring in Rajah," ordered Cole, his voice echoing in the empty hallway.
Silence fell over the set. The production assistants pressed themselves against the walls, leaving the center of the hallway completely clear.
From the back, the trainer appeared. And with him, the beast.
In the enclosed space of the hallway, the Bengal tiger looked twice as big as in the parking lot. Its paws were the size of dinner plates. Its breathing was a deep snort felt in the stomach.
The trainer had put a thick leather collar on him, connected to a gold chain with large links (reinforced with real steel inside).
"Okay, Mike," said the trainer, stopping the animal two meters from Michael. "Listen to me closely. Don't pull the chain. He walks you, not you him. If he stops, you stop. If he wants to walk, you walk. Keep the chain slack."
Michael nodded. His heart was pounding, a mix of primal terror and absolute excitement.
He approached. The smell of the animal was strong, musky, and wild, cutting through the smell of paint and lacquer on the set.
Michael reached out and took the chain. The metal was warm.
"Cameras ready," whispered Cole, who was at the end of the hallway with a long zoom lens, so as not to get too close.
"Playback... Action!"
The simple and stupid beat of 'Gucci Gang' began to play through the portable speakers.
Ding... ding...
Michael looked at the camera. His expression changed. The fear disappeared, replaced by an empty and bright arrogance.
He started walking.
Rajah, surprisingly, followed him. The big cat walked with a liquid heaviness, its shoulders moving to the rhythm of its steps.
'My lean cost more than your rent, ooh (It do) Your momma still live in a tent, yuh (Brr)'
Michael rapped the verse, gesturing with his free hand, holding his foam cup.
The image on Cole's monitor was absurd and perfect. A skinny kid, dyed in colors, walking through a neon school with an apex predator by his side as if it were a poodle.
Suddenly, Rajah stopped.
Michael froze, remembering the instructions. He didn't pull.
The tiger turned its massive head toward the pink lockers. It sniffed the vinyl. Then, it opened its mouth and let out a huff that showed its yellow fangs.
Any normal person would have run away. But Michael was in character. He seized the moment.
He turned to the tiger, pointed his finger at it as if scolding it, and rapped the next line directly into the beast's face.
'Still slangin' dope in the 'jects, huh? (Yeah) Me and my grandma take meds, ooh (Huh?)'
It was a moment of suicidal improvisation. The tiger looked at him, blinked slowly, and then decided to keep walking.
Cole, behind the camera, was screaming silently, pumping his fist. It was the million-dollar shot.
They kept walking to the end of the hallway. Michael looked at the camera with disdain, the tiger by his side, the epitome of unnecessary excess.
"Cut!" shouted Cole when they reached the safety mark.
The trainer ran in immediately, taking control of the chain and leading the animal away with a piece of raw meat as a reward.
Michael leaned against the lockers, exhaling the air he had been holding. His legs were shaking a little.
"That..." said Cole, running toward him, "That was the hardest thing I've ever filmed in my life! You rapped to the tiger! You're crazy!"
Michael laughed, a nervous laugh. "I said we were going to make history, didn't I?"
He adjusted the fur coat. He had survived the walk. Now, it was time to party.
"Let's go to the classroom," said Michael. "I have to hand out some bags."
Friday, February 26, 2016 (Afternoon)
The tiger had been returned to its cage. The tension of imminent death dissipated, replaced by a different kind of chaos.
Michael, Cole, and the team moved to Room 104.
The classroom was packed. There were about thirty people inside: hired models dressed in modified school uniforms ("Britney style but trap"), a couple of Michael's friends (Jake and Nate) acting as extras in the background, and the lighting crew.
The air was hot and smelled of hairspray, sugar, and machine smoke.
"Positions!" shouted the assistant director.
Michael climbed onto the teacher's desk.
He was the king of the castle. Around him, the pyramid of marijuana bags (high-quality props, oregano, and hemp) was stacked like bricks of green gold.
"Music!" ordered Cole.
The 'Gucci Gang' beat played again. Ding... ding...
Michael entered a trance.
'Me and my grandma take meds, ooh (Huh?) None of this shit be new to me (Nope)'
He grabbed the gallon bags. He didn't treat them with care. He threw them into the air.
The bags flew through the classroom, landing on desks, on the models' laps, on the floor. The extras cheered (silently, for the playback), throwing papers and dancing on the tables.
Michael jumped off the desk. He had a double foam cup in his hand, full of bright purple liquid.
'Fuckin' my teacher, call it tutory (Yuh)'
A model, dressed like a stereotypical "teacher" with glasses and a ruler, approached him. In her hands, she carried a large rectangular cake, frosted with Gucci colors (green and red) and the phrase "GUCCI GANG" written in the center.
