the champagne

So then dey niggaz be talkin all dey shit about how I be some kind of Antichrist engenetically modified in a lab from dead babies and beer and how I gonna destroy some shizznit and I be yawning and thinkin about gettin some pussy when der nigga lookin like my Maths teacher be saying: “Michael, you will be transported to Malta. Why Malta?, you may ask. Well, Michael – ”

“Nigga, I only be askin one thing: where be da crack and how can I get it and when dat bitch gonna take her clothes off and get my cock in her mouth and where da beer at and can I get a lebekase and could I smear lebekase all over da bitch and lick it off her, you know what I sayin. Cos I wanna get behind the 1 and 2 and, nigga, I ain’t talkin DJ shit about no turntables cos I be usin my ipad, or I did until I done sold it to buy crack. No – ”

“Michael, please focus. This is very important.” And dat nigga be lookin all earnest in my face like he want to tell me about my grades or ask where his compass went (it was inserted into the skull of an enemy). “Our secret society is based in Malta. We are the Knights of Malta, dedicated to destruction, agony, torture, and brutality. In Malta -”

“Hold up there, dog, cos dis nigga be sorely uninterested in yo secret motherfuckaz and yo Maltesers and yo Mars Bars and yo -”

“Michael! Please listen!” He be all agitated like I gaffled dat fool. I lookin over his shoulder at der bitch and say: “Hey ho, gimme da jenny cos jimmy be hard. And get -”

Der main nigga getting all exasperational now and wavin his champagne in my face some of it spills out and onto my face. And das sweet alcohol go into da Mike.

And he be gettin strong.

And he be getting da power.

And he be fulla da majesty and da splendiforousness dat is Michael.

Wid a roar of Michaelry I rip my restraints off – and my clothes – kill da nigga wid one punch, and grab da bitch. One hand holdin dat bitch, wid da other I grab a bottle of champagne and drain it in one fell gulp.

I be vaguely aware da bitch be shriekin and hittin me and some niggaz be punchin and kickin and beatin me with clubs but it be at most a minor irritation. I rip da bitch’s clothes off, spin her round and heh heh heh da Mike breaks his 2-hour sex fast wid somaddat pussy. She screamin like she gonna die and dese niggaz continue beating da Mike’s impenetrable skull, dozens of em, den dese SWAT-type motherfuckaz be comin in wid assault rifles and grenades and shit, all screamin about “take him down! Headshot! Kill!” and so on like Call of Duty 7.

Clubs and kicks be one thing (i.e. of no Michaelry account) but CAR-15s and Heckler and Kochs be some other shit so I grab da bitch and still fuckin her from behind I hold her up by da hips & ass and run at der SWATs. Dey see me running at em wid da bitch still impaled on my monster cock, she all screaming: “Oh my god, his cock is so big! It hurts!” and dey freeze at der sheer insane and meritorious Michaelness of da spectacle.

Den I (and da bitch, who I use as a battering ram) scattered dey SWAT fools like bowling pins. I (and da bitch, still screaming about my huge cock) be runnin down da corridor like some speedy gonzales motherfucka and knockin over SWATers and assorted sundry motherfuckaz, den we come to a big window and BAM, I perform The Leap of Mike, again using da screamin bitch as a batterin ram to break da glass, we be through da window and fallin to the street, and I be still fuckin dis bitch and she all screamin and her head be covered in blood but she lovin dat Mike action.

We be fallin and fallin and fallin (from some skyscraper-ass shit) and down to a parking lot where I land wid my usual dextrous nimbility den, still fuckin dat bitch, I run to da nearest car, a Maybach 57, and rip da door and roof off, den skilfully arrange me and da bitch so I can drive while fuckin her (over the windscreen). For yo ordinary mortal dat be some impossible mind-bending stunt. It be just another routine day in da life of Mike.

So we be drivin down da autobahn at 500 kmh, da bitch’s head covered in blood, moanin in ecstasy, da cops on my trail and cop helicopters firing rockets at us and millions of civilians perishin in da conflagration dat is dis niggaz life.

And what do you know after ten minutes da bitch comes and she be all like: “Michael – marry me. I’ve never experienced a cock like yours.”

I just say: “Shut up bitch.”

