Martin Shkreli paced across the moon-
lit patch where six shovels were staked. Slim,

Cube, and the Wu Tang Detectives were tied

against the oak trees that lined the monkey cag-
es. Surrounding the rappers were five armed

and masked men who, with alabaster hands,

saluted their rat-faced leader.

 

“How did I not get it sooner?” Shkreli pon-
dered aloud. “All this time wasted on following

around a bunch of two-bit detectives and their

sellout clients. Running around the world: Bu-
dapest, Cape Town, Buenos Aires, all the way to

the mythical 36 Chambers in Manchuria, only

to end up here!” He raised his hands to the signs

around them that read “Brooklyn Zoo”.

 

“Shame on you, Mr. Shkreli!” yelled RZA.

 

“No, Robert. I’m not the one to shame. You

know, I used to look up to ‘y’all.’” Every single

one of you represented the “realness” in Hip-
Hop. But look at you now…all of you old news,

looking for some way to capture lightning in

a bottle again, whether it be with a comeback,

a blockbuster hit, or a sleuthing organization.

You do not deserve that Dirt Dog’s soul holds.

He died in his prime, and his powers need to be

transferred to someone else in their prime. Me!”

“Hoorah!” the guards synchronized.

 

Shkreli and his goons grabbed their shovels

and tore through the earth between the walk-
ing paths. Raekwon hollered how they weren’t

going to get away with it. Cube mumbled to

himself over the smell. GZA thought to let out

a screech, but his morale had sunk so low that

he couldn’t even reach the whistle of a finch.

And Slim, that poor Slim Shady. Poor Slim re-
alized his mic had finally been disconnected.

He closed his eyes and quietly sobbed. An hour

after Slim ran out of tears for himself, a clank

echoed out of the hole in the ground. Shkreli

climbed out of the hole and jumped over and

over with his shovel over his head.

 

“This is it! I waited twelve years for this mo-
ment. All of those years in pharmaceuticals, do-
ing the work of the white man, biding my time

to make a breakthrough in the rap game. But

now…hah hah hah…oh now I’ll resurrect ODB

and have the sickest, wonkiest lyrics! XL Mag’s

gonna have me on the Freshman Class…Kanye

will pay me to be featured!”

 

The henchmen lifted the casket (rather, a

large cardboard box with flowers drawn on with

crayon) out of the hole and onto the ceremo-
nial rug. They and their leader formed a circle

around the box and swayed at 95 bpm. One of

them began to beatbox.

 

“Dugudududu. RAWWWRNNNAAAAW-
WW!” they repeated, gaining speed in their

swaying.

 

Cube, whose pocket held the dehydrated

corpse of NanoHart, saw the light that flowed

out of the creases of the box. He knew what

would happen next.

 

“Yaw,” he whispered to his friends. “Y’all

better close your eyes! Close your eyes!”

 

They heeded and every rapper closed their

eyes. Light fragments of Dirt McGirt’s soul

twisted out, swirling like a tornado slowly gain-
ing momentum. The guards kept chanting, step-
ping to the beat of a madman’s desires. In the

middle of the ring, the lost essence of the fallen

MC became whole again and took the form of

a hologram. The fucked up teeth, the patchy fa-
cial hair, the buggy eyes; It was all undoubtedly

Osirus. Shkreli, mouth gaping, broke the circle

and walked to the ODB. He held out his hand

and put his hand close to the Bastard’s.

 

“O righteous Dirty. I have brought you back

and am forever your loyal servant”.

Dirt did not move.

 

“Now that you are reborn, you must help me

with my mixtape. I was thinking of a few “diss-
tracks” and I wanted your…” Shkreli’s baby ro-
dent mouth was covered by ODB’s hand. The

hologram disintegrated into a visible wind that

wound around the circle. Out of the wind, the

faces of sullen men and women stared down the

group. Guru, J Dilla, Nate Dogg, Aaliyah, Ea-
zy-E, Left Eye, Pac. Each face found its earthly

counterpart and entered their mouths.

 

Slim, Cube, and the Wu still kept their eyes

closed, each tempted to see what matched

the screams that followed. What blood-cur-
dling screams they were. The violent winds

thrashed at their ears for around a minute.

Then, the screams stopped. The wind stopped.

Slim opened his eyes to no Shkreli, no guards,

but to a ball of light energy floating in the air.

The ball rolled through to Slim. He felt afraid,

truly afraid, for the first time in decades. He

felt a knot in his stomach being tightened and

thrown around. But he felt confident in his fear.

The energy ball stopped a few inches away from

his nose. A shaky, gravely holler seemed to stop

time in the Brooklyn Zoo. It was Dirty’s voice.

 

“You may be washed the fuck up, Slim. But

you, Cube, and the Wu Tang be up here with

us, not down on Earth with them. We made a

dent, son!”

 

In a split second, the ball burned brightly and

shot up into the heavens. Slim took a breath and

started to speak.