The Greatest Rapper in the World - Part III

"I'm with MC Nigel, one of Australia's big up and coming rappers," the interviewer says. "Nigel, you've released three mixtapes in under two months, there's rumours you're starting your own record label and your own clothing company. What motivates you?"
I run one hand across my trimmed goatee, the other adjusts my baller cap. It still smells like fabric softener.
"I just want to be the greatest, I was born for it," I say. "I won't stop, y'know?"
"Many rappers overcome great hardships growing up, and that's a theme that appears in your lyrics often. Tell us about your life growing up, and how it's molded you."
"Well I grew up in the suburbs. There were streets. I didn't grow up on an aircraft carrier or anything amazing like that. We didn't have a lot of money when I was a kid. My parents split when I was five. Plus, what else... Public Transport was bad. Really bad. We were at least four kilometres from the telephone exchange too, our ADSL speeds were poor. Drugs were everywhere, including some illicit ones. There was bushfire risk. And there were haters, but I like to think it all affected me positively by the end. It made me tougher, harder, and a better rhymer. It made me the man I am today."
"Mmm," he intones while I catch my breath. His pen is scribbling. I smile, hoping I look confident. I readjust my seat. The bright red shorts are long and baggy. They're silky to touch but they ride up my backside.
The reporter's next question is, "What kind of styles did you listen to as a youth?"
"Oh, all kinds," I say. I fiddle with my chain as I list them, "West coast, east coast, old school, instrumental. I dug the hyphy movement, indie stuff, crunk, gangsta, ghetto-tech, two-step, dirty south, that thing where a rappers features on a regular pop song for no reason."
"Who would you say is your biggest influence on your work?"
"Oh that's easy, Kelly."
"Yo mean R. Kelly?"
"No, my wife."
"Ah. Right." He pauses. "What albums are you listening to at the moment?"
"Doesn't matter what I'm listening to," I tell him. "No fools want to hear about that. If you want my musical recommendation, then I recommend you listen only to me. MC Nigel."
"Have you ever had an office job?"
"What do you do when you're not making music?"
I invert my crossed legs, my white Adidas kicks swishing in front of me. The blue stripes on them arc through the air, begging to be observed. "I chill," I say. "I like watching movies, scary ones. I go to the club, to the beach. Umm, I love body surfing. And Game Cube, that game system is tight. Kelly and I, we play Mario Kart."
"Your wife, or R Kelly?"
"My wife."
I search my memory for anything else I could affiliate myself with, aiming to win as many fans as possible. "I love Masterchef, skateboarding, the NBA, the NBN. I'm for gay marriage and I'm against coal seam gas."
"That makes you seem-"
"And tax cuts for the rich!" I interrupt. "Tax cuts for the poor too, and the middle class. Tax cuts for everyone!"
"Okay," says the interviewer. He seems flustered by my flow, like his thoughts were written on his brain like an Etch-a-Sketch and I just vigorously shook his skull. "What's next for you?"
"I'm going to be the greatest!" I stand up, I flex for him. "I've got more rhymes than a box of rhyming dictionaries. More fans than a wind farm-"
"I think I've got all I need," he says.
I sit back down. "Thanks," I say. "This was really fun. I feel so famous. This was my first interview, you know?"
"Oh. Mine too," says the interviewer. "It's for my journalism assignment."
"Well, good luck," I say. "I hope you get an A."
"Thanks," he says. I hang up the call and lean back on the couch, my bright clothing a strong contrast to the worn fabric beneath me.
I seek Kelly, who is in the kitchen. I moonwalk into the room, performing a half-spin to face her.
"Nice outfit," she says. "For the interview?"
I nod. "Fame makes me hungry." I open the fridge, inside is nearly-empty bottle of milk, and half a shrink-wrapped cabbage which looks tiny on the the empty shelves.
"Where's all the food?"
She shrugs.
"What if MTV cribs wants to come over?"
"I would make fake energy drink cans with your face on the label and fill the fridge with a wall of them."
"You are awesome," I say. "I love you."
"I love you too."
"I'm going to make you so proud," I tell her, "when I'm the greatest rapper in the world."
I just need $550 million more to overtake Diddy.


Add Comment
Toggle Comments Form
Promoted: Five Lessons from Speculate 18

Too much for me summarise in a review. Instead, I thought I'd share a single takeaway and challenge from each of the sessions.

Promoted: The White Suburban

"We'll upgrade you to something more comfortable," the car-wrangler told me. This was the first sign something was wrong.

Not getting enough emails? Want to receive updates and publishing news in your inbox? Sign up to the bradism mailing list. You'll also receive an ebook, free!