 

more continuaings vis a vis the Michael Experiment

Den dis nigga bring in champagne and shit like dey be in P1 (an exclusive club in Munich where yours truly often goes to steal drinks) or on a boat or cruisin in da Benz. All dem motherfuckaz be drinkin and laughin and toastin “to the evil Captain America” and I be seethin and boilin and strainin agin my restraints cos I want dat fine-ass bitch and I want dat champagne and I want to kill some mofoz and get some crack and do some techno. Den da bitch gives a speech to dem all, readin from some motherfucking book or some shit:

“We have seen the nature of the ‘Russian man’. He reaches forth beyond prohibitions, beyond natural instincts, beyond morality. He is the man who has grasped the idea of freeing himself and on the other side, beyond the veil, beyond the principium individuationis, of turning back again. This ideal man of the Karamazovs loves nothing and everything, fears nothing and everything, does nothing and everything. He is primeval matter, he is monstrous soul-stuff. He cannot live in this form, he can only go under, he can only pass on. Dostoevsky has conjured forth this creature of downfall, this fearful apparition. It has often been said that it is a good thing that his Karamazovs were not developed to their last stage. Otherwise not only Russia, but mankind would have been exploded into the air.”

Dey all be nodding sagely and she says, gesturin to yo nigga: “Gentlemen, I give you Michael Karamazov, the evil Captain America, the Anti-Christ.”

Den dey be makin some secret society style dance and chanting “The Anti-Christ! Satan! Satan! Satan! Our Lord and Master, we worship you! We have created your Messiah! Satan! Satan! Satan!” like some homoz.

Da bitch turns to me and says: “Michael, it is your destiny to fulfil the infernal directive of our Satanic -” but I stop her right there cos I don’t be listenin to no one.

“Bitch, shut da fuck up wid dat Christian bullshit. Do I be lookin like some nerd wid glasses, stigmata, and a tie? I don’t go to no Jesus-ass church and I don’t pray to no beard in da sky and I don’t be givin shit to da poorbox (I be stealin from it), and I don’t give a shit about the popes and dey harps and shit cos I be into techno, bitch, and dey aint no harp techno, da Pope aint got no beats. I don’t got no interest in no fugazi afterlife and no clouds and singin and good deeds and eating stones of affliction and drinking water of tears and crossin no motherfuckin Dead Sea and no campfire shenanigans wid da Pope and his ho’s. So you take dat Christifor shit back where it come from – some niggaz crackpipe. Unleash da Mike and get on yo knees for my cock.”

“Michael,” she recommences, “you were created to destroy the world in a final -”

“And another thing, I don’t dig dis lab coat shit, you ain’t got no style, bitch. I be out on the streets, banging some fine-ass hos and dey ALL be 10s, you be a 7 at best but dat coat lower yo game down to a 5 or 6. I only gonna give you a chance cos I aint had strange in 2 days and yo be here. But as soon as I done wid you I gonna walk out and take yo purse wid me. Den I be comin back just to show you you gonna spread yo bitch legs after I tell you to fuck off. Dat I can keep leavin and keep comin back and yo be helpless to do what da Mike commands. And right now da Mike commands sex.”

One of dey suited mofozs comes over and says: “Our Lord and Master Satan has commanded us -”

“And nigga, dat suit be lame like dat beggar after I stole his crutches, he be chasin me down da street all shouting thief thief etc., and yo nigga be laughin and deliberately goin slow to give him a chance, I got dat fool running till he had a heart attack and died, den I stole his wallet and bought myself a new wristwatch. Dese beggars got it easy, dey be all like ‘I aint got no money, help’ den you rob em and you find € 100. I oughta do some of dat shit if I wasn’t too busy cataloguing all the strange in Munich. One time I be banging dis ho under a bridge and da cops roll up so I pick her up and run but I be bangin her and runnin at da same time cos I do dat multi-tasking shit freestyle, it just like techno. You gotta have da skillz and brother I got dem. You aint got shit. Give me yo wallet.”

And dey fall back, amazed. Cos I be like Captain America or some shit.

The Michael Experiment

Dey suited mofoz and some white lab coat wearin eggheads come closer and I see dey be fascinated, horrified, and most mysteriously admiring and all seemingly pleased and even happy like dey on crack.

“Perfect,” one of dey eggheads sez, “He is the perfect creation. Send for Professor Jameson.”

