Tyrone Johnsons also known by the stage name, Triple Shots or Tri-shot for short had trained hard for this moment. He had known about the demon called stage fright. He had dined and wined with him all his life, but when life finally prepared the big stage for Tri-shot, he decided it was time to call it quits with stage fright.
His little crew helped him up his game as well, organizing mini events for him, from parlor parties to karaoke nights, to bars to carnivals. Tri-shot needed the experience should he get a bigger gig some time later. And he'd embraced the training years like an old pal, feeling less conscious on stage and able to give his all to the audience.
And now the night of his life is here. It was his one shot to make his dreams come true, and he was not going to fumble it in any way.
He could remember how it all happened like it was yesterday... Yeah, because it was really yesterday.
One of the most influential underground rappers in New York, with the stage name Man Tron happened to stumble upon Tri-shot's freestyle clip on an Insta page. Apparently he was wowed and phoned Tri-shot himself, asking for a link up at any comfortable time.
It looked like a scam call, easy to neglect but Tyrone's curiosity took the best of him and he eventually pulled up at the studio Man Tron mentioned.
After a brief freestyle session to gauge how real the clip was, Man Tron proposed a deal.
"I see you got that young blood energy in you. I'm impressed to be honest, and I'll like you on my end. But I gotta see something real, son. Not some studio shit," Man Tron does sound like a really fat man even though he could barely tip a scale. He must be faking the deep voice.
"What do I do?" Tyrone had asked.
"I need to hear your shit on stage. Look, I'd admit I'm not the rapper y'all ever wanna be. I'm not the Grammy dick suckers y'all crave for. I only do my shit for the street, the culture. I don't make my dollars from streams. I make dem through gigs. And ain't no better way to groom a newbie than to push him in front of everyone. We wanna hear your shit. I wanna hear your shit."
Tyrone nodded, unsure of how to respond.
"I put up a fest in the hood, and it's happening tomorrow. Show me what you got. There are some big local names that'll be there. Make them all see what I thought I saw, then we can talk like associates," Man Tron concluded as he exited the studio.
Now tonight was the night.
Tyrone stood backstage, listening to another up comer who was busy spitting bars and rhymes. The crowd was in a frenzy. He wondered how noisy it'll be out there if this much noise could reach him backstage.
Man Tron met him and assured him he's put his name, and he was going to be called soon. Then he left with his little crowd.
Ten other rappers took the stage later, some he knew, some he doesn't... Yet, Tri-shot was never called.
Tyrone was growing impatient. He searched for Man Tron from the sea of heads backstage with no luck.
Finally, a stout white man Tyrone suspected to be the coordinator rushed to him and half-yelled that it was going to be his turn soon.
"You ready, son?"
"Don't call me son." That connotation sounded weird to Tyrone, coming from the whitest man he's ever seen in a while. "And I'm ready. I was born ready."
The coordinator signalled five minutes. Tyrone nodded, smirking slightly.
Three minutes gone, and Tyrone suddenly found himself sweating on his palms. His feet started shaking a little also. The nervousness was setting in despite those years of training.
'I guess it's normal for me to feel nervous now. It's the biggest crowd I've ever faced after all.'
He started humming Eminem's "Lose Yourself" as he felt the lyrics went well with his current situation.
"...His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface, he looks calm and ready
To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting..."
Tyrone never rehearsed his own songs shortly before performance. He preferred to keep it bottled in to be opened only once, and that "once " must be on stage.
A cool breeze touched the back of the neck, and it was only then he realized that the backstage now held only few people now.
'They must have all performed, these ones. Am I the last on the list then?'
'It doesn't matter though. I gotta show Man Tron what he wanted. Bigger stages from here, that's the plan.'
{Welcome Tri-Shot!}
He heard his name being called. Tyrone noted the unenthusiastic manner at which the MC said his stage name, but he chose not to dwell so much on it. But he must admit it hurts.
There was no shout from the audience as well.
Tyrone got passed a mic as he walked towards the large partition that separated stage from backstage.
The intro beat was already playing. All he needed was to drop his bars and if all goes well, drop the mic gloriously and gracefully.
He drew in a sharp breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled like a furious buffalo before jumping onto the stage, moving in tune with the rapid beat.
'I don't need to stare at the audience yet.'
He started:
"Yuh... One, two, three shots (Tri-shot) down the alley
Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta it's clips, this ain't ratatouille
She pulled up in a hoodie, said she want a ride in my Audi
The way I play my cards, n----s think I'm Houdini
I'm standing on business, the good Lord bear me witness
She described her best position, I shushed her like b---h say less
I like it rough, no foreplay buh she good with all that finesse
Third shots in and she screaming, she wanna be my mistress..."
'Something feels off. There's too much echo,' Tyrone was having a back thought even while on the rap wheels.
He looked towards the stands for the first time only to discover that...'what the hell'...there was not a single person left to watch him perform.
He had been rapping all to himself and the seats.
He gasped. His flow dwindled to a stop, and cold sweat trickled down his neck. His throat suddenly became dry, cracked.
