CutiePieHole

1y

Its 80,000 pages idk i not reading that s*** im waiting for a summary

DarkLore

1y

Anyone else get nervous rocking Yeezy s*** out in public, or even mentioning his name in a convo?

thriftstorepradas

1y

Is he texting carti?

thriftstorepradas

1y

Is he texting carti?

insertcoolnamehere

1y

HOV gon call him yall niggas weird writing murder fantasies

thriftstorepradas

1y

Is he texting carti?

thriftstorepradas

1y

Is he texting carti?

thriftstorepradas

1y

Is he texting carti?

thriftstorepradas

1y

Is he texting carti?

Himothee

1y

Kanye West sat in his dimly lit apartment, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his face as he composed yet another tweet.

“JAY KIDS ARE RE TARDS, KENDRICK SOUNDS LIKE A RAPIST, DRAKE IS A F****T. IF IM ALIVE NEXT WEEK YA’LL P****”

Send.

Kanye had been on a warpath for weeks, firing off tweet after tweet, antagonizing rap’s biggest stars like a man with no fear—or no common sense. His mentions were a wasteland of crypto scammers and laughing emojis, but he remained undeterred.

That was, until there was a knock at his door.

A hard, deliberate knock.

Then another.

Then another.

Three distinct knocks, from three different directions.

Kanye’s heart pounded. Slowly, he approached, peeking through the peephole.

Standing outside his door, at the exact same time, were three men.

Ty Ty—Jay Z’s right-hand man—stood on the left, checking his watch like he had somewhere better to be.

Hitta J3—Kendrick’s guy—was dead center, hoodie up, arms crossed, looking like a man who hadn’t smiled since birth.

And on the right, squinting at his own reflection in the doorknob, was Top 5, Drake’s unhinged Somali shooter, rocking an OVO sweatsuit like he was in a music video.

For a moment, the three just stood there, awkwardly glancing at each other.

“Nah you gotta be kidding me,” Ty Ty muttered, rubbing his temples.

Hitta J3 sighed. “Y’all here for Kanye West?”

“Yeah.”

“Same.”

Top 5 grinned. “Damn, what are the odds?”

Kanye, still peeking through the peephole, felt his knees buckle. He considered climbing out the window, but he lived on the seventh floor, and he wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

Meanwhile, the three men outside seemed just as thrown off as he was.

“So how we doin this?” Ty Ty asked. “We gon take turns?”

Hitta J3 shrugged. “I got sent first. Maybe I go first?”

“First? Nigga I was already in the building,” Top 5 argued. “I was just downstairs eating a shawarma.”

Ty Ty exhaled. “This is why I retired.”

Inside, Kanye pressed himself against the door, sweating bullets.

The three men continued debating, until suddenly, the door creaked open. Kanye stepped out slowly, hands up, voice trembling.

“Uh… fellas… look, I-I-I didn’t mean nothing by those tweets. It was all jokes, bro. Jokes!”

Ty Ty frowned. “You said Blue Ivy got Down syndrome.”

Hitta J3 added, “And you called Not Like Us trash.”

“And let’s not forget the disrespect towards Big Scorp,” Top 5 said, cracking his knuckles.

The three shooters stepped forward in unison.

Kanye yelped. “WAIT! Before y’all do whatever you’re about to do… what if I delete my account?”

Silence.

Ty Ty considered. “You delete the whole account?”

“G-g-gone. No more tweets. I’ll even throw my phone away.”

Hitta J3 sighed. “Man, I should’ve stayed home.”

Top 5 smirked. “Fine. Delete the account.”

Kanye’s hands shook as he pulled out his phone and, with the grace of a man begging for his life, hit “deactivate.”

The three men watched in silence as the screen went blank.

“Alright,” Hitta said. “You’re lucky. This time.”

Then, just like that, the three turned and walked away.

Kanye West exhaled for the first time in five minutes, knees buckling beneath him. As he slid to the floor, he muttered under his breath:

“Man… I should’ve beefed with J. Cole instead.”