The Philanthropist’s Suicide
Alien Buddha Press 2018
For Jeff Bezos. Here’s to hoping that your filthy hands never get a piece of this one. Fuck your couch, bitch.
Yyero Rockwell was born in Baytown Texas on New Year’s Eve in 1984; the only surviving child to the oil tycoon Jachq Rockwell and his fifth wife Sky. His first memories were of his team of nannies feeding him, playing with him, and running his errands. Yyero had favorite caretakers, the ones he got closest to and showed affection for growing up were often fired by his mother. On the night of his fifteenth birthday with the lingering spirit of Y2K in the air, Sky Rockwell died from an overdose of cocaine and diet pills in the bathroom of a Houston nightclub. After his wife’s funeral Jachq Rockwell told his downtrodden son that it was time to ‘be a man’ and accept the responsibility that would one-day-soon be bequiffed upon him. The father retired to his study to make some phone calls and smoke a cigar. The son caught a glimpse of his late mother’s half-drunk bottle of Trump Vodka in a gold plated bottle. At $250 a shot it tasted like potato piss but the skinny Caucasian teenager with brown hair and green eyes didn’t know the difference anyway.
Six months later Yyero’s private schoolfriend found Mrs. Rockwell’s half eaten bottle of Valium while rummaging through the bathroom’s medicine cabinet. Yyero tried it and was all about it. Much to his stuffy father’s chagrin Yyero takes an interest in hip-hop, freestyle and making beats. The $2000 per week allowance allotted to him was sufficient for Yyero (or now ‘Year-0’) to rent some studio time. Every Saturday Yyero rolled up to the studio in his Porsche with his squad tailing behind in Humvees and Cadillacs. Yero-0 and his spoiled rotten white friends produced ‘Stacks of Sheets’ a mixtape containing such tracks as ‘CDs Nuts’, ‘Wet yo Bitch yo’, ‘Do The Murduh (Dance Mix)’, and ‘Cop Glocker’.
Yyero played his mix tape at every happening house party that year. He even paid a local radio station to play ‘Wet yo Bitch yo’ on the air. Assisted by autotune the track was hot in the scene and his young age made him even more interesting to clubs promoters and DJs. Yyero would later get invited to spit at a club in Houston. While getting ready to go to the venue Yyero’s father cornered him in the hallway. Mr. Rockwell smelled of bourbon and smoke. In his few hours a day from his occupation Jachq Rockwell had taken to sexing up his maids and the strippers of the nearest nudie bar. Sky’s body hadn’t even decomposed to bone yet.
“Where are you going? To make a fool of us both I suppose. Dicking around in asshole clothing mumbling profane lies. Bee-boop-bee-boop You’re white Yyero. Your mother claimed she was part Pilipino but obviously it didn’t show, and you’re not tough or street you little jerk!”
“You’re a bitter old fuck!” Yyero complained. He made a sharp move attempting to pass his father and leave the house. Their shoulders bumped and Mr. Rockwell grabbed his son by the wrist and twisted his arm. Yyero punched his father in the chest. Jachq grabbed his son by the throat and squeezed. Yyero clinched back at his father’s grasp and ripped his arm away long enough to bite his father’s hand. Jachq cursed and blood hemorrhaged as he pulls his hand from teeth. Jachq punched Yyero in the eye and Yyero dropped to the ground.
“You thought you could take down your old man, huh?!” Jachq tried to make an exit to his study. Yyero got up and ran full speed down the hallway. Yyero lowered his shoulder at the perfect moment cross checking the back of his dad’s knees. A sharp pain jolted up the billionaire’s back as he fell on his face with his son crashing down on his lower back. Yyero punched Jachq in the back of the head several times. Many of the house servants respond to the commotion and broke up the fight. One of the butlers let Yyero gouge him in the right eye with his thumb knuckle. The kid stormed out of the house, got in his car, peeled out and blew donuts in the double wide driveway, then ran the mailbox over upon exiting.
Yyero drove with the gas petal on the floor of his Porsche flying down the freeway into Houston. He whizzed past a parked state cop camped out on the shoulder in his Crown Vic. The Porsche was going 166 shifting in and out of the two lanes of traffic.
“Piece of shit” The burnout peace officer said without even removing his feet from the dashboard. Yyero was going too fast to be caught. If the cop managed to pull him over he would be offered a bribe, and he would have taken it with an anecdote about bad pussy and a shit eating Texas grin.
By the time Yyero got to the club his eye was black and swollen. Virtually all of his homeboys and friends he invited on Myspace did not show up. The club was packed however. All of the best underground Houston rappers and their followings had promoted the event well. Yyero while trying to become Year-0 felt like a fish out of water without his squad. The MC spotted Year-0 from across the joint and walked over to him. MC Trigger saw his swollen face and unsure disposition then told the kid that he’s up next. The MC laughed to himself knowing already that the kid’s about to tank.
Yyero got served a beer as the bartender saw him paying with a hundred-dollar bill. He looked around and saw a lot of people glancing over at him. A lot of pretty darker skinned women in their 20’s. Yyero was a virgin and fixing to rectify that. He snarled at one lady who giggled and gabbed to her friends about it. Yyero also noticed he was getting some looks from local rappers who had been fighting tooth and nail to get a spot on that stage. The rap battles were open mic at this venue, and those were usually held on the weekdays. In order to get on for your own set on a Friday night you needed to either slay motherfuckers in the battles or pay your way on the radio like Year-0 did.
Before the kid could get too comfortable he heard Trigger announcing his presence and calling him up on the stage. Year-0 drank the rest of his beer and went on stage. From a bird’s-eye-view he looked like a single grain on white rice passing through a carton of fried. Feedback screeched through the mic and amplifiers as Year-0 cleared his throat into the system. The local rap aficionados chopped at the bit in preparation of obscene jeers. The beat to ‘Wet yo Bitch yo’ dropped and sans autotune and echo chamber the kid nervously sang his god-awful ditty. The club booed until the boos overpowered the music.
A hungry local up-and-comer in the scene named ‘Beef Dog’ invaded the stage like Kayne leaving Year-0 standing their dumbfounded like Taylor fucking Swift. Beef Dog spat out some “Trustfund crackerjack. Yo ass ain’t black. Yo eye is tho. Told you once and befo. Bitch slap you 2 and fro. Get the fuck off my stage. Charlie Brown looking motherfucker. Charlie Chaplin looking motherfucker. Charles Manson looking motherfucker. Ted Danson looking motherfucker (more white people)…. Beef Dog fucked your mother and your sister and your mother’s sister and your mother’s sister’s roommate and your white hoe prom date. Stupid looking foo-foo ass high school punknut chickenshit…” It went on-and-on like that for a solid five minutes. Beef Dog went on to insult Yyero’s intelligence, sexuality, stature, appearance and fortitude; and most of it rhymed. The crowd chanted
“Year-0 sucks! Year-0 sucks!” Beef Dog grabbed Yyero by his shirt and beltline then almost effortlessly tossed him off the stage. He ass caught on the floor and started getting thrown around to the door while catching jabs to the side, cigarettes flicked in his face, and drinks spit on and thrown at him. The bouncer caught Yyero at the door and put him in a choke hold. He took Yyero outside then body slammed him onto the sidewalk. He took Yyero’s shoes from his feet and beat him with them before tying the laces together and throwing them up in the air and onto nearby telephone wires. Year-0 vowed to never rap again.
At the turn of the year 2001 Yyero was celebrating his 16th birthday without the hip hop and he doubled down on the drinking and drugging. He begun selling reefer by the half-pound to the kids in his school. He didn’t need the money but he made a lot nonetheless. He drank Donald Trump’s vodka everyday in tribute to his mother.
Yyero had sex for the first time on 9/11 in the equipment shed near his school’s football field behind the tackling dummies with a cheerleader and her half as attractive but twice as promiscuous best friend simultaneously. Two weeks later he began to date a girl from the soccer team named Kelly exclusively. Kelly was a nineteen year old senior, tan and blonde. Her mother was an actress from the television who bought her lip and tit implants.
Yyero fell in love with Kelly over the summer. She cheated on him four times with five guys. Kelly got accepted to Texas A&M and broke up with Yyero. She threw a going away party and invited him to come as a friend. She got blackout drunk before he even showed up and she fucked a townie who showed up uninvited. Yyero became depressed showing up and watching the crasher go upstairs with her. He stormed out. He saw Kelly’s mother in the driveway. She smiled and complemented his car. She said she had the exact same year and model. She asked Yyero if he had a smoke. He handed her a clove from his shirt pocket and glanced at her cleavage as he lit it for her. She let out an excited squeaky gasp as the clove popped from the ember on her fake lips. Yyero grabbed her by the left butt cheek and the back of the neck. He slid his tongue into the ageing scarlet’s mouth. She got happy from it for a dying second then kneed the teenager in the groin. Kelly’s mom scorned the wounded blue ball and told him to get off the property.
Yyero went home to his absurd mansion after driving around aimlessly for a couple of hours. It was two in the morning. He went into the kitchen for some food. Yyero loved mashed potatoes; he really hoped that the help made some mashed potatoes. His father was sitting in the dimmed dining room drinking vodka and smoking.
“Is that you Yyero? Take a seat for a moment. I want to talk to you”. Yyero sat down and told his father that he just wanted mashed potatoes. Jachq told his son to try them liquified and poured him a shot. Yyero was confused because he knew nothing of the contents of vodka. He took the shot anyways. “To freedom! To the troops!” Jachq cheered after each drink. Yyero felt incredibly uncomfortable but had an underlying urge to try to drink his father under the table.
“Say dad. What if I join the Army?” Yyero stuttered. Jachq looked at his son sideways for a moment then laughed it off.
“That would show them! HA! Seriously son, don’t do that. Your obligation is to the shareholders. Be a hero here at home. If we were poor or even middle class I’d say yes go be an infallible national hero and go to Afghanistan and get that motherfucker!”
“Bin Laden. He did 9/11, you know?”
“Sure he did dad.” Yyero squirmed in his seat. Via his own independent internet research Yyero concluded that 9/11 was perpetrated by the American government. Motive? Well he recently overheard that the families net worth was now nearing ten billion. “Hey dad, it was great sitting down and having some drinks with you man. I really want some mashed potatoes. Do you mind?” Yyero said gesturing to the kitchen.
“Shmitty made a big batch just a couple of hours ago. Loaded with butter and skins just how you like em.”
“Dad, nobody named Shmitty works here.”
“I call them all Shmitty son. All of the non-consequentials I just call Shmitty or Leroy if they’re… you know. One of those”.
“… Good night dad” Yyero ate reheated mashed potatoes over the kitchen sink and thought about life, death, money, and sex.
Yyero graduated high school in the spring of 2003. He wanted to go to college at Texas A&M but his father told him he’d teach him everything he needed to know about business. Jachq Rockwell was born on third and always thought he hit a triple. His wealth was due mostly to birth lottery and the aggression of the military industrial complex; the latter more than ever. The Rockwell fortune now over 12 billion.