The beat kept playing. He glanced behind him, to at least signal the DJ to a stop. But he was even more surprised to see that nobody was behind the turntable. The DJ had played his beat and walked off, it seemed.
There was no MC either. Surprise gave way to confusion, but what finally won was grief.
He dropped on his knees, his eyes welling up with tears. The microphone slid slowly out of his grip till it clattered on the stage floor, a resulting sound echoing from the speakers.
Tyrone felt alone.
"Hey, you there! Get off that stage since everyone's gone. Go home and go hang yourself or something. Don't waste your tears here!" A bitter man called from the stands. He was cleaning the arena, picking dirt and leftovers. Tyrone felt the cleaner was either drunk or he was naturally a bitter person.
"That's right. Maybe I should go hang myself. Not even a single person stood behind to listen to me play," Tyrone thought, "and where the hell is Man Tron and his dumb ass crew? Gone of course. We newbies are like toys in their hands. Who knows how many rappers they'd treated in this disgusting manner?"
Tri-shot pushed himself up after the beat ended then jumped down the stage with the microphone still in his hand. "I'll keep this as a souvenir."
He pulled his hoodie up and walked head bowed out of the arena.
"That's more like it. Just go and die," the cleaner dissed one last time.
After Tyrone got home, he picked up his phone and dialed Man Tron. After a couple rings, someone picked but it wasn't Man Tron.
"I wanna talk to Man Tron."
<
Tyrone sighed, frustrated before saying, "Tri-Shot."
<
'Really? What's good?'
"Nothing's good. I need to talk to Man Tron."
<
"No, you're not him. Just put Man on please."
<
Tyrone simply sighed before ending the call. He's heard all he needed to hear. Another talent had taken his place, and there was no chance Man Tron was going to invest in him any time soon.
'30 years of chasing this and I still got floored by the local ass Man Tron.'
'Hell, I'm calling this quits already. How old do I have to be to get my first proper gig?'
Tyrone Johnson slept that night with a heavy grief and bottled up anger at his cruel fate. "Heavens know I've given my all," he muttered before falling asleep."
Ty woke the next morning with a dull headache. He grabbed his toothbrush and walked to the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, preparing to resume his job as a store cashier.
Suddenly he saw something that made his heart jump.
"WHAT THE F--K?!!!"
He stepped few paces back, staying away from the mirror but never taking his eyes off the image staring back at him.
What he saw was nothing like a thirty-year old man who had suffered a brutal rejection just a day before.
He was looking at an eighteen-year old Tyrone Johnson with a close skin cut, an adequately ripped figure, a smooth, smooth face and the hint of a growing mustache adorning his gentle face. This Tyrone was full of dreams and filled with hope.
"Nah, I must be tripping," Ty laughed, scorning himself.
He peered closer at the mirror, scrunching his face but the figure only mirrored his actions but still remained the young Ty.
"It must be the headache. I need to clear my head."
All of a sudden, as if to label him a really psycho person, an imposing phenomenon blocked his view, a translucent screen with some words displayed on it, flashing wildly:
[Take Us Out The Hood, Ty.]
[Take Us Out The Hood, Ty.]
[Take Us Out The Hood, Ty.]
"WHAT THE F--KING F--K IS GOING ON?!" He was beside himself with alarm and confusion. At this point, he was pretty convinced he was going crazy.
[Congratulations, Ty. You are the host of the only StarMaker system in the multiverse.]
[You have been transmigrated back to the time your dream of becoming a star MC started. Don't ask how. You are free to ask why.]
"W–Why?" Ty stuttered.
[Why? The system simply thinks you have to start all over again. I don't know how to put it, but you have been a failure, Ty.]
Tyrone sighed resignedly. He wanted to protest at first, but was this screen not right? If he protested, he was only embracing failure by denying it.
"Yes, I was a big failure. No, not a big one. I was a monumental failure. I admit...but what the hell is going on?"
[I am not a chat system. This that I'm doing is only for introduction's sake.]
[But if this answers any of your questions, I'll like you to simply consider yourself a lucky bastard.]
[You have been chosen to fulfill the dreams of a certain failure, Tyrone Johnson. Rings a bell?]
[I am the Starmaker System and a guide to fulfilling that dream. Can't allow you be a failure twice, right?]
[Now let's get started, shall we?]
"I think I get the gist. But why am I young Ty? Is it a time travel shit? Did I go back in time? Is that even real?"
[Does this screen look real to you? Yet, it is.]
[And no, it's not time travel. Not exactly. I have no further explanation. You are free to eternally wonder about how it went down.]
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Host's name: Tyrone Johnson
Stage name: ???
***
[[Displaying Stats]]
Vocals: 5
Flow/Rhythm: 5
Creativity: 5
Lyricism: 6
Storytelling: 4
Delivery: 8
Aura/Stage presence: 4
***
[[SKILLS]]
– Beef Instigation Ability
– Provocative Gestures/Dancing
– Hoe Resistance
Complete tasks. Gain EXP. Upgrade stats.
You can also upgrade stats by training.
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[End of chat. Figure things out yourself, Ty. But before that...]
[First Task Assigned: Win a music face-off.]