What More Can I Say?

“Welcome back to E! News. Before the break we told you that we had the latest installment in the scandal that has rocked the entertainment world to the very core; Hip Hop’s most powerful couple in trouble after just a few months of marriage.
It was just over two weeks ago when stripper and mother of two, Sabrina ‘Lollipop’ Lockwood came out and announced that her second born, four year old Castor was hers and ‘Jigga man’s’ lovechild and had been conceived in a Brooklyn apartment bedroom nearly five years ago.
DNA tests confirmed this early last week, confirming that not only was this boy Mr. Carter’s son but also that Mr. Carter had in fact cheated on then girlfriend, now scorned wife, Beyonce Knowles.
Now in the latest twist, witnesses have claimed that Mrs. Carter, as of this morning, is no longer a resident of their Upper East Side penthouse…”

Looking up from the medical form clipped to the board sitted on her lap, the young woman sitted in the virtually deserted waiting area turned her gaze towards the 17 inch talking box perched in one corner of the room.

“…neither Jay-Z’s nor Beyonce’s people have confirmed this apparent change of address but someone close to them who has requested to remain anonymous has said that ‘This is not true. Bee is exactly where she is supposed to be. They are trying their best to work it out…”

The waif of a smile settled onto the young woman’s perfectly glossed lips; as if to say “uh-huh, yeah…right.”
“Good job Diana.” She muttered, her voice dripping sarcasm as she continued to stare up at the screen. Diana was her publicist. Obviously trying to do some recon.
There was the slight jingle of jewelry and the soft touch of a hand on her shoulder. The young woman shifted her attention, just barely, from the tv to the person sitted next to her.
They had known each other for years. Had grown from girls into women together. They knew each other better than they knew anyone else on the planet. They were more than just friends, they were sisters.
“Are you okay?”
The concern in Kelly’s voice was obvious.
The young woman cleared her throat.
“I’m fine.”
She knew Kelly would know it was a lie even as she said it but something inside her needed her to appear strong. Like everything was okay. Like nothing that was going on around her had her fazed. It had always been like that. Bee had always been the strong one. Or had always appeared to be.
Standing up, Kelly told her that she would be right back. With the jingle of jewelry hanging from her wrists, from her neck, from her ears and from her ankles, and the clop-clop-clop of her super high Manolo heels, Kelly walked over to the reception desk.
“Excuse me,”
The girl sitted behind the desk, who couldn’t have blown out more than 17 candles continued to stare up at the screen as if Kelly wasn’t even there. Kelly reluctantly followed her gaze.

“…I’ve been running the numbers Sal and for the fifth day in a row Jay-Z’s now infamous “What more can I say?” apology has taken the crown for most Youtubed video. And for those of you who haven’t watched it yet (what the heck are you doing?), here’s a quick look…”

Flash!
A sea of reporters clutching cameras, notebooks and tape recorders foaming before a podium behind which, accompanied by some of his closest friends including the ever egocentric Mr. West, stands the man of the hour. Three piece pinstriped suit and somber expression. Bending his six foot four inch frame over the bank of microphones, he is talking.
“I will not make excuses or try to deny the current allegations. They are indeed true. It was a mistake I regret ever making and I am truly sorry. To everyone who I’ve hurt and most of all to my wife, I am sorry and will do everything in my power to make this right. I really don’t know what more I can say...”
‘What more can he say indeed, Catt. For the apology in its entirety, you can log onto-‘

