El-P and Killer Mike sat together, naked, on a bed in a hot Southern hotel room. They were each wearing sunglasses and breathing heavily, hearts pounding in anticipation.
"I'm gonna smack the shit out of her," Mike said. "I'm gonna make her beg me to stop, and then when I stop, she's gonna beg for more."
"I want to get in that pussy so deep that I can see through her eyes," said El. "Like I'm the guy inside Mr. Met."
"Our fuck styles are complementary," said Mike. "Just like our rap styles."
"We share a radical worldview," said El. "We're brothers. We're disgusted with what we see in this country, and our only respite is sex."
"That is why we're about to have a threesome with Gangsta Boo from Three 6 Mafia."
Just then, Gangsta Boo entered the room. Her presence in the room was unexpected and thrilling, just like it was on the album.
"Party's over, fuckboys," she snarled.
Killer Mike and El-P got down on the floor, and Gangsta Boo dominated them. She did filthy things to them, filthier than they could have even imagined. She made El-P moan like a rusty Transformer having a panic attack. She squeezed on Mike's belly like bagpipes. She made these furious, shit-talking, grown-man rappers into little bitches. And they loved it.
Just then, Zach de la Rocha burst in from wherever he had been hiding since the Clinton administration. "Guys, stop fucking!" he yelled. "It's time to start the revolution!"
Mark Kozelek was in pain. Everyone and everything he loved was dying, including himself. At 46, he was acutely aware of his mortality. First his uncle, then his cousin Carissa, then the Night Stalker. The Night Stalker, the man who terrorized Mark's teenage imagination, died of lymphoma, like he was just any other sick person. Mark was so sad. He needed to fuck to take his mind off everything. He called his friend Ben.
Ben, still reeling from his divorce from Zooey, had been experimenting with Mark. Mark wasn't gay, but he loved telling other male musicians to suck his cock. When Ben got to Mark's house, Mark had the TV on, but he was staring at it blankly, unseeing. Without saying a word, Ben took off his pants and bent over.
With each thrust, Mark thought of someone from his past. This thrust was for Brett, this one was for Jim Wise's wife, this one for his grandmother, this one for Mary Anne, the girl to whom he lost his virginity. When he came, he said a small prayer.
Afterwards, Mark and Ben sat Mark's hot tub and looked at the stars.
Zach Hill had always wanted to have sex with Bjork. Brian Chippendale from Lightning Bolt had played on Bjork's album. It should have been Zach. Zach was a crazier drummer. And he was even crazier when he was fucking than when he was drumming.
And MC Ride was even crazier at fucking than Zach. He fucked like he rapped; he howled and gibbered like a madman. And no one even knew what Andy Morin was into, but everyone suspected that it was really fucked up.
They had been barricaded in the Chateau Marmont for months now, only venturing out to find women to bring back to their suite, which Sony was paying for, and which looked more like Guantanamo every day. At this point, they rarely even fucked the girls, preferring instead to curl into a 'C' with their legs in the air and jerk off into their own mouths. Whenever one of them would do this, the other two would chant, "have a sad cum, baby!"
Ride was doing this right now. Zach said "I can't go on like this. The band needs to break up."
After she left Killer Mike & El-P, Gangsta Boo went to a seedy club in Downtown LA. She slipped into the back room, where the guys from clipping were hanging out. Daveed Diggs was spitting game to some girls who looked like they had wandered off the set of a Weeknd video, while the white producers huddled together over a table. Gangsta Boo couldn't tell what they were doing.
"You could be dead tomorrow," Daveed was saying. "That's why you have to do anything today. Gangstas die under palm trees here in Los Angeles. Want a Xanax?"
One of the girls, blank-eyed, began crushing up the pill while Daveed untied the strings of her bondage-inspired shirt. She had a tattoo that said "you're nobody 'til somebody kills you" on her ribcage.
Gangsta Boo was drunk. She got another Corona from the bar.
One of the white producers came up to her. He was holding a power drill. The drill had a purple dildo on the end of it. He pressed the trigger and the dildo spun. It sounded like a leg being amputated. Gangsta Boo was ready.
The door of the spaceship opened, and standing there, backlit by pinkish light, was Annie. She was thin as the neck of a guitar and her white hair added at least eight inches of height. She half-smiled and raised her right arm, palm up. The gathered crowd, which had previously been standing petrified, with mouths agape, tore off their clothes and began a frenzied orgy. A woman bit a man's thigh like a rattlesnake. Two women pretzled themselves while a man filmed them with his iPhone. A man crawled inside a woman's vagina and disappeared.
Annie observed it all, as detached as if she was watching a cashier ring up groceries (not that Annie knew what groceries were). A throne materialized from thin air and she sat down and crossed her legs and her fingers.
"This is sex for me," she whispered to no one.