Yyero resented his father throughout the apprenticeship. For all the talk about laziness and entitlement Jachq Rockwell sure did sit on his ass a hell of a lot. Just like at home Jachq had a team that handled everything for him. Jachq just showed up, made phone calls and put his signature on paper. His accountants and lawyers kept him rich without ever having to make a real decision.
Americans watched the twenty four hour news stations like fiends, gaining chemical satisfaction from consuming it. Steam rollers crushed Dixie Chick CDs in the streets of Nashville. Bombs exploded over Bagdad. George W Bush urged you to keep on shopping or the terrorists would win. To Keep on filling your cars with gasoline. The cost of inflation was but a mere luxury tax on the greatest deductible of all; Freedom.
The apprenticeship turned Yyero into the cold, calculated stiff that he never wanted to be. Over the next three years he learned how to run an industry like only a Rockwell does. Despite all the cocaine, caviar, and sex with top shelf call girls Yyero only had one good day; and it came from an unexpected source.
While visiting a ritzy cocktail lounge in Houston with a five hundred dollar an hour date Yyero recognized an old face on the valet. His name tag read ‘Curtis’ but he knew him as ‘Beef Dog’.
“Is that Year-0? Damn bro it’s been a second! You look like you’re doing a lot better!” Curtis the valet said. Yyero smirked uncomfortably and patted Curtis’ shoulder as he took his date Svetlana into the establishment. Svetlana ate a wedge of iceberg lettuce with vinaigrette dressing and some oysters with a bloody mary. Yyero ate a bloody rare steak with a side of mashed potatoes with a scotch and water. She talked to him about American Idol and other bad shows. He tipped the waitress a hundred-dollar bill with his business card.
Upon exiting Curtis gave Yyero his keys and told him that they should catch up sometime. “…alright” Yyero said. He found the invitation strongly compelling. Curtis opened the door for Svetlana and checked her ass out as he let her in. He looked back to Yyero and grinned. Yyero drove around a couple of corners and slid into the side of an unlit street behind a closed liquor store. “Can I just fuck your tits here really quick then get you a cab?”
“…Sure.” Svetlana said. Yyero called the cab right away so it would get there shortly after the t&b hybrid job while he snorted powder off various parts of her body. Yyero paid Svetlana two grand in cash and sent her on her way.
Yyero pulled back around to the front of the lounge where the valet’s nest was. He rolled down his window. “Hey Beef Dog , What time are you off work?”
“Hey man, I make my own hours here. I’m about to head to the pool hall three blocks over. Wanna follow me there?” Curtis shouted. Yyero agreed. He watched Curtis run into the lot and then drive out in an older model El Camino. While following him to the poolhall Yyero remembered the night that Curtis served him up to the wolves ending his rap career. Yyero pulled into the parking lot behind Curtis. They both got out of their cars and exchanged and awkward white guy/ black guy handshake/high five/ fist bump thing before heading into the bar.
Curtis and Yyero got a pitcher of cheap beer and headed over to an empty billiards table. They put four quarters in the slots and chalked up the tips of their cues. Curtis spoke to Yyero as he racked the balls. “Man, I’m glad you came out with me tonight. I’ve felt bad about the way I did you for a while now. Sure you had no business on that stage, no offence. But you were just a kid. I’ll say it. I was jealous. I wanted to make it as a rapper so bad back then. Did you know they still play ‘smack yo bitch yo’ on the radio here sometimes?”.
“It’s not a problem, B. Serves me right, ha. I had no rhythm and I can’t think of rhymes fast. You’ve got some real talent on the other hand. Please tell me you’re still getting up on that stage and annihilating fuckers.”
“Nope. Aint got the time. I’m a father now. I work valet at two different joints and I drive a cab. I wish I had the time to make a mixtape, but I don’t. It’s all worth it though. I bring home money and my baby mama don’t make my life miserable. I work all day to pay the rent, and when it’s over I get a hot homecooked meal and some time with my family. It ain’t that bad”.
“Congratulations Beef Dog. I’m glad you’re at peace in life”
“Hey Yyero, call me Curtis.”
“You racked, I’ll break, Curtis.” Yyero said. The two former underground rappers played three competitive games of pool. Yyero won the first one and Curtis won the next two. All three games came down to the 8ball.
They drank the rest of the pitcher then head out to the parking lot to smoke a joint. While leaning up against his car and puffing away Yyero decided to go out on a limb.
“Hey Curtis, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like to help you with something. You said you’d still be rapping if you had the time; and time is money, right? I would like to sponsor Beef Dog’s comeback.” Yyero said.
“What does that mean? You’ll rent me some studio time? Pay off a radio station. Get me a Saturday night on stage at the club? It ain’t enough man. I told you I’m a provider now. I need a real income” Curtis responded. Yyero reached into his car’s glove compartment and fuddled around inside for a moment. He handed a check over to Curtis made out for four hundred and twenty thousand dollars. He’d never seen that much money. He almost fainted looking at all those digits, but he caught himself and played it cool. “We met two times in six years and the first time we met I helped you get your ass whooped. Why would you give me this much money?”
“Because I love hip hop. Because as sad as it sounds I’ve never ‘hung out’ before and tonight was rather cathartic for me. Because you’re real. Most people hate my guts or kiss my ass. Because I have too much money and even I sort of hate myself for it. Because I would have spent a lot more than that on a rap career before you convinced me that I sucked.”
“You did kind of” suck as a rapper; and maybe you do have (air quotes) ‘too much’ money. You’re alright though man… If you’re sure about this, I’ll give it three years. I’ll be the Beef Dog for three years, and if I can comfortably pay you back at the end I’ll keep being Beef Dog. Deal?”
“Deal!” Yyero says with enthusiasm. Curtis is beside himself. He exchanged contact information with Yyero and politely told him that he needed to get home to the family.
When Curtis got home his baby’s mama was pissed that he came home late smelling like weed and beer. Curtis’ ego protected him by making him skeptical of the authenticity of the check. “Relax baby, I made Foe’ Hunnit’ Twenny’ Five’ Tho’ tonight off my rich oil tycoon nigga that I beat in a rap battle back in the day!” Curtis said showing off the check before jumping on the couch and turning on highlights from the Texans game.
“mmmmhmmmm” Mrs. Beef Dog said while flopping pizza and fries on a plate and throwing it down in front of him. Beef Dog’s lady took a closer look at the check. She rolled her eyes and muttered to herself “Yyero Rockwell. This lyin ass motherfucker ain’t friends with no Yyero Rockwell. Asshole coming home after midnight drunk as hell while I’m at home raising his damn kids. Rapping with Yyero Rockwell. Yeah and I play bingo with Oprah pfff.” She checked on her sleeping kids then went to sleep.
Curtis woke up on the couch the next morning to his two toddlers crawling on him and poking their sticky hands in his face. Every morning before he left they made him pick them up and spin then in circles really fast, two times each. Curtis spun his kids then woke up their mother, poured a cup of coffee, and left the house with his check.
Curtis drove straight to the bank. This is the part where the big joke would be revealed. Where Year-0 would get his revenge by making Beef Dog look like a fool. He laughed out loud as he handed the check and his ID over to the teller. “Yeah, I guess I’ll take a thousand in cash and the other four hundred nineteen Gs in my bank account.” The perky white banker scanned the check and politely excused herself. She went to the back and said something to an old white man while showing him the check. He asked her something, she nodded, and he shrugged. The teller walked back to the window and opened her drawer.
“Would you like all hundreds or some smaller bills too?” It dawned on Curtis that he now had more money than he ever had in his entire life. Including his valet nest egg, he had four hundred twenty-four thousand two hundred two dollars and two cents.
“Hundreds” Beef Dog said with a shit eating grin. He drove from the bank to Wally World and bought a month of groceries, a bottle of his kid’s mom’s favorite perfume, two laptops, noise canceling headphones, toy cars, dolls, a trampoline, a see-saw/swing set, and a small swimming pool. His kids went full on batshit pandemonium insane watching their dad come home with a thousand Christmases worth of loot. The kid’s mother was also quite excited.
“Sweet Jesus! That check was for real?!”
“Shut up bitch! Beef Dog’s going to make a motherfucking mix tape, iiight!” Curtis leaned in and snuck her three hundred dollars and a kiss.
Beef Dog had been writing lyrics in his head while doing valet, so he just had to turn the poetry into music. He knocked out a mix tape in a week, then took a page out of Yyero’s playbook and paid off a DJ to put it on the radio. Meanwhile he ran the gauntlet at the rap battles and roasted every poseur rolling through. Beef Dog got the attention of a semi successful label and they collaborated with him on turning his mixtape into a record. He started getting significantly sized royalties checks from something new called iTunes around the same time that his record went gold (a clause in his contract that ushered in a big payday). Curtis reimbursed Yyero exactly one year after taking his grant in the same bar over beer and billiards; One day after moving his family out of a Huston slum and into a suburb.
Curtis and Yyero had kept in touch all along. Yyero often complained about his job. To Curtis it just seemed like petty complaints about being rich. He was very grateful towards Yyero all the same. Beef Dog invited Yyero to a private event that he was invited to perform at in Austin.
At the corporate office party of an internet powerhouse Yyero and Beef Dog met a renowned white rapper named after bite sized chocolate candy. The three got drunk together and slime the party. After refusing to rap for the stuffy jerks Yyero, Beef Dog, and the main act started smashing stage equipment, then they started throwing chairs and dinner plates out the window of the third story high-rise onto parked cars and pedestrians along the sidewalk below. The company called the cops on them, and they got cuffed and taken away. Paparazzi scoping out the place documented the two rappers and the heir of the Rockwell fortune being thrown into the back of the paddy wagon. The pictures made Beef Dog even more famous but are a thorn in the ass for Yyero.
Jachq Rockwell ass notified by his secretary that his son was arrested in Austin with rappers. He sent his best lawyer to bail Yyero out. Jachq was pissed off. He thought his son was making progress. He certainly thought that all this hip-hop nonsense was behind them. He called Yyero on his cell phone to chew him out from across Texas. “Get the fuck back to Baytown and pull your head out of your ass you childish punk!”. The late-night tabloid shows spread the video like swine flu.
Beef Dog and his famous colleague made bail together and caught a private jet to Detroit where they planned on collaborating on a track. Yyero was set on renting a car and driving it back to Baytown like his father demanded. He headed down Austin’s Sixth Street looking for a cab. He saw a group of vagrant artists and musicians collecting change in a hat. He dropped a hundred-dollar bill in their collection. They asked him if he was in town for South-By-South-West. The artistic wooks were painting and playing strange instruments like digeridoos, mandilaylees, sitbanjotars, and washboards. “No, I came to Austin with some friends last night and got arrested. I’ve gotta get a car and drive back to Baytown” Yyero said.
“Baytown? Is that close to Huston?” a young smokey skinned woman with large breasts and pink hair asked. She smiled at Yyero.
“Yes, Baytown is right outside of Huston” Yyero said.
“Can I get a ride? I have a friend there that I need to see.” The girl asked rubbing her lips together and narrowing her shoulders in a way that drew his eye to her cleavage.
