It was Saturday. Hot as Satan's kneecap outside.
Marcus stood in the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall, sweating through his BlkSoul hoodie, wondering how the hell he got roped into this.
"This some bullshit," he muttered, wiping his forehead.
"Man, quit bitchin'. It's authentic," Devonte said, squinting at his cracked iPhone screen. "Look, the busted-ass graffiti in the back make it artsy. That's aesthetic, bro."
"Nigga, we takin' pictures next to a whole-ass dumpster," Marcus said, deadpan.
Devonte clapped him on the back. "Relax, man! Kanye started out like this. We just gotta fake it 'til we make it."
Marcus shook his head but couldn't help laughing.
Across the lot, Tamia was setting up with her "professional equipment" — which was literally just a ring light taped to a broomstick stuck in a Home Depot bucket full of bricks.
"Y'all betta strike a pose or I'm goin' home!" Tamia shouted, chewing gum like it owed her money.
"We ready, damn," Devonte yelled back.
Marcus pulled the hoodie tighter over his head, trying to look serious. Mean mug. No smile.
"Aye, Marcus," Devonte said, nudging him. "You look constipated, not cool."
"Fuck you, D," Marcus muttered through gritted teeth.
"Nah, for real — you look like you holdin' in a fart." Devonte doubled over laughing, nearly dropping his phone.
"Man, stop playin' before I deadass leave you out here wit' these rats," Marcus warned, cracking up too.
---
Tamia started snapping photos, yelling directions like she was Tyra Banks on crack.
"Pop ya collar! Look off into the distance like you see yo' future but you sad about it!"
"Hold the hoodie like it's yo' last piece of chicken!"
"Bite ya bottom lip a lil', make it sexy!"
Marcus gave her the ugliest stink face he could muster.
"Bitch, I ain't lickin' my lips for no damn dumpster!"
Tamia howled, damn near dropping her phone.
Devonte couldn't breathe, he was laughing so hard.
"Boy, if you don't shut yo' light-skinned Drake album cover lookin' ass up!" Tamia cackled.
Marcus shook his head. "This a set-up. God tryna humble me before success."
Devonte wiped tears from his eyes, still dying. "Nigga, God tryna tell you to moisturize yo' lips before you model!"
---
Finally, after about an hour of bullshit, arguing, and roasting, they had a few decent shots.
Marcus had to admit…even standing by a busted dumpster, somehow, some way — the clothes looked fire.
The vibe was raw. Real.
"This shit kinda hard," Marcus said, flipping through the pics.
"Told yo' bougie ass!" Devonte said, grinning.
Tamia nodded, chewing gum. "Y'all cute. Low budget as hell, but cute."
Marcus felt Devonte glance at him, just for a second, a look that made the back of his neck heat up.
"We gon' blow up, bruh," Devonte said, voice low now. "On God."
Marcus believed him.
For the first time, he really believed.
---
Later That Night – Instagram
Marcus posted the best shot:
Him and Devonte back-to-back, hoodies pulled up, middle fingers to the camera, the dumpster blurred out like some kind of ghetto filter.
Caption:
> BlkSoul. For the ones who ain't supposed to make it.
They didn't even tag nobody. Didn't need to.
The city was hungry for something real.
And within an hour —
> 50 likes
200 likes
400 likes
Comments: "THIS HARD" / "YALL SNAPPED WTF" / "DROP THE LINK RN"
Even Rashad, messy ass, reposted it with a caption:
> "Lil bro up next. Don't say I ain't tell y'all."
Marcus sat back in bed, heart thumping.
Devonte FaceTimed him, hoodie half-off, grinning like a kid at Christmas.
"Nigga we viral!" he yelled.
Marcus smiled so hard it hurt.