They all be noddin to each other and smilin and shakin hands like I be da Messiah. Or maybe dey be porn producers and I be some 18-year-old hoor wid dey big titties and ass and in desperate need of some cold hard cash or handcuffed to a bed and high. The second scenario is most unpleasing unto da Mike. Would be okay if I be the porno producer and dey be 18-year-old ho’s waitin for some of da Mikemeat, of course. And I realise I ain’t had no pussy in a coupla hours.

And speakin thereof the door opens and dis bitch in a labcoat comes in only she aint no egghead lesbian wid no tits, she be lookin like dis

Misfortunatedely she be clad in a white lab coat and all other customary garb but nonetheless wid my x-ray vision I see through to dese tits and say, smooth as you like: “Hey bitch, wanna fuck? Cos I got a huge cock.”

Again, all they suits and eggheads smile and nod to each other and da bitch just looks at me, curious, and sez: “So you are the legendary Michael.”

“That’s right, bitch, and yo be my next conquest. Assume da position.”

I be strainin against the restraints tryin to break free to rip her clothes off and fulfil her womanly desires but dey must be made of tutonium or miketonium or some extra special shit cos I can’t do nothin but grunt and wiggle.

“Bitch, remove my restraints so I can bang you in direct order,” I command.

Dey all just gather around and one of dey pokes me wid a scientifical instrument. Dey be lookin at it and noddin and smilin like porno directors again.

“Michael, today will be a very special day for you,” the big titty ho sez. “You will learn -”

“Okay, I missed some of my child support payments but times been hard -”

“Number one – you don’t have any family. Number two – we don’t work for the Child Support Agency. Number three – listen.”

“Bitch, I don’t be listenin to no shit except yo imminent sexual moaning, remove my restraints and yo clothes and yo other mofaz go get me a beer and a burger and some crack.”

“Michael, do you recognise any of us?” Dis from da suited mofo in da lecturation.

“No, fuck off and get me my beer. And a burger. And da crack pipe.”

“Look closely Michael. Remember at school, 15 years ago?”

Sheee-it. He be familiar and it come into da Mike Mind: “You be Mr Wilson from ma primary school. You was my math teacher. I used yo compass and stabbed da school drug dealer  in da head till dat mofo was dead den I took over his business.”

“Correct. And do you recognise Agent Carruthers?”

I be lookin and dis egghead be familiar too. “You be Mr Carruthers. You was my biology teacher. I done stole yo frogs and shot dey green-ass mofoz into outer space wid a rocket.”

I be lookin at all dem niggaz now and each of dey was one of my teachers. Even da big titted bitch was my Chemistry teacher, 15 years ago. But all these mofoz be exactly da same as when I be 7 years old, no older.

“You niggaz be well- preserved,” I note sagely.

Da bitch smiles. “Indeed, Michael. Because your memories are false. You were not born 23 years ago. You were created in a laboratory, 3 months ago. We created your memories, your backstory, using ourselves as ‘actors’. You do not have a family. You are not from New York. You didn’t even exist in April. Except as an idea. A concept. We call it The Michael Experiment.”

I be nodding and evaluatin all dis new info.

“How do you feel, Michael? How does it feel, to know you aren’t human, that you were created in a laboratory? That you belong to the US Government?”

“Bitch, take yo clothez off, untie me, and yo other mofoz get me a beer. Cos I needing some sex and beer to deal wid this existential shit.”

They all smile and der bitch says: “Excellent. As we planned, you are immune to ordinary psychological worries and concerns. The Michael Experiment is a triumph.”

lab rat

Yeee-er so da Mike wake up in some kinda lab only he be da lab rat. I be strapped to one of dem mental patient beds wid a mask and shit on, only vertical so dey can wheel me around and admire me and shit.

I be lookin around and what do I see, no windows or whores, I be in a big-ass room wid computer and equipments and shit, security mofaz wid tasers (ho ho ho) and clubs and guns and lots of suited mofoz like dey work wid a computer on Wall Street or something. I see da suited mofo from da lecturation and get da chillz once again like I know dis mother only I don’t cos I never saw his lame ass before.

“Yo nigga, who da fuck you be, punk?” I ask, real polite cos I apprehend dey have a certain advantage over yo nigga on account of the restraints and shit.

“Michael, Michael, Michael,” he says, and laughs like one of dem Hollywood villains. “Don’t you recognise me?”

“Nigga, if I knowed yo ass I wouldn’t be askin, would I, bitch? Dat there be da second conditional, for unreal or highly unlikely happenations.”

