Current time: As the rain down pours, a red Lamborghini slowly comes to a halt. A man can be seen in the distance crawling away with severe wounds to his legs. A slim figure emerges from the car, grabbing his pistol. He calmly makes his way toward the victim. He’s wearing black Air Force Ones—indicating he’s nothing to fuck with. His victim knows this now, but it may be too late.
Days Before: 21 Savage has lived a million lives, and for him, it’s nothing to brag about. There are many dark points he recalls so vividly. Four years ago, he was with the woman he loved when things went left. She set him up, and he winces at the mere mention of her name. He isn’t over it, and doesn’t care to revisit the memory for anyone—not even his therapist.
21’s eyes opened and darted from left to right before he sat up from his plush chair. The man seated across from him grinned before removing his glasses. He placed them on an end-table, rose from his seat, and strolled to his office window that overlooked the city.
“Snitches and rats are not the same thing,” he uttered, his eyes never left his window view as he delved into a rant.
“A snitch is someone minding other folks’ business to find information they can sell for a price or trade for some other form of compensation. A rat is a traitor, a conceiver, a planner or…” 21 now sat at the edge of his seat, and abruptly interrupted the man with a cunning response:
“They all get whacked.” Dr. Freeman, the man Savage personally sought after for unpacking his past, seemed unfazed by 21’s dark perspective—he was no saint himself. Instead, he walked over to Savage and gave him a phone in case of emergency on his inevitable mission.
“All one can do is accept that life is a double-edged sword. Stay on the edge.”
Savage had returned to the UK for some payback. 2019 was a rough one. He’d just proclaimed himself to be greater than he ever was; officially leaving this part of his life behind him. But old friends from back home rejected this proclamation. In fact, one of them ratted out his new life in the US, reporting to ICE that he’d been living in the States illegally. Now he was back; to see some friendly faces, but mainly, to seek revenge. He moved through the airport like a man on a mission. Bystanders parted like the red sea as he stomped through with his carry-on luggage in hand. Savage posted up outside, embracing the crisp air as his ride pulled up. Metro, one of his few loyal friends remaining, wasn’t going to let him make this journey alone. In fact, he’d been here all week anticipating Savage’s arrival.
He pulled up in a red, drop-top Lamborghini. 21 hopped in, not saying a word as they sped off. He smirked as the familiar streets flashed before his eyes. He attempted to text Dr. Freeman, but his messages were bouncing back. What was the point of giving him a phone if he couldn’t be reached? Savage then pulled up his friend-turned-nemesis’ Instagram account instead.
It appeared that he’d been promoting a Halloween party for that night, and the flyer had all the info he needed.
“No talkin', he get touched,” he said sternly, as he showed the flyer to Metro. Their mission was less complicated than they initially thought it would be.
He set a timer on his watch for 12:35am. One thing’s for sure: if they were going to this party, they would need to be strapped.
“You wanna hold somethin? I got plenty shells,” Savage said. Metro insisted the time would come, but it wasn’t then. Instead, they pulled up to the house Metro had been residing in. The gates parted at their arrival, as Savage clutched his gun at the sight of the unknown, but he always knows he can trust Metro. The music could be heard boomin’ from the entrance as they entered the house. Much to Savage’s surprise, the mansion was filled with beautiful women and a few familiar faces from his close-knit circle. He smirked, letting his guard down only slightly while remaining aware of his surroundings.
1 Hour Later:
Savage was unwinding by the pool surrounded by women as he recalled some fond memories.
“He was dissin' on songs and that shit got him shot,” he reminisced. The circle of women laughed. He noticed one of them wince after a sip of her drink.
“1942, it ain’t no Chardonnay,” he snobbishly told her. Another one of the women was a childhood friend. With a bottle in hand, she wasted no time leaning into 21 and telling him that his new-found fame had him off balance with women. She insisted that his ex was playing by the rules but his nose was too open to see that.
“You know I got a soft spot for the hoochies,” he said defensively. But she wasn’t having it.
“Nigga, please, what the fuck is you talkin' 'bout?” She leaned in closer to his face, clearly inebriated, before offering some advice:
“This world's all about money and pussy and you need to figure that out. Once you figure that out, you'll be better off in life.”
She finished her bottle before dunking her head back in the pool. Whether it was good advice or not, it had Savage’s mind wandering. He opened his phone and began texting his ex:
“I had your back, you put a knife in mine…”, he typed. Before he could hit send, one of Dr. Freeman’s messages came to mind:
"Truly genuine love never really dies. But lust, infatuation and unrevealed attraction are all things that over time rarely survive."
His timer went off, reminding him of the night’s plan. Metro popped up on cue, pointing at his watch, and signaling that it was time to go. Savage smiled, discreetly exiting to change his clothes.
“Saint Laurent the only thing I put on my back,” he told Metro as he looked through the lavish closet. They spend about 20 minutes looking through an obscene collection of weapons, discretely tucking their chosen ones away. Savage’s slacks manage to perfectly lay over his Black Air Force One sneakers. And just like that, they snuck away as an impending bloodbath awaited.
They made their way inside the party donning their plush suits, with their identities concealed under their masks. The music echoed through the mansion, as those in attendance danced the night away in their ridiculous costumes. 21 and Metro looked around the room for their victim and did their best to avoid distractions, when a woman dressed as Jessica Rabbit approached them, offering a platter of hors d’oeuvres. They both declined, but she locked eyes with 21 as she walked away.
“I know that she ratchet, I can tell by the way that she wearing her weave,” he said to Metro jokingly. They continued sifting through the room as the lights danced off of their masks, and money poured down from the ceiling.
Savage’s eyes continued to dart from left to right, while Metro chatted up a brunette nearby. It was then that a familiar voice came through the speaker, thanking everyone for coming out. Both Metro and 21’s ears perked up as they searched for where the voice could be coming from, and there he was; standing on a stage with a mic in hand, was 21’s old friend, turned snitch. And his costume of choice? He was dressed as 6ix9ine—how fitting. His rainbow wig was braided back, and swayed left to right, as he continued thanking everyone for their attendance. It was then that Jessica Rabbit made her way to the stage. She appeared to be whispering in his ear, and his speech suddenly halted. He glanced in 21 and Metro’s direction before dropping the mic, and, to the crowd’s surprise, rushing for the exit. Savage and Metro quickly chased after him.
The rain poured down as they made their way to their red Lamborghini. Their victim sped off in a yellow Porsche, zig zagging the streets in fear.
“You ain't gon' make it that far,”
Current Time: Metro trails closely behind, as 21 walks toward the rat touting his pistol in-hand. The thunder rattles the trees as he slowly walks toward the victim. The man continues crawling, begging for his life and trying to remind Savage of their childhood friendship.
“Lil' nigga, we are not the same,” 21 responds coldly.
"A wise man knows not to have a lot of enemies,” a familiar voice utters from the distance. Savage removes his mask at the sound of the distinct voice. The man emerges from the shadows, appearing to be Dr. Freeman. 21, puzzled, stares at the doctor, who assures him he’ll provide him with answers—once the job is done.
They now all stand over the rat, who still begs for his life. Dr. Freeman continues:
“The friction of constant conflict is a distraction in life. And left unchecked can end up being what subtracts him from life.” The raindrops bounce off of his hooded vintage black coat.
“If possible, all enemies should be eliminated.”