Kanye West

A tattered “Vote for Kanye” poster hung on the window of a decrepit development. Bullet holes were scattered around the poster, and black permanent marker graffiti outlined a swastika beneath his headshot.

“So this is what it has come to, huh?” a white-bearded man croaked. “The so called Age of Rapnazis.”

Before I could respond, a shrill beep sounded through the nearest loudspeaker.

Yo, yo, check it, yo. I eat it like dinner. You see this stuff I gotta deal with from these beginners? Wait, what? We’re recording? Oh! This is the president speaking. I just wanted to share a short, fire lyric from my song. We’ll buy a lot of clothes when we don’t really need ‘em. Things we buy to cover what’s inside. BEEP.

“Well, I guess it’s his attempt at initiating a neo-N.W.A.-based country. It’s been three terms and West still hasn’t been able to pull it off.”

“That’s why I voted for Eminem. He wouldn’t try some arbitrary stunts like such. But, y’know, Detroit would probably be the new capital.”

“His cult of rapper-nazis is growing by the hour. All these formerly-outlawed items were mostly smuggled in by the imbe — The Lordwest Majesty Himself,” I stuttered as I spotted a burly pro-Kanye voter. Various types of gun-tattoos decorated his bare barrel-chest, complementing the gang seals on each of his protruding biceps. “‘Ey ya’ll.” he growled.

Whitebeard and I genuflected in an instant, gesturing the gang crest with our fingers.

“I guess you know who I be then?” A glob of saliva landed on my knee.

“Secretary of State, MC Vanity. Why do you roam these parts?” wheezed Whitebeard. He did not lift his head, but peripherally, I spotted a grin creep up his countenance.

“You will not,” his unauthentic Jamaican tongue twisted and strangled these simple words. “You will not…

“Taking some time to process, Mr. Secretary?” the old man said under his breath.

Chuckling, I whispered back, “Maybe he got so caught up in faking his accent that his brain stopped.”

“Ask me such confidential questions! Anyway, I’m here to do the daily check-up. Aight my brothas, recite the first 30 pages of the N.W.A. Bible. Otherwise, you’ll have to come with me.” Glancing at me, the geezer ran his index through his messy beard, and furrowed his brow. Suddenly, he bore a confused smile. “No, no. You must have mistaken us for citizens! We are simply visiting from Canada. O Canada, our home and — ”

“All right, I get it. But it’s a continental law to have memorized the history of the Book of Rap, y’know, with the Drake election and all. Starting with Tupac, go, old man.” He looked at me with true dubiety.

“Mister, I think I’ll take this one. Tupac started the Book of Rap. Er… ” Ever since the election, even the history books had been altered. It is strongly believed by the anti-N.W.A. party that Eminem finished the Book of Rap. However, that response would by no means be accepted by this MC.

“I’m sorry, but the truth is that Eminem finished the book. And Kanye, well, Kanye. You see, the thing about Kanye is that… he lied by infringing on copyright, and then he claimed that he wrote it. That’s illegal.” Before he could speak, I started again.

“Hang on. Endure the sass and absorb my point of information. Kanye is a scandal artist, and paid off major media networks to shut up about it.” Whitebeard licked his lips, silently applauding the defiant decision that could result in a permanent incarceration. As I smirked, he mumbled that it was not just praise — no, it was a eulogy.

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