Hey everybody, I wrote a story. If you want to be my agent just drop me a line, I think this one will make some money when we sell it to Hollywood.
I know I’ve been short on the reviews lately, but its been busy. I got a pile of stuff to review, but I just ain’t feelin’ it now. So here’s my story:
It was a hot day. Tupac was chillin’ in his crib sippin’ on some Crystal. Suddenly the great MC noticed a faint but unmistakable whiff of cat.
“Yo”, Makaveli said, “did someone leave the cat faucet on?”
There was no answer. The crib was empty. Pac grabbed his nine and rose from his rich Corinthian leather chair. His crib was damn fly, filled with trophies and awards from his worldwide humanitarian and philanthropic activities.
Pac crept like a jungle beast through the halls of his fly-ass crib. The joint was dead, but something was definitely in the air.
The kitchen was dark. Pac entered and walked to the stove. Sure enough, he had remembered to turn the gas off when he made him and his fly girls some crepes earlier that evening. But he noticed that the ground beneath his fly Timbs was wet and soft, as if he were walking on a carpet of fur.
He looked down and realized that the entire floor was covered in cats! Holy shit!
He reached over to the cat faucet and checked. It was turned off too. Where did all these kitties come from, then? It was a mind-boggler.
“Aw, dammit kitties”, the gurff but loveable gangsta said, “I ain’t mad atcha. I just need to get a shovel or you’ll take over the world.”
Before Pac could make his way to the garage where he kept his fly Escalades and hardcore snowshovels, he heard a voice from behind him speak.
“You will do no such thing, Mr. Tupac,” the voice spoke triumphantly. “You’re fool ass is getting’ drowned in kitties if I have to stuff a tabby down your throat myself!”
Pac wheeled around to face his attacker. It was Puff Daddy, dressed in long flowing black robes. Furthermore, in addition to the omnipresent cat dander, there was the unmistakable whiff of eldritch energy in the air. It was indeed as Suge had feared: Sean Combs had finally succeeded in discovering the secrets of the dread Necronomicon, the book of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred.
Without saying another word, Diddy lifted his arms. Suddenly cats just began flowing out of the sleeves of his long robe like he had turned on his own private cat faucet. They were flying at incredible speeds right at 2Pac. Puffy began to laugh maniacally.
“There is no way to defeat me, Tupac! I have mastered the power of ultimate evil! Soon, you will drown in a sea of fur! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
Pac knew he had to act fast, as the room was quickly beginning to fill with kitties. He ducked down and dodged the first feline barrage, and then dove under his counter top. He grabbed two large frying pans and used them to block the cats from hitting his face. The furry foes hit the great iron skillet with a wet thump before the fells into piles on the floor.
Tupac knew he was in trouble. He didn’t have any time left, he had to think of something, and think of it fast. Sure enough, he remembered that he still had his trusty nine millie in his drawers. He pull his gat and aimed it at Puffy’s head, trying to avoid the feline missles flying all around the kitchen.
“You fool!” Puffy screamed. “You cannot hurt me with guns! I am invincible!”
Sure enough Pac peeled off a cap in Puffy’s stupid face and nothing happened. He just sorta looked funny, like someone put tuna in his chili.
Suddenly, Pac remembered that he had bought a five-gallon drum of ice-cream for the children’s hospital picnic tomorrow. He had been planning on getting some of his flyest hoochies and going and giving those dying-ass children some joy before they croak. But Pac knew now that in order to save his own skin, he’d have to sacrifice his vat of Rocky Road.
He wheeled around to his freezer, placed in the corner of his large kitchen. He liked his kitchen because it was a nice, big kitchen, suitable for cooking for a large get-together or just making some comfort food with some friends. He opened the freezer, making sure to keep the frying pan in front of his face, so the cats didn’t hit him. The room was filling up fast, and he was hip-deep in magic kitties.
Sure enough, the ice-cream was right where he had left it. But damn! Some fool had eaten half of the rocky road! Sure enough, ol’ Pac was in a big ol’ pickle. But then, inspiration struck. Right above the freezer, in the pantry, Pac kept all his snack food items carefully organized. Sure enough, he had what he needed.
He crouched behind the freezer and called out: “OK, Puffy, you win! I surrender, bitch!”
“I knew you’d see things my way!” Puffy called out gloatingly. He stopped flinging cats and began to laugh.
Tupac emerge and threw the gun on the ground. But he was hiding one hand behind his back. Puffy approached him and sized his foe up and down like a circus acrobat eating licorice.
“What’s behind your back, foo?”
“Nothing . . .” Pac said in a coy little voice. “Just these.”
Suddenly Pac revealed a sack filled to the brim with Hostess Fruit pies!
“Damn!” Puff exclaimed. “I didn’t know you had those! I can’t resist their frosted pie crust and their creamy fruit interiors!”
“I knew it,” Pac said as he threw Puffy a cherry pie. Puffy ripped the wrapper open and began chowing down on the delicious fruit pie.
As Puffy was lost in the infinite enjoyment of his fruit pie, Pac snuck around behind him and peeled off a line of piano wire. Sean Combs was lost in piegasm as Pac suddenly pulled a small length of the wire into a crude garrote and sliced Puffy’s head clean off.
“That’s what you get for fucking with Makaveli”, Pac said as the body fell with a soft thump to the cat-covered ground. All around him the floor was covered in massive piles of furry kitties.
He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Colt 45, the gentleman’s liquor. He popped the cap and took a deep chug of the frothy brew. There would be time, tomorrow, to cleanse his house of all reminders of his titanic struggle. But for now, he was content to stand alone and triumphant on top of a wriggling pile of cats, over the decapitated body of Sean “P Diddy” Combs, who had died enjoying a Hostess fruit pie, just like the little bitch he was.