“Sure, why not” Yyero said. His new friend threw a burly back pack on and walked with Yyero to the car rental place. Her name was Abby. She was a model/dancer/fashionista who got her rocks off by kicking it with starving artists. She made modest earnings posing for night club advisements and hipster thrift stores, but free drinks and other stimulants came with the job, and she saved a lot with that write off.
They hit it off on the three-hour drive. Abby played a game where she flashed Yyero her breasts and then when he looked would cover up and tell him to keep his eyes on the road. After the third time Yyero took a leap and pulled his penis from the fly of his pants and shook it at her. Abby laughed and petted his cock like it was a pet turtle. Yyero asked Abby if she wanted to sleep over at his lakehouse in Baytown. Abby said yes but she needed to make a quick stop in Huston first. Yyero drove Abby to a sketchy house in a Huston slum. She left her backpack in the car and told him to wait for no more than a half hour. While he was sitting in the rental and waiting for his date to do her own thing a rugged looing vagrant knocked on his window asking for spare change. Yyero gave the man a hundred-dollar bill and a smile. They got to talking; the poor bastard was a vietnam veteran with no health insurance and laryngitis. Yyero gave the old man a roll of cough drops from his pocket.
Abby came back to the car with her hair and clothes looking rather handled. She got back in the car and the two drove off. “Did you get what you came here for?” Yero asked.
“Oh yes I did” Abby said pulling an aspirin bottle full of ecstasy from her cleavage and shaking it. Yyero asked her if he could buy some of them from her. She was very willing to sell him a dozen for four hundred bucks. They went to a nightclub in Lake Jackson together. Yyero crushed up five of his pills into a powder and sniffed it off his credit card. Abby tried to convince him to boof some. She wadded four rolls into a ball of toilet paper. “Just bend over the hood of the car and pull your pants down. I’ll do it for you” Abby said.
“Why? I don’t want to stick it up my ass! I’ll just hide it in my shoe or something.”
“You’re not sneaking them in to shit them out and consume them again. You want to let them absorb through your colon. That’s how I do it. It’s such a cleaner and more intense high” Abby said. She demonstrated for him right there in the parking lot. She wadding up crushed E parachuted in tissue paper into the end of a plastic straw. Abby instructed Yyero to force the narcotics deep into her anus right there in the parking lot.
“… Fine. Do it fast.” Yyero said before cautiously scoping out the area and dropping his pants around his knees. He felt Abby’s warm breath blowing on the back of his neck, then her finger sensually caressing his back, then a tight pinch where he never wanted to feel a tight pinch. The ecstasy nestled up into Yyero’s sphincter and began absorbing into his organs.
Yyero and Abby went into the nightclub together. She danced on the marks given to her by her employers in the marketing division. She swung her hips to the techno music blaring from the speakers while drinking her blue cocktail. Yyero danced with Abby for a little while before losing her to the lady’s room and the crowd. Yyero felt a warm blissful comfort in his stomach. He never cared much for techno music but on this night it was overtaking his entire body. He breakdanced with wooks and glowsticks for an hour.
Abby relocated Yyero near the bar with seven guys and two other women in her company. Her top was tied around her waist with just her neon green bra covering her breasts. She appeared to have some fresh hickies on her neck and shoulders, and her lipstick was smeared. She pulled Yyero aside and asked if all her friends could come back to his lakehouse for a party. Yyero had wanted to take Abby home for a private night together but looking at her lustmarks he decided that he’d rather just as soon leave her behind. With the drugs she stuck up his butt making him yearn for love he realized once again that there are some things that money refuses to buy. This is why he so often found comfort inside of women like Svetlana the Russian call girl. She would never pretend to love him, and she’d never stick a party drug up his backside then go have sexytime in the bathroom with a coke dealer. Yyero told Abby that he actually needed to go put out a fire at work. He gave her an imposter phone number then left.
Yyero was still incredibly high on his ride home. At a stoplight an old homeless man with a long crusty beard and one milky blank eyeball held a ripped cardboard sign that read ‘Looking for a little love on the wrong side of town/ god bless you’. Yyero pulled all of the cash out his wallet without counting or even looking at it. The old homeless man did a triple take at the donation then began to weep and praise Yyero to Jesus Christ, thanking the holy trinity for crafting such a kind, generous soul and letting him walk the earth. He told Yyero that he saved his life that night.
“An unclean woman inserted narcotics up my poopshoot tonight, sir” Yyero said before tossing the man Abby’s backpack as well and gunning it at the green light. When he got home Yyero found the rest of the ecstasy he purchased and crushed it up on his coffee table. He turned ultimate fighting on his massive television and watched while he snorted more E and drank Trump Vodka. He imagined himself fighting his dad inside of the octagon and punching his face in. Around the same time, he polished off the bottle, about an hour before the sun was to start coming out Jachq came pounding on Yyero’s front door.
“On top of everything else you are letting this property’s value deteriorate as if some sort of dirty ethnic family of thugs were squatting here! I had a team of professionals employed to take good care of this property and you tell them not to come and clean after you! What are you trying to do, live like some sort of trashy rapper? I thought you were over that! The shareholders watch the news you know! Are you trying to drive our stock down?” Jachq shouted. Yyero was blackout and cranked up.
“Maybe I am! You caught me, every stupid fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life was a calculated ploy to drive your fucking stock down you bitch.” Yyero snapped.
“That’s it! You’re going to check into a rehabilitation center!” Jachq shouted. Yyero told his father that he’d go where he wanted, and he wasn’t going to any rehab. He shoved his father. Jachq stumbled backwards and told Yyero to “watch it!”. Yyero shoved his dad again twice as hard and he fell on his ass. Nearing sixty-five years old and with two heart transplants under his belt Jachq saw the hatred in his spawn’s eye, put his hands up, got on his feet and turned to walk out the front door. Yyero kicked his father in the ass as he crossed the threshold.
“Don’t come back! I don’t want your job, or your money, or your sad, lonely, pathetic life! You’re a sad old curmudgeon! You eat caviar and prostitutes on the broken backs of the downtrodden! You pushed my mother away, and you didn’t give one single solitary fuck when she died! Get the fuck out of here!” Yyero yelled. Jachq scurried to his BMW and shouted from the inside before driving off.
“Do not come to work today, or tomorrow, or the day after that! You’re fired Yyero!”. Yyero picked a grapefruit-sized rock off the ground and chucked it at the back of his dad’s car, breaking his window as he sped away from the house.
Jachq drove to his office building, cutting off an old lady and flipping off a man in a wheelchair crossing at a red light. His secretary greeted him with a smile to which Jachq grimaced and told her “You’re wearing too much damn makeup.”
Jachq locked himself in office his and began reading his messages. Amongst typical business he saw that the FBI came looking for him. He compartmentalized his anxiety over the fact to the back of his mind. Later that day the agents came back. The FBI men told Jachq that his credit card purchases and a security camera in a sketchy back ally made him a suspect in an investigation. They raided an underage sex trafficking hotspot and freed almost a thousand slaves. Now they were turning over rocks and finding the worms. They were persecuting the johns who would be so wormy to patronize such an establishment. Jachq pretended to be insulted by the accusation. The FBI men told Jachq Rockwell not to leave town. After they left Jachq took a shot of scotch from his desk. The walls closed in and he became short of breath thinking about an adolescent named Shūzhēn. Panic evolved into a bona fide medical emergency as his arm began to tingle and a tight pain consumed his upper chest. Jachq’s face turned beet-red as he clinched his chest and fell to the ground. He tried to page his secretary, but she was in the bathroom redoing her makeup. The billionaire oil tycoon was incapacitated in his office for over a half hour before an ambulance was called. He was unresponsive to CPR and died on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance.
At the funeral some were so bold to pontificate to Yyero that his father was a good man; and that the authorities and the ACLU and the media and anybody else trying to besmirch Jachq’s name was a vulture who didn’t know the real Jachq Rockwell. Yyero politely humored them while being almost certain that the old man was guilty as accused. It made him sick. Now the sole heir to billions upon billions of dollars and the new CEO of big oil itself, Yyero thought that his father was the lucky one. Yyero wished he was dead, that way he may have still had to be in the same room as these people, but at least he wouldn’t have to listen to them. He received one single condolence that made him feel a morsel of a bit better. It was from Curtis via text message. It said “Jus herrd da news. Love u bro. Keep yo head up.”
Old white men glared across the reception at Yyero. They saw in him a sack of money plopped in front the casket. They were all dumbfounded by the process of digitally represented ink and cotton fiber backed by jack shit and good faith transferred from one carbon sack to another. It was practically a religious ceremony to them; not unlike the white smoke ascending from the Vatican after a pope bites it.
Yyero fired everybody and gutted the industry to give them all generous severances. In the middle of his purge Yyero got a phone call from the (vice) president of the united states.
“Are you stupid!? What the fuck is wrong with you? Your father assured me that the company was in good hands. Why are you deliberately sabotaging it? Lives are on the line, you son of a bitch!”
“Suck my dick, Cheney! You think everybody’s scared of you because you shot a guy in the face? You’re fired too!” Yyero shouted into the phone.
“I do not work for you! I’m a shareholder! You work for me!” Cheney shouted back. After going back and forth hurling insults and threats at one another, Yyero sold off the entire company to Old Dick for a relatively low price.
“Don’t choke on it, republitch!” Yyero said seeing the funds transferred into his account.
“Go fuck yourself!” The VP responded. Yyero took a large portion of his earnings from the deal and used it to open The Mary Cheney Sanctuary for Gay Women and Refugees of War, a drop-in shelter for lesbians and refugees residing in Laramie Wyoming.
Yyero paid Beef Dog to cut the ribbon at the opening of the shelter. He was on tour and just had a show in Chicago two nights prior.
After the trolling publicity stunt Beef Dog invited Yyero onto the bus to finish out the tour with him. Salt Lake City, Reno, Las Vegas, Sacramento, Bakersfield, San Jose, Oakland, San Diego, Santa Monica, Phoenix, Las Cruses, and finally the homecoming show in Houston; twelve shows in the next twenty days. In Las Vegas a member of Beef Dog’s posse introduced Yyero to a drug called Xanax. Indecently Yyero didn’t remember much from the tour. Somewhere between Phoenix and New Mexico in the desert Beef Dog and Yyero chilled in the air-conditioned tour bus smoking a blunt and eating ice cream pops from the reach in freezer.
“Hey Curtis! What’s up with that Al Bundy song that’s been all over the radio?” Yyero asked.
“Are you talking about ‘I’m That Al Bundy Ninja?’ My label told me that you can’t be saying the n-word on the radio, even if it’s g-g-a or whatever, even if you’re black; so, they asked me if they should bleep it or replace it for the radio, and I hate that bleeping shit it’s a distraction you know. So, I said ‘ninja’ then I thought it sounded funnier so now I say ninja every time I do it.”
“What does that even mean though?”