“Michael, to all intents and purpose I am your father. I supervise the Michael Experiment.”

Fuck, dis guy wants me to call him daddy. But dat shit don’t happen and aint gonna. Anyway, I know what goes down. “Gaylord fokker, I know yo from of old, you be Finanzamt and wanna reclaim moneys from dis nigga. But dey aint no money to reclaim cos I done spent it all.”

“We are not Finanzamt.”

“Cos I done got a magic trick, nigga, I be turnin money into beer and whores and crack, so dey be none left for the G. So back off, fool, and let me be teachin like I was done borned to do. Dey Germands be needin my elucations and my sispensations and my dolorubations. Cos dey dont got dat shit over here. Dey be behind da times.”

“We are not Finanzamt. We represent an entirely different organisation.”

This take me aback and I reconsider my position. “You aint wid da Germands?”

“We are based in America.”

Sheeee-it. “Yo niggaz be from da Child Support cos o’ my kid. Well, nigga, I feel real guilty about abandonin her like my momma done abandon me and when I be a multi-billionaired I gonna pay for her to have real nice shit so she look like Adriana from da Sorpranros and smoke crack and shit:

and I aint gonna put her out workin on da streets for me like my other bitchz cos she be special. She aint gonna be no hoor cos when her daddy be like a trillionaire he gonna send her a little somethin.”

“We are not interested in your failure to pay your Child Support.”

“Nigga, the problem is da Mike got no motherfuckin money. Everywhere he look what do he see, niggaz with money, dat what. But he aint got none. Why? Cos every time he get some, he spend it on drugs, beer, whores, new trainers, new watch, new shirts. So dey aint no money for bullshit like Child Support. That shit aint possible when you a poor-ass negro. Dey barely enough money for my beers and cocaine and women, I aint got nothing for no kids.”

“Michael, what is your earliest memory?”

“See, I spend everything I get as soon as I get it. And I don’t be spendin it on no bullshit charity like Save da Fucking Whales or Greenplease or shit. I aint no homo. I spend it on Number 1 – da Mike. Da Mike got needs. He needs beer, he needs smack and crack and coke and dope and blow and speed and crank and shit, and women, he gotta spend all his money – and all YO MONEY – on women. Hoors and sluts and all kinds, he gotta buy dem beers to get em drunk and den fuck em like trash. After that shit, der aint no money for no motherfuckin kids, what am I Michael Jackson? And nigga, if dey WAS money, I’d spend it on more beer for myself! And mo hoors and mo watches and trainers and accessories. And when I got all dat shit I’d buy a car. And only when I bought every fuckin thing I could ever fuckin buy, only den would I give money to some kid. Whaddafuck a kid want wid money anyway? She gonna spend it on lollipops and shit? Dat shit rot her teeth, she better off without it. I be saving her from herself, nigga, dat what I be doin. Even if I had money, and had cars and shit, I wouldn’t send her anything cos she only spend it on lollipops.”

And den there was a long silence. And dey all look at me wid horror like I be a cockroach in dey beer. Some of dem faint.

And I laugh cos I don’t give a fuck.

the shit goes down

Always up always down, that be the Life of Michael, never any of this stable shit, that be for the suit-wearin homoz. So there I be drinkin in the applause and cheerin and blowjob offers and shit from all dem Germands in da lecturation whore, and I figure to do some spontaneon DJing action so I steal the ipad from one of dey Germands and am reprogramming that shit to do ma shit and then – WHOA! – all dis shit by runnin wild in dis niggaz head cos I be seein something motherfuckin freaky.

FREAKY.

Dat freaky thing is a man. A man in a real borin serious no gold chains suit, like he work in an office or some shit like dat. He be lookin at me all serious and business like. I know dis motherfucka from somewhen but I don’t know when or where or how or whore so I figure I’ll kill him cos he looking at da Mike.

I walk over and the Germands be partin like da Rad Sea on account of the fearful wrath in my eyes. The suit just look at me like I be some trash he seen. Sheeit, he gonna pay.

I standin next to dat nigga and den he say: “Hello, Michael. How are you?” and my brain explodes like I done snorted somaddat drain cleana (like I done one time), I be fallin and the Germands be screamin and running and den dis shit go dark.