Michael looked at her. Looked at the camera. Smiled with that empty and bright arrogance.
He didn't blow out the candles.
He grabbed a piece of the cake with his bare hand, destroying the frosting, and shoved it into his mouth, staining his face with sugar and coloring. Then, he threw the rest of the cake on the floor.
It was a waste. It was stupid. It was perfect.
'Fuck your airline, fuck your company (Fuck it!)'
The scene turned into juvenile anarchy. Michael ran between the desks, high-fiving Jake (who was pretending to smoke a giant prop joint), spilling the fake "lean" on the carpet.
Cole was in the middle of it all, camera on his shoulder, moving fast, capturing close-ups of the gold chains, the cake-stained smiles, the chaos of primary colors.
Michael felt on top of the world. Not because of drugs —he had barely taken a sip of the sugary soda— but because of the power of creating this alternative reality.
He was building a world where there were no consequences, only partying. A world where school didn't matter, where money was infinite, and where the only rule was to repeat 'Gucci Gang' until it lost meaning.
He climbed onto a chair, raising the purple cup toward the ceiling lights as if it were the Holy Grail.
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang...'
He knew parents would hate this. He knew teachers would hate it. And he knew that, for that very reason, every kid in America was going to want to be him.
Friday, February 26, 2016 (Night)
"Cut! We got it!" shouted Cole, lowering the camera with his arms shaking from exhaustion. "That's a wrap, people!"
The music stopped abruptly. The infinite loop of 'Gucci Gang' that had hammered their brains for eight hours finally ceased.
The manic energy of the room collapsed. The extras stopped dancing and slumped into chairs, exhausted. The air was heavy, smelling of sweat, hairspray, and the chemical, sweet smell of corn syrup spilled everywhere.
Michael stepped down from the chair where he had been screaming. His Gucci loafers splashed in a sticky puddle of purple liquid.
He felt dirty. He felt exhausted. And he felt victorious.
He walked straight to the set bathroom (a rented trailer in the parking lot). He looked at himself in the mirror.
He had purple dye stains on his cheek. His hair was stiff from the neon color spray. He was wearing gold chains that weighed like bricks and a fur jacket that was too hot.
He looked like a millionaire clown.
"Goodbye, Lil Pump," he muttered.
He took off the chains, one by one, letting them fall onto the table with a metallic clatter. He took off the fur jacket, the monogrammed pants, the sticky loafers.
He got into the trailer shower. Scrubbed his skin until the dye came off. Washed his hair until the water stopped running pink and green.
When he came out, he put on his real uniform: clean black pants, comfortable sneakers, and his black hoodie without logos. He put on his dark sunglasses.
Michael Demiurge had returned.
He left the trailer. Cole was transferring files to an external hard drive, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop.
"Here you go," said Michael, handing him an envelope with the rest of the cash payment (or the transfer confirmation). "Great job today, Cole. It was insane."
Cole took the hard drive, protecting it like a baby. "I have footage to make the stupidest and coolest video in history. The tiger shot... is pure gold."
"Listen," said Michael, his voice serious. "I'm leaving tonight. The tour starts tomorrow in Phoenix. I won't be on top of you."
"I'll have it ready," promised Cole.
"Take a week," instructed Michael. "I want this to come out when I'm arriving in New York. I want the video to explode while I'm on stage on the other side of the country."
"Understood. It will be ready."
They shook hands. Michael turned toward the parking lot.
The Lamborghini Aventador had already been loaded onto the transport truck. The set was being dismantled.
But there was a vehicle that remained there, waiting with the engine running.
A black Mercedes Sprinter, tinted windows, long and executive. It wasn't the rental van from last time. It was a professional tour vehicle.
The side door slid open.
Inside were Karl (on the phone, as always), T-Roc (adjusting his cap to sleep), and the new head of security, a huge man named "Big Rob".
"Ready, boss?" asked T-Roc.
Michael looked back, toward the fake high school, toward the stage of his last performance. He had created the ultimate viral video. The bomb was armed.
"Let's go," said Michael.
He got into the van. The door closed, sealing out the outside world. The interior smelled of clean leather and air conditioning.
Michael dropped into the captain's seat. The vehicle started moving, smoothly exiting the parking lot, heading toward the interstate highway.
"Factory Week" was over. The videos were done. The songs were ready.
Now, the road awaited him.
Michael closed his eyes. The hum of tires on asphalt was the last thing he heard before falling into a deep sleep. The national tour had begun.
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