“I’m that Al Bundy ninja! Beef Dog be married with children n shit. My wife’s all disrespectful at me cracking jokes about my manhood and shit; then she tries to have sex with me and Beef Dog be like ‘Oh Hell No, you nasty!’ and I stick my hands down my pants. Then payday come up and Beef Dog be just like Al Bundy. The kids be lining up behind the couch sticking they hands out like ‘give me money, give me money’ and I give them the money cause that’s just what the man does. Then I gotta give my wife money, and even the smartass dog want money. Sheeeet.”
“Hey, you should do a remix where you sample Frank Sinatra!”
“Ninja, who the fuck is Frank Sinatra?”
“He did the song from Married With Children ‘Love and Marriage, Love and Marriage!”.
“Oh, that’s right, ‘Go together like a horse and carriage!’ I wonder if I could get the rights to that. Is that dude still alive?”
“….. I’m not even sure”. Yyero said. The tour went through Las Cruses and back into Texas. Yyero thought he had been having a good time, but with his memory zonked from the Xanax it was hard to be sure. After the homecoming show in Huston Beef Dog was cornered by elitist media goons at an afterparty. They tried to guilt Curtis about his lack of social responsibility. They asked him why he won’t rock the vote with them.
“Beef Dog don’t vote” he said to them before walking away. He could hear them snickering jokes about him in an ostracizing manor. He found Yyero hanging out next to an ice sculpture made of frozen MD2020 shaped into a centaur; with his favorite local call girl Svetlana on his arm he was talking to a professional skateboarder and a female tattoo artist from New Zealand. “There are some dickheads at this party Yyero. Motherfuckers just asked me why I ain’t rocking the vote!”
“Why don’t you want to rock the vote Curtis? I am; just wrote a big fat juicy check to Barrack Obama.” Yyero bragged.
“Oh, I see, just because i’m black I should want to give my money to Obama!” Curtis snapped back.
“Well he did say he was going to end the war in the middle east, bring the soldiers home, and tell Wall Street where they can stick it”. Yyero said. Curtis scoffed.
“He ain’t going to do any of that shit. White America’s gonna chew him a new asshole and watch him fail upwards then when it’s all over they’ll throw his ass under the bus and vote for some angry cracker who wants to blame all of the country’s problems on a black president.” Beef Dog prophesied. The pro skater decided to chime in.
“Well not for nothing if McCain wins he’s just going to do all the same shit George W’s been doing. Obama says he wants change, that’s good enough for me”. The Kiwi tattoo artist and Yyero agreed with the skateboarder’s observation. Beef Dog was never one to back down from an argument.
“How do you know Barrack’s going to do anything different? Because he said so? The politician promised you something during a campaign and y’all just believe him? Give me a break! Yeah sure it’s a good sign that a black man can finally get a chance to pretend to run the country. That helps literally that one black guy and his family. Black people will still be poor, and disadvantaged, and getting their ass beat by the police for no good reason. Mark my words.”
“We don’t even know for sure that he’s going to win.” The skater said.
“Yes, we do. Yyero Rockwell just gave him a big fat juicy check” Curtis joked.
“He’s such a philanthropist; and he’s got a big fat juicy_” Svetlana’s words got interrupted by Yyero.
“Hey now! Easy Lana save it for later” Yyero laughed uncomfortably with everybody else. “Fine Beef Dog, I’ll help some other black people besides Obama. Who should I donate to ‘Save the black children?’ ‘Feed the black children?’”
“Those fake ass charities are just as phony bologna as any political campaign. People have been funneling billions into them for decades and they ain’t doing shit! I bet you I could save Darfur from genocide for under two mil.” Beef Dog bragged.
“That’s a bold claim!” The tattoo artist interjected. Yyero chuckled.
“I’ll take that bet good sir. I will wager you the two million dollars for the rescue and one Sacajawea dollar that Darfur is fucked beyond what you’re saying.
“You’re on! Do you still have a private jet?”
“I have four, but I hate flying. Why do I have to go to Africa?” Yyero complains
“What’s wrong with Africa?” Curtis trolls. Yyero sighs.
“…. nothing. Fine let’s go.” Yyero and Curtis said that Svetlana, the skateboarder, and the tattoo artist all had to come along as witnesses. The skateboarder was down without any need for convincing, he had an outgoing personality and loved to travel to new and exotic places. Svetlana told Yyero that for Africa her hourly rate was triple, to which he obliged. The tattoo artist agreed to go on the condition that she got flown home to New Zealand after the bet was settled. “I fired the pilot though, so we’ll need to find one” Yyero added.
“Well guess what? You know my boy Jerry Curl from the tour bus?” Curtis asked.
“Is that the dude with the dreadlocks and all the Xanax? Yeah I have the pleasure of his acquaintance” Yyero answered. Curtis told Yyero that Jerry Curl was a licensed pilot and he could fly them to Darfur.
Beef Dog woke J Curl up from a nap he was taking underneath the tour bus, and the six of them drove over to the hanger where Yyero’s aircrafts were kept. They went into the jet carrying on enough drugs and alcohol to get them to Darfur. Should Jerry Curl be smoking a blunt? Probably not but he claimed it helped him fly. Jerry complimented Yyero’s ride and asked him if she has a name. Yyero announced on the spot that the jet was named Svetlana after his favorite girl.
“Oh, how sweet” Lana said in her thick Russian accent, never one to blush or giggle. She sat down on Yyero’s lap over the plush and extra roomy leather seating and told the billionaire “Hold on tight to me, your arms are my seatbelt.” Jerry Curl hopped in the cockpit and Beef Dog took the copilot seat next to him. The Skateboarder and the Tattoo Artist’s date had taken a very unexpected turn for the adventurous as they buckled in next to each other in preparation to go airborne. Jerry Curl took the radio and made an announcement over the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen this is yo pilot speaking. This will be a nonstop flight from Baytown Texas to Darfur Africa. We will be ascending momentarily. We’ll be flying south over the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea. Iiight, if y’all are lucky and there ain’t too much pollution and shit you might get a birds-eye-view of Venezuela later on. Next, we’ll be flying east over the South Atlantic, so it will just be blue as hell down there; but after that we’ll be over Africa and we should touchdown in Darfur about nineteen hours from now give or take. Y’all just do whatever the fuck you want back there, I’ll be with you once I can get this fancy bitch on autopilot. Iiight, Jerry Curl over and out.”
With Svetlana on his lap drinking champagne out of the bottle Yyero began having an anxiety attack as the jet started picking up speed on the runway. Lana pressed her cleavage in Yyero’s face and told him “Don’t be scared. I make you happy with my mouth if it relax you. I no care who sees”. Yyero smirked through the angst and took the bottle from Lana to drink. When they got level in the air Yyero took Lana to the back of the jet behind a curtain to take her up on her offer. They fucked their way into the mile-high club, and Yyero ejaculated on Lana’s artistry D-cups just as they exited American air. She was surprised that her playboy honeyhole was feeling extra talkative.
“I don’t like telling you what to do, but all things considered I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t take on any new clients in Darfur. I know how that sounds and I’m sure I’m an asshole for saying it, but I think it’s really for your best.” Yyero said.
“New clients? I haven’t taken on any new clients since our third date. After the first one I buy my freedom from loan shark. Second date I buy citizenship from American government. It’s easy when you make the fucky with man who spends money like he wiping his ass with it. After that I think I better keep my vlagalishche tight for you, so I keep you as only client. Don’t tell me you see other Russian call girls behind back.” Lana said.
“Wow, that’s fantastic Lana. You did that without even being asked and I sincerely appreciate you for it. For what it’s worth you really are the only Russian call girl I’ve been with in that time.” Yyero said. Lana tickled his balls with her fingers and he lit up a cigarette. “We might as well get married” Yyero said only half-jokingly.
“Might as well? You do the fucky on me for free if I marry. Nice try big guy!” Svetlana says. Yyero thought for a second.
“I won’t make you sign a prenup. If I don’t make you happy as a husband, you can divorce me and take half of my money. No hard feelings” Yyero said. Svetlana can’t believe her ears. She knew she was hot but she didn’t think anybody’s tits and ass were worth billions of dollars. She became aroused and flattered at the proposal. She liked Yyero as a person, and he seemed to know full-well the risk he was taking, and he seemed thrilled to take it. There was just one thing he needed to know in the interest of fairness.
“I don’t have any eggs. I sold them when I first arrived in America. I can not make any children for you” Svetlana said.
“Perfect, I don’t want you to. You just saved me an invasive snip-snap.” Yyero said with a smile. Lana bit her lip and looked Yyero up and down.
“If you’re serious then ask me again. Ask me for real this time. Nicely, with conviction not like a trakhayushchiysya trus” Lana demanded. Yyero got on one knee and asked Svetlana Mikhailov (A thirty-four-year-old russian call girl) to be his lawfully wedded wife. He rubbed on her ring finger and added that he would put a diamond ring on it that could make Stevie Wonder squint. “You better” Lana responded.
They went back to the party and drank and drugged with their guests. Yyero napped spooning his fiancé before Jerry Curl and Beef Dog went back to the cockpit to prepare to descend. The jet lands smoothly in a field in Darfur. Everybody clapped for Jerry as he got them on the ground without a hitch. Just when everybody thought they were safe and the party was collecting their things to leave the plane, they get invaded by a militant gang of local roughnecks. They pointed machine guns at Yyero and his friends, hogtied and blindfolded them then forced them off the jet and into the back of a pickup truck. They drove Yyero and the rest of the party to their camp. Svetlana and the Kiwi tattoo artist got oogled menacingly by the gang members. The gang waited for their leader to show up while running their hostages’ pockets. When the leader arrived on the scene he noticed Beef Dog looking terrified and spoke to them in broken english.
“Oh sheet! It’s that Al Bundy Ninja!” the gang leader sings. He instructed his men to release the hostages. Curtis regained his composure when he noticed that the gang leader was a fan. They all got to talking and found that the whole hostage thing was just a hilarious misunderstanding. The Darfurians thought that they were coming down to help the globalist swine rape their homeland.
“Nah dog, the opposite of that. My friend Yyero Rockwell over there (the one next to the russian chick with the big titties) he bet me that I couldn’t help y’all out. So, I brought him here with some witnesses to show him up!”
“God bless you Beef Dog! You brought us food and medicine in your jet? We are very hungry and sick!” The gang leader inquired.
“…Fuck! No, I guess I shoulda started with all that. No problem, I’m going to get that you all of that shit dropped down on parachutes soon as fuck. I wanna get y’all some renewable energy up in this mother too. I’m going to get solar panels everywhere. We’re going to irrigate and get some gardening going on. I’m going to drop in free condoms and birth control pills and get y’all a good sexual education program too’ Beef Dog bragged.
“And he’s going to get all of that done for under two million dollars!” Yyero said facetiously.
Six days later Yyero tried his best to wipe the egg from his face as his best from Beef Dog taunted and mocked him.
“Doubter! Hater ass hater! I saved Darfur from genocide! In your face, Rockwell!” Curtis called in favors, spent on essentials without inhibition, and wrote the hottest rap song about fiscal responsibility and respect for community ever! Every house had electricity, clean water and filters, and life saving antibiotics. Curtis made all of this happen thirteen dollars under budget. The Darfurians gave Yyero his jet back and gratefully sent them all on their way.