Dark as my godless soul.

my 2nd lecturation

So there I be, homes, running for all da Mike be worth, covered in gore and exploded eyeball and Nazi guts, dressed as one of they Nasidic Rabbi Motherfuckaz, and all the honeys be oohing and aahing and saying, I want dat nigga all festooned with blood and shit, he be ma dream man, we gonna live in a trailer and have 12 kids called Milus. Bitches be throwin theyself in ma path but I be kickin them in the bitch-ass head and leapin over they corpse like dat motherfucka Daley Thompson in da Olympics.

Yee-er, it be like one of dem punk-ass-don’t-make-no-sense marathon hurdles, ‘cept instead of officially sanctioned hurdles formulated by dey Olymplic niggaz down in Geneva dey be bitches beggin for my monster cock.

Same ole story, every time.

So I be runnin like roadrunner, as usual, tryin to get to my lecutration on time and realisin all too late I done no lesson prep so having no idea what dis nigga gonna say to dem Germands, who will no doubt be lookin at yo nigga like dis:

Like “whaddafuck you know nigga, you from New Jersey and never read a book in yo fool ass life.” Shee-it, I gotta fight Nazis and po-leece and deal wid dis shit?

So I be running and running and running and what do I see? Only a shady-looking motherfucka in da alley, all wearing a suit and wid a regulation haircut and earpiece and toting a satchel. He sees me and grins and I know – FINANZAMT!

That be da IRS for all yo non-continental mofaz. Tax freaks, dey be chasing dis nigga continent to continent with the relentlessness of a motherfuckin Tax Terminator

Cos dis nigga don’t be paying his motherfuckin taxes, bitch. Oh, sorry about that motherfuckin Finanzamt but dis nigga don’t have no money left after all da beer and coke and pizza and buying expensive shit for his bitches (tho really he just steal it from dem African niggaz sellin imitation shit on da beach, but it cost money to get to da beach and once I be there I gotta get a beer and a ho and some coke and shit).

Da Tax Terminator be raising his steely arm and laughin and his eyes light up red and I gets a copy of Rosemary Aitken’s Teaching Tenses outa my motherfuckin teaching manbag and throw it straight at dat tax motherfucka, BAM BAM BAM!!! – straight in da motherfuckin cranium and bits of tax asshole be litterin the pavement, brains and blood and shit like one of dem snuff pornos (dat I made back in New Jersey wid the kids of illegal immigrantz; den I spent all dat money on beer and bitches and crack like a playa).

Run, run, running on da Mike be running and finally after slaughterin the Finanzamt I be in da lecture hall and what do I be hearin and seeing but 10,000,000 Germands all be lookin like dis

and readin dey Hegel and Derrida, lookin at me like I be some fool-ass nigga from New Jersey. Der original lecture was only for 200 hundred but now dey be half of Germany in dis motherfuckin hall, all waitin on my words of wisdom.

And I stall. It be like dat time I did a porno, all dem camera man laughin at my huge cock and the sound man was gay, he be takin photoz and callin me lover boy, I couldn’t perform. Dis be de same only wid 10 million Germands. They be tapping dey Grammatology and listenin to dey Kraftwerk

on dey ipodz, which I can’t afford cos I sold mine to buy crack, and dey be frownin and frownin and consultin dey HegeI, and I feel the RAGE simmerin like when you be boilin the crack. I be gettin wired for some serious ass violence here

Like dat time I was high on coke and dis bitch said I was a douchebag and I ripped her spine right outa her body and wore it like a necklace. I get mad. I get HULK.

So I jump into da audience and beat all dem niggaz till dey bleed, snappin necks and rippin out spinal cords and busting skulls and eating eyeballs, I kill at least 9 million Germands in one lecturation.

Den I fall back tired after all dat slaughterin. Tired, waitin for der cops.

And what does dis nigga hear? – Applause. Der remaining 1 million Germands be clappin like my murderous rampage be der best thing since motherfuckin Illmatic. Dey be jumpin about and laughin and chantin: “Mi-chael! Mi-chael! Mi-chael!” and doin they Heil Hitler salute and askin me to be dey Führer and shit.

Turns out I was transgressin de audience/performer liminal ontology and by beatin dem all down I be avant-garding this motherfuckaz. Like no other universitum professa ever be doing dat shit and all dem Germands be lovin it cos it be from New York and never happen in dey hood up until dis memorable date.

Told ya, bitch.