“EXCUSE ME.”
This time the receptionist reluctantly turned to look at Kelly. It was quite obvious she did not appreciate being interrupted.
“Do you mind changing the channel? My friend’s having a hard time concentrating on filling out her forms with that garbage on.”
The girl looked past Kelly to the woman sitted in the stylishly furnished waiting area, clipboard in lap, pen in hand but both obviously forgotten. Even with a Yankee fitted, baggy hoodie and baggy sweats it was obvious who she was.
Sympathizing, the girl grabbed a remote from under a pile of paperwork, pointed it at the tv and with a click switched off Kelly’s best friend’s life and replaced it with 10 grown men in shorts chasing after a ball, trying to put it through a hoop.
Kelly thanked the girl and went back to her place next to her best friend.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Bee said as Kelly sat back down.
“Of course I did. Now let me have a look at that form.”
Bee resisted at first but after some insistence, she finally gave up the clipboard. She seemed nervous as Kelly looked it over.
“Honey,” Kelly started, looking up from the clipboard, “You can’t use a false name on these forms.”
“But I don’t want the press to find about this.”
Bee’s voice was a near whisper. She was obviously worried that the receptionist would overhear their conversation.
“It’s a medical facility Bee, they can only release your records to immediate family and/or by court order. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Everyone has their price Kelly. How much do you think someone would be able to buy off that receptionist? You saw how hungrily she was watching that screen.”
Kelly sighed.
“I have to honest Bee, I think its mistake that we’re even here. I’m not sure you should do this.”
“I thought you had my back.” Bee said. This time her voice was a whisper.
“I do.” Kelly tried to assure her, “I just think you might be rushing into this. You’re reacting Bee. This is your child we’re talking about here. This is a big deal.”
Bee shook her head.
“I can’t have this baby, Row. I just can’t.”
She was near tears.
Kelly put a hand over one of Bee’s.
“You’re angry with him, I get that. So am I. so is the entire world. But your child doesn’t deserve to receive the brunt of that anger Bee. Your baby hasn’t done anything wrong. Don’t punish for something HE did.”
Bee seemed to mull on this for a moment or two. Then removing her hand from under Kelly’s and taking back the clipboard, she continued to fill out the medical form.
Kelly sighed.
“Bee…”
“I’ve made my decision. You can either be on board with this or you can leave.”
Kelly watched Bee for a number of seconds then making a decision of her own, she stood up.
Bee looked up from the forms, scoffing.
“You’re actually leaving?” She couldn’t believe it, she had been calling Kelly’s bluff.
“It’s not like you’ve left me much of a choice Bee…leave with me.” Kelly said making one last ditch attempt.
For a split second Bee seemed to consider this but then,
“I’ll need someone to come and pick me up Are you a friend enough to do that?”
Knowing a lost cause when she saw one Kelly shook her head.
“No Bee. Find someone else.”
And with that Kelly turned on her heels and without looking back, walked out of the office.
The girl behind the desk waited a full sixty seconds before picking up the phone. She had USWeekly on speed dial.

December 4th

Ma always told me, from the moment that I could sit up by myself and probably even before that, that I was born special. Born to be different and that no matter what happened in life, good or bad or ugly, I was to never forget that one fact.
She told me that she had known it from the moment she had laid eyes on me. From the second she had held me in her arms. I was destined for greatness. As sure as night follows day. And for the longest time, I believed her…