“Darfur is still far from thriving! I’ll admit you did some great things; but come on.” Yyero said swallowing his pride.
“Come on nothing! I saved Darfur! You owe me a Sacajawea dollar!” Beef Dog said. Yyero pulled one from his pocket and scoffed as he flipped it off his thumb. Curtis caught the coin, bit it to check its authenticity, and put it in his pocket.
“How did you know that your budget would be enough?” The skateboarder asked.
“Akon did the same shit for Ethiopia, and I’ve got more money then him. You didn’t hear that shit on the news and you won’t hear about this either.” Beef Dog said.
“What stage of capitalism is it when the rappers are responsible for international welfare?” Svetlana joked.
“Hey, look on the bright side. Yyero helped another black person besides Obama” Jerry Curl said before getting back in the cockpit. Everybody had a good laugh. Even the Skater and the Kiwi were good sports about the whole kidnapping thing. Jerry Curl sets a course to New Zealand to bring the Kiwi home as promised.
Mid flight Yyero and Svetlana decided to wed in New Zealand. The jet landed an hour later. The unboarding process went much smoother then a week earlier when they landed in Africa. The Kiwi knew about a beautiful chapel with an amazing ocean view near her hometown and led her new friends there.
In addition to being a licensed pilot Jerry Curl was also an ordained minister and justice of the peace. Svetlana asked the tattoo artist to be her maid of honor. Curtis was Yyero’s obvious choice for best man. Curtis voiced his only concern about Lana only once to Yyero in private before the wedding. “You know you’re about to marry a hoe, right?” Yyero laughed and told his friend that Lana claimed she had only been his hoe for quite some time now. If Curtis knew one thing about Yyero (other then the fact that he was rich as hell) it was that he was impulsive and didn’t like to look backwards. Curtis respected that about Yyero and thought to himself “she’s a hoe, but at least she’s top shelf”. He just hoped that she made him happy.
Yyero and Svetlana read each other their vows at dusk before a beautiful oceanic skyline. They made no promises to one another that they couldn’t keep. He put an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar ring on her finger and it made her wet. She took his name figuring that Svetlana Rockwell sounded sexy.
The skater stayed in New Zealand with the Kiwi claiming that he wanted to skate there and hang out with the tattoo artist. The rest flew back to Texas. Beef Dog wanted to get back to the studio to make a new album.
Yyero wrote Jerry Curl a postdated check for a cool million to fly him and his bride around for the next year. They went to Paris, London, Amsterdam, Greece, Italy, Sweden and Ireland. Yyero took his wife out every night to all the fanciest restaurants in the world. They sleep in luxury hotels and got entertained at all hottest clubs and classiest shows. On one notable evening in an Italian night club Misses Rockwell roped two perky brunettes back to the hotel with them for a fourway.
They went to Tokyo and found it hilarious that so many Japanese men were dumbfounded by Lana, following them around the city streets and taking pictures of her.
The Honeymoon concluded as Yyero and Lana flew back into Texas for his twenty fifth birthday; New Years Eve 2009. Yyero patted himself on the back knowing that he was coming home to President Obama. Although the military industrial complex and big oil were still thriving more than even, Yyero had good faith that Barry O would come through and help him take that son of a bitch Dick Cheney down a peg. Yyero figured that Barrack owed him that much at least for the contribution.
Yyero and Svetlana talked each other into doing something different this New Years, staying home in pajamas eating potato chips and watching Dick Clark’s balls drop. They had just been out about Europe and Asia for the last fifteen months. The Russian Bride wanted to soak her feet in steaming hot vodka. Yyero knew that Beef Dog was doing a live set in Time Square and it was going to play live on the major network. He called in an extra-large pizza for delivery and tips the driver three hundred bucks and a ‘Happy New Year’.
An hour later they were both bored out of their minds. Neither of them wanted to admit that they were starting to feel compelled to go partying. Beef Dog lip synched to a song that featured Hannah Montana on the hook. The Disney Princess dry humped Beef Dog and fondled him on stage, to which he didn’t know how to respond, and he froze while the recording of his rap continued playing out of synch. Internet ridicule ensued. Yyero and Curtis hadn’t stayed in touch during the Rockwell’s honeymoon but Yyero could tell that Beef Dog’s career had been in a slumpy downwhirl.
Svetlana and Yyero stayed awake until the countdown. They shared an unenthusiastic kiss, then took showers in separate bathrooms, and went to bed facing away from each other.
When Yyero woke up the next morning Svetlana was gone. She wasn’t in bed or anywhere in the house. Yyero went outside to see if she was in the yard. She was not. He called Lana’s cell. It rang twice and then went to voicemail. He called again and again and again, and it kept going straight to voicemail. He sent a ‘where are you?’ text.
Three weeks later she responded, “I just need some time”. He already had put a missing person report out on her. He texted back excruciating long paragraphs pleading and cursing and taunting. He tried calling her again. It rang twice and went to voicemail.
Six months later she called him. It was early in the morning and Yyero was sore and hung over. The night before he had gotten into a fist fight with Curtis over a political argument that involved Obama, Black Lives, Charity, and Russian Prostitutes as talking points. They were both depressed. Beef Dog’s wife had been threatening to divorce him over the Miley Cyrus incident and he was insistent that a shadow society was trying to sabotage his career over his humanitarian work in Africa. Yyero was on a drug binge and a drinking bender ever since Lana left. Now she calls him.
He answers with relentless hostility “What!? What the fuck do you want? Huh, what’s wrong Lana! Let me guess! Let me fucking guess! You’re ready for the divorce now! Right?”
“You said that was okay! You said that if I wasn’t happy with you I could have it!” Lana said.
“You didn’t give me a chance!”
“I gave you two years!”
“The second the honeymoon was over you disappeared! I would have given you anything, you bailed on us for no reason.”
“I had my reasons Yyero. My lawyer already filed for me. You just have to sign the paperwork.”
“Fine. You fucking moskal twat! Take the fucking money. I’m a warm heated philanthropist, remember? I’d be ecstatic to change the life of a tragic whore and turn her into the wealthiest woman in the world.”
“Wow! Look who brushed up on Russian slurs. I don’t even want the houses or the cars or any of your shit, just the money. So, we’ll both have over six billion dollars. I don’t know how you’ll ever survive. Son of a bitch, you laid it all on the line in plain english. I would not have married you, but you told me no contracts, to back out any time I want and take the money. I’m backing out now, and I’m taking the money.”
Lana did exactly that. She received the largest divorce settlement in the history of the human existence. It was even featured in Guinness’ book of records. Lana followed up on the financial gain and recognition by starting a company that made soaps and perfumes while having her life documented by VH1. On episode one of ‘All of Svetlana’s Money Bitch!’ Lana fucked Stuntman Steve-o in her hot tub and went on a drunkenly belligerent anti-Palestinian rant.
“Stupid commie harlot! This show sucks! Why am I even watching this?” Yyero said from his couch. How would he ever survive on a measly six point six billion dollars plus assets. Yyero decided to go for a drive. He elevated the door of his customized jet-black Lamborghini Reventon using his voice command password ‘bitch-Lana’. Yyero drove onto the scenic route going north through Texas.
Yyero stopped in a little town called Nacogdoches. He found a sports bar where he could defecate, then reload with jalapeno poppers and watery beer from a tap. His waitress was a clumsy seventeen-year-old girl who knocked a glass of ice water over onto his lap while serving him. The waitress apologized profusely. Yyero told her to ‘forget about it’ as he wiped himself with a short stack of napkins from the dispenser. The manager must have seen the accident. Yyero overheard him chewing out the waitress. He told her that he’d have to cut her hours if she didn’t stop getting the food on the guests. Yyero watched her drop a plate of nachos on another patron not ten minutes later. “God damn it!” she yelled. The manager came out on the floor, apologized to everybody for his employee, and summoned her to his office. Yyero knew she was about to be fired. It wasn’t that the manager was necessarily in the wrong but Yyero felt bad for her nonetheless. Yyero never had to work a demanding job in his life, he couldn’t say he’d be doing any better. Not that he had any intention of ever waiting tables.
Yyero put the amount of his bill on the table and intercepted the sobbing waitress on his way out the door. “Hold up young lady” Yyero said. He pulled out his checkbook and wrote out a $250,000 dollar check out to cash. “This is not a tip, it’s a gift. Don’t claim it. Try to get a job that you like, or at least one you don’t suck at. This should buy you some time”.
Yyero walked out of the joint before his charity could even evoke a response. He got back in his car and drove west. He saw that he was coming up on Waco. Yyero remembered when he was nine the nannies that raised him being borderline obsessed with the news’ coverage of the standoff.
Yyero drove into Waco and cruised around town for a while. The local pedestrians oogled his Lambo like it was an attractive woman in a short skirt. He came across a ruckus going on outside of a factory. Over a dozen men and woman were picketing. Yyero noticed that the factory was bottling Doctor Pop. “What’s the matter, you guys hate soda pop or something?!” Yyero shouted from his window. Their leader responded with hostility at the fat cat in the fancy car.
“You don’t like unions? Fuck off! You like your pop so much? Pay the people who make it a fair wage!” The rest of the picketers started chanting.
“Oh, I see. Wait right here, I’ll be back!” Yyero shouted. The paranoid picketers prepared for the pompous punk to come back packing heat. Instead he went to the nearest ATM and pulled out the two thousand dollar maximum which just about matched the amount of cash he was already carrying. Yyero drove back to the protest and to everybody’s surprise he began distributing hundred-dollar bills to the strikers. They all ended up with at least two, some got three, others got two and a smaller bill at the bottom of his stack. The men and women thanked Yyero for his contribution. “I hope this buys you some time” Yyero said again before driving off.
Yyero put some lines of something or another up his nose and continued on driving through the night, choosing not to stop in Fort Worth or Dallas. He veered north west to Wichita Falls remembering a casino that he and Curtis had once gallivanted at. He thought about calling Curtis to make a return, then remembered their fight and decided against it.
Yyero got to the casino, ordered a martini, walked over to a slot machine, put in one dollar, then pulled the lever once and hit the highest possible jackpot. Cash redeemable tokens gushed out of the screaming machine. Yyero laughed in awe of the irony as he collected his winnings. Yyero rented a hotel room and divvied up the tokens over two competing area prostitutes, a brunette and a blonde. He gave them both a pile of cocaine and had them come together and make love not war over him. He drank vodka until he passed out knowing full well that the ladies would steal his wristwatch and drugs from the nightstand.
Yyero woke the next morning, checked out, got in his car, and drove north into Oklahoma. He drove through Lawton and into Duncan where the Haliburton HQ building stood. Yyero drove right up to the building’s front door and fired a low-ground shot at his nemesis Dick Cheyney as he sprayed liquid stool from his ass smearing the front door. While pulling his pants up Yyero turned around and saw a security guard storming out to beat him up. Yyero sprinted back into his Lamborghini, sped away from the parking lot, onto the freeway, and away from the scene quicker than the local authorities could persecute. Yyero sped through Oklahoma as fast as he could and got off the interstate before coming up on the state line for Kansas.
