Wednesday, November 2, 2011

AP Exclusive: Hip Hop Star Melts Down In Press Conference After Botched Suicide Attempt

NEW YORK (AP)-Just minutes after touching down from Paris, France at New Jersey's Teeterboro Airport, troubled Hip Hop megastar Malachi Joye was rushed from the descended staircase of his Gulfstream G550, into a waiting Aston Martin Rapide, and into the crowded press area of Manhattan's Jacob Javits Center on 34th Street.
Somewhat shaky--but still defiant--as he took the podium, the 43-year-old Joye, was flanked by his manager, Walden "Whip" Underwood, the CEO of his Dead-On record label, Edgar "Spank" Jordan, his PR team, and his security. 
As Joye began to speak, the barrage of HD minicams, iPhones, Androids, and SLR's began to illuminate the platinum selling artist (whose new release, "My Ride Is My Kasket," just moved two million downloads on iTunes, after reports of his botched suicide attempt) like a luminescent moth, burning in the tainted alabaster flame of ultra celebrity. Joye removed a folded sheet of paper from his stylish black double-breasted Hermes raincoat, and read from a prepared statement.

"Sean Diddy Combs and Christopher Notorious B.I.G. Wallace," Joye began in calm voice, "once mused, 'Mo Money, Mo Problems.' No truer words about this business of music, have been spoken. The Sloppit Mongers--those who masquerade as journalists and so called, 'gossip bloggers'--who trade in innuendo, slander, and straight out lies, are truly dangerous people in this 25/8 culture of non-stop information. Sloppit Mongers are like citizens who have deputized themselves to be journalistic police, but who are unauthorized and unlicensed to carry dangerous weapons, and who recklessly fire those weapons into the crowd, killing innocent bystanders. Those weapons in question being the Sloppit Mongers's convoluted and confusingly biased opinions, being deployed as actual news and accurate journalism. The innocent bystanders in question, are the millions of readers who log on to their pig pens every single day, and die from the venomous ammo launched from their poisonous pens of lies, that they thoughtlessly aim in all directions, murdering their readers' sense of balanced reporting..."

Just then, a stylishly dressed and very full-figured African American woman, who was later identified as the notorious gossip blogger Sharon Thorne--whose website, has had Malachi Joye in her crosshairs for some time now, with a string of malicious, unsubstantiated accusations involving his sex life, and the strange, pyrotechnic fetish involving Joye's underwear among other things--interrupted Joye's pointed monologue.

"I'm sorry," Thorne began, with a smile that failed to mask the verbal toxin in her voice, "I don't mean no harm, but you was paying like seven gees a night for that Coco Chanel Suite at the Ritz. With all that damn change you kickin' out, you mean to tell me you did have no maid service, no laundry or valet service, so you had to stoop to burning some damn skid marks in your drawers, Boo-Boo? And I do mean Boo-Boo, literally, and figuratively. That's some fooly-fool stuff you did in Paris, if I ever heard of some!"

It was at this moment, when the press conference took on a surreal and frightening turn of events. Malachi Joye began to sob, very loud, and then he picked up a chair near the podium, and threw it into the crowd of reporters, who gasped, screamed, and scurried for cover (including these two reporters). It was then when Joye's manager Underwood and his security, hurried the emotionally beleaguered star off-stage, as Joye began to rant and curse at Thorne.

"You big fat-back, greasy-ass, lopsided titty b--ch!," Joye fired back in a near scream, "Titties lookin' like two f--kin' broken door bells! You bug-eyed, motherf--ker! Lookin' like Felix The Motherf--kin' Cat after Boris hit him with a hammer! Righty-O! Another bucket of chicken, please! B---ch was a stand-in for 'Precious,' but they fired your big black, under-the-cover-of-darkness ass, because you keep eatin' all the gizzards! Shoes so damn runt-over, it looks like you ran 5,000 Boston Marathons in your Payless Shoes! In one day! Bunions so damn big, it looks like a linebacker trying to break tackle in  them damn runt-over shoes! F--k you, you bum b---ch! Somebody is gonna see your Biggest Loser ass real soon, okay?! Okay?!!"

After Joye was quickly escorted out of the building, Thorne smiled, and briskly walked to another exit, not taking any questions from the reporters who anxiously scurried in her direction.

bizarre news conference indeed, but one should expect no less from the controversial and reigning star of Hip Hop, Malachi Joye.

You just read Part Two of:
Murder, Ink. 
(An Episodic Short Story About
The Soap Opera
Formerly Known As Hip Hop.)
By Barry Michael Cooper
Be sure to pick up my new anthology, "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1: New Jack City Eats Its Young," available exclusively on Kindle/Amazon. Amazon/Kindle has a free, downloadable app for all computers and mobile devices. Click here to go to the "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1:New Jack City Eats Its Young" Kindle store site.

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