In a small, gritty town where rebellion was the anthem and chaos was the law, there lived a young man named Mike. From the moment he arrived in the world, he seemed to have a chip on his shoulder, much like a rock star born into a life he never wanted. With an attitude that shouted defiance, he often raised eyebrows and elicited gasps, especially from his mother, who had long since given up on trying to mold her son into a model child.

One fateful afternoon, after another argument about chores, Mike exclaimed, “Make me!” as he lashed out with laughter at the absurdity of being told what to do. He was never one for rules, and his mother, exasperated, resorted to calling the authorities when he took his antics too far, even going as far as sabotaging the law mower—the very tool meant to keep their yard tidy.

At sixteen, his mother presented him with a beat-up truck, along with a batch of broken promises wrapped in a bow. "Please fix me!" the truck seemed to scream each time he turned the key, reflecting his own sense of being trapped in a world that didn’t understand him. As the iconic sounds of the ’90s echoed around him—Will Smith still in his Fresh Prince phase, skateboarders cruising past—Mike made a crucial decision. He would ditch school to pursue his real passion: rap.

With verses that cut through the mundane, Mike became known as the ‘first kid expelled for making fart sounds,’ but he didn’t care. His friend, Parl, was a wild card like him, known for stirring up trouble wherever he went. Parl would strut into high schools, challenge the popular kids, and leave chaos in his wake. “I don’t wanna have to fuck you up, so cool cease,” he’d say, but his words held the intensity of a storm brewing, ready to explode.

Together, they formed an unstoppable duo, their ambitions a playground of words spun into rhythmic chaos. They’d throw house parties while warning rivals to stay out of their lane, turning even the dullest norms into a spiral of fun and unpredictability. The nights unraveled into a blur of laughter, smoke, and battles of wits that often ended in fiery rants. “No...you hear me! You go to hell!” became their rallying cry—a rejection of the ordinary.

As their notoriety grew, so did their appetite for partying hard. Mike envisioned a future where he could kick back, relax, and watch life pass by from a distance, but the influence of adrenaline pulsed through his veins, calling him to perform. Each show culminated in wild performances where he’d tear down the stage, leaving an audience breathless, and always ending on a dramatic note, suspended in pure madness.

Years sped by like a whirlwind, and on the eve of his twenty-fourth birthday, Mike couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I’m gonna blow my brains out when I’m thirty!” he joked, acknowledging the darkness creeping in. But beneath the bravado lay a flickering hope, a commitment to push through even as the world continued spinning chaotically around him.

As the echoes of their anthem reverberated through the town, Mike realized the truth: life was meant to be lived on one’s terms, painted in every shade of madness and defiance. And in that revelation, with a mix of laughter and rebellion, he stood tall—ready to face whatever came next, with a middle finger raised high to the world that had tried to pin him down.