He caught an off ramp to a small town called Braman. At the end of the ramp he saw a filthy and haggard looking young man with knotted blonde hair completely roasted reddish brown from the sun. The kid had his thumb out calling for a ride. Yyero pulled off onto the shoulder, and the kid looked extremely relieved as he ran up to the car. Yyero elevated the winged door of the Lambo to let the kid in. He tossed his backpack through the gap into the back seat on the passenger side and got in. “Wow, I have never gotten picked up in a Countach before!” the hitch hiker says.
“It’s not a Countach, it’s a Reventon” Yyero said. The kid told him that his name was Styles, he was a dirty vagabond by choice, and he was trying to get to San Francisco. “I’ll get you there” Yyero said before explaining to Styles that he didn’t have a set destination. Styles noted that Yyero was like Forest Gump, except instead of running he was driving a two-million-dollar car.
Yyero drove north west towards Colorado. Yyero asked Styles if he had any pot, to which Styles said the unfortunately he did not. “Not to worry, we’ll get some” Yyero said. They Crossed the Colorado state line into a town called Campo which was basically just three truck stops and some roads. Yyero pulled into a truck stop to fill his car with premium gas. He got a hundred dollars cash back and a blunt wrap from the clerk and gave the money to Styles to ask around for some reefer while he filled the tank. It took Styles not ten minutes to find a half ounce of some decent shit from a hippie with a medical card. Styles pinched some nugs from the bag and snuck them into his pockets before returning to Yyero victorious.
They continued on westward as Styles rolled a blunt. They lit it up and smoked it down. They stopped again later to get more wraps to stay high. Yyero may have been interested in visiting Denver, The Grand Canyon, or Las Vegas; but he found this Styles guy to be very annoying. He had very little to talk about besides drugs he’s done and places that he’s hitch hiked through. If he wasn’t such a spun-out wook Yyero might have showed him a good time; taken him to some strip clubs and casinos. Instead Yyero hopped on the interstate and took the most direct route to San Francisco. They drove twenty hours straight before reaching Bakersfield California. Yyero stopped at a roadside motel and purchased himself and Styles their own rooms. Yyero is exhausted from driving and smoking weed for a day straight. He gives Styles his own key room and goes to bed. Yyero sleeps like a baby; better than he had slept since his divorce.
Yyero woke up the next morning around 8AM, showered, and headed to the office to check out. When he went to knock on Styles door he heard a commotion. The hitch hiker had been up all night, hanging out in his room with some strangers that he had met. They were also heading to San Francisco. Styles told Yyero that he would happily go the rest of the way with his new friends. Yyero was secretly relieved to lose Styles. He asked the hitch hiker if any of his new friends had any uppers. One of them did indeed have some Adderall. Yyero told them that they should rest up for a couple of days, and he purchased them three rooms for two more nights. They gratefully traded the favor for ten pills.
Yyero got back on the road and drove aimlessly for a while. Johnny Cash came on the radio “I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. When I hear that whistle blowing I hang my head and cry”. Yyero notes that he’s only six hours from Reno. He figured it must be a sign from god. He had already been considering backtracking to Las Vegas, but now he figured Reno was better if Johnny was telling him so.
Yyero drove to Reno using his recently acquired Adderall as a crutch. He rolled into town late afternoon and found the ritziest casino and brothel adjacent hotel to check into. After taking a quick shower he hit the town.
Yyero was truly some sort of anomaly in relation to slot machines; he had the kind of instantaneous dumb luck that would drive a meticulous statistician to his suicide. For the second time in just a few days he walked into a casino, ordered a drink, picked out an arbitrary slot machine, and hit the highest jackpot on one pull. Dozens of hundred-dollar casino chips spat out of the machine. A remarkably old and angry man still wearing his WW2 gear cursed Yyero from two slots over, “You little cunt! I’ve been feeding that bitch all day!”
“You’ve been putting dollars in this machine all day and losing; then I come along and take it all in an instant. That’s so unfair. Just give me my dollar back, we’ll say it was your pull.” Yyero bargained against himself.
“It was my pull! Who in the hell do you think you are barging in front of me?” the old man hissed.
“A no-good son of a bitch.” Yyero answered.
“Take your damn dollar!” the old vet snapped, pulling four quarters out of his cup. He put the coins in Yyero’s hand and the to men exchanged a dying standoff. Yyero calmly walked away from the old man and his winnings.
Yyero played Texas Hold’um for a few hours while drinking Gold Schlager and making banter with the other players. After finally losing more than two hands in a row he tapped out, then brought the rest of his chips to the bar where he got hammered by taking shot after shot of vodka.
Yyero stumbled out of the casino and back to his hotel. He wanted to find somebody in Reno to lay down in, but he was too drunk at the moment. Yyero took off all of his clothes, turned the air conditioner on full blast, and fell face first onto his bed. He slept like the dead for a few hours on his stomach. Sometime after midnight a fat little striped tailed bark scorpion crawled up onto the bed, in-between Yyero’s legs, and stung him three times in his buttocks around the anus. The billionaire woke up screaming and began punching himself in the ass. The scorpion stung Yyero one last time before getting crushed. Still drunk and exhausted, he limped across the hotel room and into the bathroom. After using the bidet to wash out his attacked asshole and wondering what went wrong Yyero raided his minibar, drank all of the rum and vodka from their little bottles, complained aloud to nobody, and fell back asleep.
Five hours later Yyero woke up in agony. He hobbled back into the bathroom, turned around to look at his ass in the mirror, and what he saw almost made him faint. A beat red and prolapsed abscess the size and shape of a pear throbbed out of Yyero’s buttcrack. Yyero screamed, and cried, and called 9-1-1.
The paramedics laughed at Yyero’s absurdly large growth as they wheeled him into the ambulance on his stomach. One of them snuck a picture of it on their cell phones. Yyero was tormented by every speedbump and pothole they drove over.
A nurse asked Yyero who a good emergency contact was, and he gave up Curtis’ name and phone number. The medical team stuck morphine in Yyero’s arm, laid him down on an operating table, and stuck a tube down his throat spraying anesthesia into his body. Once Yyero was unconscious the surgeon cut the big prolapsed monster with his scalpel then the squeezed area around it draining puss, blood, and stench. The doctor finds another golf ball sized demon beneath. He cut and drained that red devil as well before packing the wounds with gauze and installing little plastic surgical drains. The doctor stitched up flaps of skin thinking that it was possibly the largest and nastiest filled cyst he’d seen in his tenure, definitely the biggest one in the butt.
Yyero had a lucid dream about Svetlana trying to stab him, then regained consciousness in a patient recovery room. The Tonight Show was on. Nurses were surprised to hear him cough and call out. The anesthesiologist made a mistake that could have left him in a coma. They had not expected Yyero to regain consciousness, so Curtis had been contacted and was just arriving at the hospital.
Curtis was relieved that his friend was awake, and he did not have to make any decisions for him. He was first confused as to why Yyero would make him his emergency contact to begin with, but after learning about the divorce considered that Yyero did not have many other friends, or any family at all.
Yyero and Curtis caught up on each other’s lives as the morphine dripped through Yyero’s IV. Curtis told Yyero that his music career has been under attack ever since his humanitarian work in Darfur. His latest album tanked on the charts, failing to surpass #77 on the Billboard; and that his antics which were once packaged by the tabloids as fun loving and rebellious were now being written off as thuggish and problematic. Even President Obama went as far as to refer to Beef Dog as an idiot in an interview with Jimmy Kimmel. The IRS also wanted a piece of his ass but fortunately for him Mrs. Beef Dog came into her own as a highly competent accountant, and she sent the taxman home unsuccessful with sass and class. Incidentally, with Curtis not being out celebrating as often the whole Beef Dog family had come together as a cooperative and loving unit. His children were now six and seven years old and happy as could be.
Yyero winced through the pain wishing he had a loving family like Curtis. The friends made up and Curtis left Yyero to the hospital’s care after a few hours. Having the best health insurance possible, Yyero was pumped full of drugs and waited on hand and foot for the next week. A day before being discharged Yyero’s surgeon visited him one last time to rip the excess packing gauze out of the wound and insert a plastic drain. It was the most painful thing he ever experienced. Yyero was written a prescription for Fentanyl and sent back out into the world.
After donating a two-million-dollar check to the hospital, getting his Lambo out of the impound, and picking up his dope from CVS Yyero pondered as to where he should go now. ‘Home?’, Yyero didn’t have a home; he had houses. Yyero popped a Fentanyl and drove to Oregon. The aggressive pain killer naturalized the agony in his ass and sent him loopily adrift through a bumpy north western route.
Yyero found himself in a dirty little bar called Brewskies located in a filthy little town called Union. He was zonked off of his gourd on pharmaceutical-grade dope and drinking whiskey on the rocks. A loose and grungy looking brunette named Kat started flirting with him, and he bought her some drinks. Kat asked Yyero what he was on and begged him for a Fentanyl after he told her. She whispered to him that opiates made her horny. Yyero gave her three of his pills. She ate one and stashed the other two between her saggy and bruised breasts.
The bar door swung open and Kat’s scraggily roommate Maya came in followed by three mangey townies with face tats, man buns, and/or gauged ear lobes. Yyero bought a round of beers for everybody. Kat told Maya how she came up on some of the good stuff. Word got around and all of Kat’s friends started begging Yyero for his Fentanyl. Yyero told them he could not, for he just had an operation. Kat invited Yyero back to her apartment. He started to feel uneasy and declined. Yyero bided his new crusty friends ado and made a sudden exit from the bar. The three townies followed Yyero out to the parking lot and pulled knives on him. The man bun punched Yyero in the face and kicked him to the ground. Earrings went through Yyero’s side pockets and snagged the dope. Face tat kicked Yyero in the ribs and stomped on his neck. The Oregon Snake River runs along the perimeter of Brewskies. The fiends picked Yyero up over their heads and threw Yyero into the dirty water. Man bun yelled something homophobic and they ran away into the night to run a train on Kat and Maya and shoot each other up in a children’s playscape at a public park.
Dirty river water got in through Yyero’s stitching to wade in his bloody wound. He swam ashore and climbed a ditch back up to the parking lot. When he got back to his car Yyero did not drive to a hospital or even take an antibiotic from his glove compartment. Yyero just voice activated the engine and kept on driving.
Yyero drove drunk and drugged straight across the state of Washington and into Abbotsford Canada somehow undetected by border control just before dawn. His asshole started to hurt him, and his jaw locked up. Yyero pulled over at a gas station. He tried asking for a gallon of vodka and a tank of premium, but Yyero was fighting a losing battle with lockjaw and hopelessness. The Canadian clerk understood him not. Yyero got angry. His face turned red and a vein popped out of his neck just like his father’s would when he’d yell at him. Yyero’s brain stroked out, all his muscles tightened, and he hit the floor.
Yyero was taken to a Canadian hospital where a surgeon made the decision to saw off his feet; they later tried to explain to Yyero that was one step in the process of saving his life.