“Yo Bitches,”
The tap-tap-tapping of the keyboard ceased as Samuel turned away from the laptop and looked over his shoulder. His expression perfectly mirrored his feelings about his appointed name.
“I thought I told you not to call me that.”
He was reed thin, boasted an afro that spiked out at least six inches in every direction and a bass that made most bitches, sorry ladies, shiver at the knees.
They called him Bitches (his boys, not the bi-*ahem* ladies) because he loved ‘dem bitches. And boy did the bitches love him.
“You still answered didn’t you?” that was Reckless. He had a tendency to break things. That and for getting on Bitches’ nerves. He took pride in it even. Thought it fun.
“Fuck you.” Bitches barked, he wasn’t in the mood to put up with Reckless’ shit. Not then. He had enough on his mind as it was.
“No fuck you, man.” Reckless shot back. “Where…are...the bitches?”
“They’ll be here.” Bitches muttered through gritted teeth though he was wondering the same damn thing.
“Yeah, that’s what you said an hour ago.” Spat Blackberry, not looking up from his, yes you guessed it, blackberry.
“Why don’t you guys leave the poor guy alone?” Carter interjected, coming to Bitches’ rescue. “It’s not his fault they’re not yet here.”
Carter was stretched out on the couch, lightly wagging his feet to Jay-Z’s “Reasonable Doubt”
“Thank you Carter.”
“You’re very welcome Samuel.” Carter answered, stretching out an arm and tapping some ash into the small tray on the coffee table. “You shouldn’t let these guys push you around. If the girls come, they come. And if they don’t…well then they don’t. It’s really not that big a deal.”
Carter uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, taking a hit of that high end variety Ntinda-Kisaasi reefer.
Through, he held it out to Blackberry who was closest to him but who briskly waved it off saying that it would mess up his concentration. He was writing the Great African Novel, you see- on his blackberry.
Shrugging, Carter took another hit then passed it to Reckless who took it gladly.
It was December 4th, Carter’s birthday and the boys, wanting to do something different had all agreed to hire Carter a couple of strippers. Bitches, claiming that he had all the right connects, had set it up for nine. It was now coming to eleven and the boys were clearly getting agitated.
“I told you Bitches would fuck it up.” Reckless exhaled, his voice a mild croak, just managing to avoid a coughing fit.
“I didn’t fuck it up,” Bitches blurted out defensively.
“Then where are they?” Blackberry asked. They were ganging up on him like they always did. And that annoyed the hell out of him.
As if in answer to Blackberry’s question, bitches’ phone, resting next to the laptop suddenly came to life.
“That’s them.” Bitches mouthed, holding up his phone.
He took the call and after a few moments of “Uh-huh’s” and “Okay’s” he hung up, walked out of the room, into the kitchen and out the back door.
Reckless, Blackberry and Carter all exchanged bewildered glances. What the hell was Bitches up to?
After what couldn’t have been more than 45 seconds, Bitches walked back into the room with two pairs of high-heels in toe.
“Gentlemen,” Bitches announced, full with arm gestures, he was obviously relieved that the paid entertainment had finally arrived, “Nicolette and Sabrina. Ladies, Blackberry, Reckless and the birthday boy.”
Reckless scrunched his face into an expression of obvious skepticism. They sure didn’t look like strippers. Sure they were hot in an “I met this girl in church” kind of way but t-shirt and jeans didn’t exactly scream sex siren.
“Hey guys, sorry we’re late.” Said the one who was supposed to be Nicolette, “Sabrina had a surprise DOD meeting.”
“DOD?” Reckless asked.
“Daughters Of Destiny.” Blackberry said finally looking up from his beloved phone. “Watoto church. Don’t ask me how I know something like that. I just do.”
Sabrina lightly blushed.
“Um, is there somewhere where we can change? Obviously we’re not going to do this dressed the way we are.” Still Nicolette, she seemed to be their spokeswoman.
“Yeah,” Carter said, “Bitches show them where.”
Both girls turned to look at Bitches.
“Bitches?” Sabrina asked. “They call you bitches?”
“Yeah, I don’t like it any more than you do, trust me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sabrina said, “I think its friggin’ awesome. Blackberry, Reckless and Bitches? You guys are crazy.”
“Yeah, I guess we are.” Bitches said indulgently and showed the girls to one of the bedrooms.
He walked back out a couple of moments later, a CD in hand.
“What’s that?” Carter asked.
“Their music,” Bitches answered, “I wonder what’s on it.”
“Stripper music, obviously.” Reckless at it again.
“By the way,” Reckless continued, “How legit are they?”
“What do you mean?” Bitches asked not quite getting the question.
“I mean, do they fuck?”
Reckless put special emphasis on the last word, almost whispering it in reverence.
Bitches’ phone picked the perfect time to ring and he quickly answered it to avoid answering Reckless’ question.
He hung up a moment later.
“Showtime.” He said, stuck the CD into the laptop and pressed play.
Moments later a juggernaut of a hip hop beat came typhooning through the speakers, the door to the bedroom opened and the girls, completely transformed, strut into the room.
It didn’t take long for the guys to admit that the girls were worth every single shilling they were going to pay them. All 300,000 of them.
“Best…birthday…ever.” Carter thought as Nicolette dipped impossibly low and seductively crawled into his lap.
“So what do they call you when it’s not your birthday?” Nicolette asked as she ground against him. She had already dropped her panties and carter swore he could feel her wetness through his jeans.
“God,” Carter answered trying his best to sound unfazed. “But you’re pretty good at what you do so I’m going to let you call me Shawn.”
Nicolette laughed.
“Thanks…Shawn. And just for that I’m going to give you a little than your money’s worth. Happy Birthday.”
And leaning over, Nicolette (which obviously wasn’t her real name as Shawn would later find out) gave him a kiss.

Interlude

So this is supposed to be an interlude of some sort. Although I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to be interluding exactly since nothing that has come before this has anything to do with what is going to follow…if that makes any sense at all. And in case it doesn’t…just pretend that it does.
* A slight pause to gather my thoughts*
Okay, you know what? How about we call this a prelude…an introduction, if you will. Because for all intensive purposes, that’s exactly what it is.
To what? A little idea that has been rolling around my noggin for a ‘lil bit. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to make it work (and to be quite honest- I still don’t) but after Streetsider said that I needed to mix it up a little I thought, “to hell with it. If it sucks…well, I cant be fly all the time.” So Streetsider, consider this an ode to you…the whole friggin’ thing. And questions later about why I didn’t make it to last Thursday’s BHH.
Now, to this lil idea that I’ve got. No anyone who listens to an ounce of hip hop would have to agree with me that Jay-Z’s “retirement album” (who really believed that anyway?) “The Black Album” is up to date, one of his finest. Of course it comes nowhere near his hungry debut “Reasonable Doubt” or the hard knocking “Hard Knock Life Vol. 2” but it is the album that made me, and a whole lot of other Hov fans that I know, fall in love with his music. It’s the first Jay-Z album I listened to all the way through and at the end was able to say, “Damn. That was a good album.” And in light of the recent release of “The Blue Print 3”, in all honesty, it was his last truly good album.
So this is what I have set out to do. To take this album so ingrained in my mind and all of its greatness and throw my own twist on it. A rendition or reinterpretation if you will.
I believe this is one of those things that can either turn out incredibly good or truly, exceptionally bad. Here’s to it being the former.
And so without further ado, I present to you…The Black Album.