“You fucking Canadian basterds sawed my feet off!” he cried ungratefully. The nurses politely told him everything would be okay.
“Fuck you! I want to go home to America” he complained. They told him he was in no condition to leave, and they couldn’t/wouldn’t let him with a clean conscious.
“Just bill me for a wheelchair and discharge me” he demanded. They told him that you don’t get billed for medical necessities in Canada. Yyero got mad and began to shout. An RN politely neutralized his outburst with a free shot of lithium through his IV.
Yyero had some callers and visitors over the following weeks. First Curtis dropped in. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” Curtis said. The doctors had successfully fought off the infection that ravished Yyero’s interior. His body and mind were still in shock from the dismemberment. He was also detoxing from his bender, despite the pharmaceutical cocktails being rationed to him. Yyero had been very rude to his medical hosts and hostesses, and he gave Curtis the same attitude. He told him that he didn’t need him coming around every time he’s hospitalized. “Hey Yyero, I can tell you’re in a slump. You need to take care of yourself! They cut you’re damn feet off!” Curtis pleaded. Yyero took offence and told Curtis to shut his ‘black mouth’. Yyero brought up the day he sponsored Beef Dog’s career and rubbed it in his face. He told him that he’d always taken care of himself, and been in a slum. He told Curtis to get out, and go home. Curtis rolled his eyes “Take me off your damn emergency contact”.
Yyero received a phone call the next day. It was a top-ranking celebrity fundraiser for the Obama campaign for 2012 reelection. “First of all, the president and his family heard about your tragic accident, they are praying for you, and are dedicated to helping bring your attackers to justice. The President is vastly grateful for your hefty contribution in 2008, and believes that it was pivotal in helping him win some swing states.” Yyero cut him off.
“Well it was worth it! When George W was in charge we were spending all of our money on war, government agencies were spying on the public, there were mass-shootings and terrorist attacks every other week, companies were too big to fail, and the housing market was fucked. We were lousy with homeless.” Yyero said sarcastically.
“… That’s right. The president has done a great job_” Yyero cuts him off again.
“Yup, he’s done a great job. We don’t have any of those problems anymore.”
“… Well… it’s an uphill battle alright. The democrats inherited a real mess this time…”
“Do me a favor and relay what I’m about to tell you to President Obama.”
“Sure, Mr Rockwell!”
“Tell that snake to eat a can of creamed corn out of HRC’s cunt.”
“Nice, asshole.” The celebrity crony hung up and called Elon Musk.
Yyero asked for no more visitors, but one was very persistent. He was a twenty-year-old Japan-born wunderkind named Harju Sato. Sato explained that he’s attended Harvard University since he was twelve years old. He had duel master’s degrees in medicine and robotics. He was well funded from the private sector and government certified for a startup company he established with his brother and sister. Sato Robotics made state-of-the-art robotic appendages, and Yyero was an ideal candidate to be fitted with their newest foot model. He would be given the best functioning titanium feet on the planet. Sato was prepared to have Yyero transferred to an isolated wing of Mass General Hospital, where he would be signed over to Harvard University’s care. From there they would do physical therapy on Yyero’s bones and nerve endings, fuse the robot to Yyero’s ankles, then resume his rehabilitation there. All of this would only cost Yyero two million dollars.
“Anything to get me out of Canada.” Yyero joked. Sato was good as his word and sent a chopper to the roof of the hospital for Yyero the next day. Yyero was loaded onto the bird and kept heavily sedated during the ride to Boston. They touched down on the roof of MGH, and Yyero was wheeled to a private wing on the top floor. A mostly Asian team of physical therapists, surgeons, MDs, engineers, and robotics experts including Harju and his siblings prepped Yyero for the procedure over the next thirty hours. After putting Yyero under to usher in the moment of truth, Yyero had a dream about Svetlana being naked and having a penis.
Upon regaining consciousness Yyero was surrounded by the diligent team. They had so much hope and energy in their eyes. Yyero looked down to his legs. The Sato’s creation was shiny and complex. “I know I saw it twitching when he was laying there just a short while ago” he overheard a nurse say. Harju Soto smiled at Yyero.
“Rise and shine, Mr. Rockwell. This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. I would like for you to rotate your feet in a clockwise motion”. The room broke into celebration as he did just that. Each foot had five little indestructible toes that he could bang on the leg of a coffee table all night long. He was wiggling each one individually in less than an hour.
Yyero was walking around the wing of the hospital that night. The next day Harju asked him if he could stand on his tip-toes. Yyero got on the highest tip and stood like that holding his entire weight on the points of this equally lengthened phalanges with all kinds of time. A week later the physical therapists were instructing him to run and jump. Yyero jumped five feet off the ground and did a backflip. Team Sato watched in astonishment at Harvard’s football field clocking in Yyero’s running speed at thirty-nine miles per hour. Harju knew that his robot had the potential to be a major advantage, but he never predicted that it would take to Rockwell’s ankles so successfully.
Yyero thanked Sato Robotics by donating an additional two billion dollars to their cause. If Yyero had an accountant or perhaps even friends or family they might have tried to talk the philanthropist out of donating so much. Nonetheless, he’d have still done it.
Yyero caught a flight to Baytown Texas. He hired a moving company to load all of his possessions from his houses into their trucks, and he sent them to wine country California. He went to Houston, and found three homeless families to move into his houses which were all paid off. He even donated two million dollars each to them “for the taxes”.
Yyero bought a big house and a vineyard in the hills of NorCal. He started a winery that hemorrhaged money and made awful wine. Nobody wanted to buy it, so he often drove around the streets of Oakland, handing out the bottles to hoodlums for free.
Yyero started playing basketball at public parks and YMCAs. Thanks to Sato Robotics Yyero was running the court and dunking like Lebron. He found an able-bodied semi pro league that allowed Yyero to join. Yyero was putting up eighty points a game against former NCAA athletes who were just shy of making it to the bigtime.
Obama defeated John McCain and remained president, but the country was barely paying attention to that. The internet, sports networks, and robotics nerds were obsessed with Yyero Rockwell’s highlight reel. He looked like Larry Bird but he played like Lebron, Magic, Kobe, and Jordan all-in-one. His most admired clip was from a game against a Utah team, where Yyero did an upward front flip over his opponent’s starting center and slam dunked the ball through the hoop on his downswing, shattering the glass backboard. The league fined Yyero five grand over that one, which he happily paid.
At the end of 2013, just before Christmas Yyero was invited to play in a celebrity basketball game for charity in LA at the Staples Center. Yyero flew in a day early to do a feel-good public interest story for a major tv network to play during pregame.
The reporter conducting his interview was a perky red headed young lady named Grace Kelly who was known for her large pear-shaped bum, and courtside analysis during NBA games. Grace led Yyero through the interview touching on his philanthropy, Sato Robotics, his winery, and basketball. Grace also brought up his friendship with Beef Dog, and mentioned that he would be playing in the game against Yyero. This was news to him, but he played it off by assuring her that Beef Dog was probably as skilled on the court as he is on the mic. Grace laughed and asked Yyero if his fans could expect any front flips. Yyero humbly answered that the game was meant to be fun, and for charity; therefore, he intended on letting the whole roster have some time on the pine, and that he wasn’t there to stroke his ego. He noticed that the corners of Grace’s lips twitched and her tongue moistened her mouth when he said the word ‘stroke’,
After the interview Grace Kelly smiled at Yyero and rubbed his chest with her hand as she thanked him for taking the interview. Yyero sensed some signals and asked the reporter for her phone number. Grace gave it to him without hesitation and swayed her ample backside left to right as she wrote it down.
The next night at the game Yyero got a warm ovation from the audience as they called his name. He saw Beef Dog shooting practice shots from the free throw line, and sinking them all. Yyero approached Curtis in an attempt to apologize for his attitude in Canada. Curtis was having a hard time in his personal life, and was in the middle of a nasty divorce from his partner of twenty years. His kids were now angsty teenagers and never wanted to be around him. Beef Dog’s life was falling apart. Not that Yyero ever took the time to ask him how he’s been since his own divorce from Lana. Beef Dog wasn’t in to mood to talk to Yyero. “It’s alright, you were having a hard time. But I can see you bought some feet to land on; as usual” Beef Dog scoffed.
At the start of the game Yyero was taking it easy. He threw some assists and caught some rebounds, but the game was competitive as Yyero opted not to take any shots at the hoop, or break any ankles with his fancy robotic footwork. It wasn’t until the end of the first period that Yyero was intrigued to unleash the beast when Beef Dog set a pic under the basket that knocked Yyero on the ground. The crowd hooted at the action. Yyero looked over to courtside and noticed that Grace was on the job, and she just saw him get schooled.
Right at the beginning of the second period a movie star from The Avengers movies was inbounded the ball, and as he crossed half court passed the ball to Beef Dog on the wing. Yyero sprung forward, intercepted the ball, sped down the court on a fast break, and executed a 720 corkscrew slam dunk which erupted the arena. For the rest of the half Yyero stole the ball from Beef Dog, dunked over him, and spun around him with ease, bouncing the ball betwixt the rapper’s legs just to retrieve it behind his back, take it into the paint and dunk it. Yyero scored fifty points before halftime, making Beef Dog look like an uncoordinated fool all-the-while.
While crossing paths to their locker rooms for the intermission, Beef Dog bumped into Yyero and shoved him. “What the fuck, Curtis?” Yyero shouted. Beef Dog made a fist and an aggressive motion at Yyero. The other players got between the two men to break up the scuffle, and the crowd booed and jeered Beef Dog as he got ejected from the game.
In the locker room the network kindly asked Yyero not to play in the second half, as they didn’t want to see a total blowout. Yyero happily obliged. It gave him to opportunity to talk more with Grace on the sideline. The two arranged a date for New Years Eve. Grace Kelly heavily implied that she would perform amazing sex acts on him via basketball inuendo.
On his thirtieth birthday Yyero flew back out to LA, rented a limousine, and picked up Grace at her house in Beverly Hills. The two hit it off over a high-end Santa Monica candle lit dinner at a luxurious seafood restaurant. Grace told Yyero about a masquerade party being thrown by one of her colleagues at a ballroom in Hollywood.
Yyero and Grace went to the party, drank campaign, danced, mingled and laughed. At the strike of midnight Grace latched onto Yyero, pulled him close, and slid her tongue into his mouth. She spun around and grinded her butt into his crotch. They got back into the limo and fondled each other all the way back to Grace’s house. “Happy New Year Mr. Rockwell” Grace said before putting his penis in her mouth. Yyero had the best sex of his life responding to Grace’s tight bottom-wide body. The next morning, she made him blueberry/bacon pancakes and fruit salad.
“I like you.”
“I like you too”.
Yyero flew back to LA the next eight consecutive weekends to see Grace. By mid-spring Grace was moving all of her things into Yyero’s home at the Vineyard. They spent the next year together drinking, partying, fucking and being hunky dory. In the Summer of 2015 Yyero proposed to Grace, and she said yes.
Grace Kelly was having the time of her life. She was on recently featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. In January of 2016 Yyero and Grace got married at the vineyard in front of an exclusive guestlist.
At thirty-two Yyero was happier than he’d ever been in his life. His smart and beautiful wife loved him, and he loved her back. Exterior forces were trying to bring Yyero down; Beef Dog leaked the fifteen-year-old video of himself destroying Yyero in the rap battle to Youtube. The GOP had heard that Yyero donated a boatload of money to Barrack Obama in 08, and then told him to get bent in 2012. A fundraiser for the Republican’s frontrunner Donald Trump contacted Yyero asking him for money. Yyero responded “Don’t get me wrong, some dumb ass things fly in this country as being normal and acceptable; but if you really think that the American people will elect Donald fucking Trump to power you must insane. We’re stupid, but we’re not that stupid. Fuck your wall”. The next day Trump tweeted about him
“Goofy sad Yyero Rockwell said some pretty nasty things about me. He’s probably just jealous that I have a lot more money than him, I’m smarter, more charismatic, and can probably even rap better. What a loser”.
Yyero let it all roll off his shoulders. He didn’t care what people thought about him. Yyero and Grace traveled, and bought expensive luxuries, and they gave money away freely. That May Grace 625surprised Yyero with some incredible news. She was pregnant. Yyero Rockwell was going to be a father. He was so happy.
“I love you”.
“I love you too”.
Then things got bad. A month after learning of the pregnancy Grace was offered a job as anchor of the nightly news. It was a dream come true for her. Grace’s would-be-employers did not know about the bun in her oven when they made the offer. Grace had no intention of them ever knowing. She reassured Yyero that they were both young enough where they still had plenty of years to have a child, but this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for her, and she had to terminate the pregnancy. Yyero objected, and fought, and cried but Grace had the abortion anyway. Yyero was heartbroken, but he loved his wife anyways, and he wanted to work through these problems.
Grace landed the job, and started spending most of her time at work. Yyero started seeing his wife for only a few hours a day, somedays not at all. He watched her read the news every night, and started becoming very jealous of his wife’s co-anchor, a baby-faced young man with excellent posture.
One night after watching his wife sign off on his big screen television, Yyero flipped through the channels and saw something very disturbing when he passed VH1. It was Svetlana’s dumb reality show, which was apparently getting good ratings. Beef Dog was guest starring in this particular episode as a guy in a hot tub with Lana, making out with her. His ex-wife and ex best friend getting busy together on TV. Yyero became enraged watching Beef Dog squeeze Lana’s d-cups, then look into the camera with a sinister grin.
“I guess this son of a bitch didn’t learn his lesson on the basketball court. I’m going to hit him where it hurts now.” Yyero said to himself. He made the absolute terrible decision to make another rap album. Nobody wanted it. Nobody was asking for it, but Year-0 was coming out of retirement.
Yyero sunk millions of dollars into his new album. Famous collaborators, auto-tune, hype men, the best producers in the industry; he spared no expense. Yyero rebooted some of the songs from his first mixtape, and wrote a bunch of other terrible new songs. He even wrote a diss track about Beef Dog.
Once Grace discovered what her husband was up to, she called him from LA to try and talk him out of it. Yyero was offended by her assertiveness. She put him and everything else on the back burner to follow her dreams, and now she was trying to tell him not to do the same. They got into a shouting match over the phone and both hung up angry.
Year-0 dropped the album a month later. The internet was obsessed with it. They say that any publicity is good publicity. Whoever coined that saying never saw the backlash from Year-0’s music. Everybody thought it was absolute garbage, and nobody shied away from roasting the billionaire’s abysmal effort.
The embarrassment was too much for Grace. She texted him a message conveying that she needed some space from him. Beef Dog and Lana (now a power couple) both publicly insulted Yyero’s music. He lashed out through the paparazzi saying that Curtis and Lana were both skanks and that Americans wouldn’t know real talent anyways.
One night after finishing a fifth of tequila Yyero turned on the nightly news to see his wife. He glared an evil death stare through the screen at her smug co-anchor. Yyero figured they must be fucking. The next day before the show went live Yyero showed up at the studio, still drunk. He pushed his wife aside and grabbed the pretty boy anchor by his throat. The newsman tried to push Yyero away, and Yyero punched him in the mouth. It would later be revealed that Grace was not having an affair with him or anybody, and her cohost was in fact a card-carrying homosexual.
Three security guards grabbed Yyero brought him downstairs, and tossed him out the front door. Grace followed them out. She told Yyero that the program director called the cops. A tear rolled down her eye as she fished some paperwork from her purse. They were divorce papers. “I’m sorry Yyero. This was all my fault. I can’t be your wife anymore.” She said.
Grace had no intention of taking Yyero to the cleaners; not until a divorce lawyer got in her ear. Twice caught without prenup Yyero was allowed to keep his house, his land, and all of his possessions again. What he lost for the first time in his life was a billionaire status, the divorce settlement dropped him just under one billion. The president elect tweeted about it. “Jachq and Sky Rockwell were very good friends of mine. They were smart people with big brains, and they loved me and they loved Trump Vodka and #America. These great Americans are rolling over in their graves knowing that their disrespectful son squandered their hard-earned fortune. Yyero Rockwell is a loser”.
Yyero wanted to prove to himself that he was not afraid to spend his bottom dollar, so he spent 777 million dollars on the LA Clippers. How on earth was a Rockwell to survive with less than a pathetic 200 million dollars in the bank? Yyero tracked down his old friend Jerry Curl the pilot. He agreed to let Jerry live at the vineyard. Yyero would pay him monthly to maintain the home and his private jet; and also, to fly Yyero around when needed.
Yyero rented a high-rise penthouse apartment in Santa Monica. His first act as owner of The Clippers was to fire the GM and appoint that job to himself. Yyero would watch the games from his luxury box with champagne, cocaine, and call girls. The Clippers were having a bad year as usual, losing over half of their games. Yyero slashed the ticket and concession prices. He wanted to see a full arena every night.
During a home game taking place on Yyero’s thirty third birthday, New Years Eve going into 2017, following a lonely Christmas Yyero decided to make his way down to the court at halftime. With the help of Sato Robotics Yyero started executing slam dunks; 360s 720s, through the legs, allyoop to himself, and his signature front flip dunk. The fans loved it. Even thought the Clippers lost the game, everybody went home that day with a story to tell.
Yyero started making halftime spectacles regularly. Cheerleaders in team colored bikinis jumped on trampolines and blasted official team jerseys into the crowd through shirt cannons. One night during halftime Yyero and some of the cheerleaders played a five on five pickup game against a local high school team. Yyero and the girls blew the kids out, and continued to run up the score. Yyero was mocked the next day as photos surfaced of him dunking on skinny teenagers with the help of his multi-million-dollar robotic feet. His ex-wife Grace Kelly shook her head and cringed about it on the evening news. Nonetheless, it was entertainment and Clippers games were suddenly the place to be in LA.
By April 2018 The Clippers had turned all the
Hype and fandom into wins. They won almost eighty percent of their games in the regular season. They shocked the world when they beat The Lakers in a subway series for the western finals, then went on to sweep The Celtics and win the national championship.
Yyero’s bottom dollar was elevating. The Clippers were a financial asset for Yyero. More money. Now he had to outdo himself. There would be a Clippers championship parade set to go through Downtown LA. The Philanthropist got an idea.
Yyero went to the bank and had thirty million dollars withdrawn all in hundred-dollar bills. Yyero had all the money loaded into garbage bags, and he called Jerry Curl to come pick him up in his jet. Yyero flew over the parade and dumped three hundred thousand one hundred dollar bills out of dozens of trash bags onto the streets of downtown LA from above. Much of it dropped straight down, another good amount caught wind and blew throughout the city.
When the jet landed on a private beachfront in Santa Monica, dozens of police and swat officers surrounded it with guns drawn and shouted through a bullhorn for everybody inside to come out with their hands up. What Yyero and Jerry envisioned was very different from what actually happened. Chaos and bloodshed were ravishing Los Angeles. Mass gunshots and stabbings. Cars torched buildings burned down; Crashes and tramplings. Over two thousand seriously injured; nine hundred and sixteen people were killed.
Jerry Curl was thrown to the ground and beaten by the cops. Yyero was thrown into the back of an unmarked black car. He saw the chaos unfolding as black smoke and horrified screams filled the air. FEMA declared Marshall Law while people were still battling for the loose money. When the troops tried to apprehend the hundreds of curfew breakers they fought back and many were killed. Much of the LAPD went rouge and attempted to collect the cash themselves. A lot of them were indistinguishable and got gunned down by the military with everybody else.
Yyero was informed that he would rot in jail. The DA was pushing for the death penalty, but Yyero’s lawyer could get that off the table. He could have had him sent to a prison for the rich where he could play tennis and shuffleboard for the rest of his life. All he had to do act right in court.
Charges were being brought against Yyero both criminally and civilly. Yyero pleaded guilty as charged, and when asked by the judge if he had anything to say Yyero went against his lawyer’s advice and told the court that he somehow felt very little remorse, and therefor probably deserved to die. A class action lawsuit divided up the rest of Yyero’s money from his bank account, this home and assets, his winery, and the Clippers. President Trump insinuated that Yyero’s actions were a terrorist plot orchestrated by the democrats. Sad.
Grace was let go from her job at the nightly news after her ex-husbands’ stunt. She would go on to write a best-selling autobiography about her time with Yyero. The book was tell-all and honest. She wrote about her abortion and implied that she thought it may have broken something inside of Yyero Rockwell. She wrote that he was a kind man, but also empty. There was always a loneliness in his eyes. She concluded that although her ex-husband deserved the death penalty, that he was a good man who just had a void so vast in his heart that it could never be filled.
Curtis told a reporter that Yyero Rockwell was a cold-blooded son of a bitch; like a mad scientist supervillain out of a comic book. He added that Yyero was both the best friend and rival he ever had; and that he was a big enough man to finally admit that Rockwell was more gangster than he could ever be. He said that Yyero was a prodigy on the basketball court, and not as bad of a rapper as everyone says. Curtis divorced Lana and managed to get half of her money.
Svetlana gained and lost eighty pounds then became the spokeswoman for a diet pill which she overdosed on and died choking on her own vomit.
Jerry Curl was beaten within an inch of his life by his arresting officers. He spent the rest of his life in a coma awaiting avoiding a life in prison.
Yyero waived all of his appeals for his state execution. He was transferred by the Supreme Court to Texas, not far from his hometown for the execution. For his last meal Yyero requested a #1 fast food meal. Just a burger and some fries would do.
A doctor, a priest, and an executioner are the last three people that Yyero Rockwell would ever meet. On May 12th 2019 at the age of thirty-five Yyero Rockwell died penniless in a cold musty room, after having potassium chloride shot into his arm to run through his veins and stop his heart.
His death will go down in the record book as being caused by a state issued lethal injection. Although this is technically accurate, the truth is that Yyero Rockwell killed himself. He was born with so much money that it became who he was. Black ink on green cotton fiber or 1s and 0s in the central bank’s database. Yyero Rockwell gave himself away until there was nothing left and he was gone.
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