“I warned them not to,” Killa-F of The FaNaTTicZ whispers as he slowly closes his laptop, a “Best of Vines” video halting mid-vine.
He leans forward in his leather chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his open palms. The crackle of the fire before him is just beginning to soothe him when he hears that oh-too familiar jingle, and he answers the phone.
“Hello?”
“This is serious.” No introduction. It is Ez The Great, his voice hushed and hurried, and Killa-F knows that he can feel the great disturbance as well.
“I know,” Killa-F says.
“I don’t think you do, Killa-F. Hashtag twerk is trending. Nerds are using it. Nerds’ parents are using it. It is only a matter of time now.”
“So what, you’re just going to give up? On the world? On us? Think of our song, Ez, our mission.”
“I don’t know what else we can do!” Ez screams into the phone.
“Get Jayarah and Nyce on the line.”
Killa-F waits patiently, staring into the dying embers as Ez the Great calls upon first Jayarah The Truth then Nyce.
“Yo, what up?” Nyce asks. Young Nyce. Beautiful Nyce. Always so naïve.
“The world is ratchet, Nyce,” Jayarah says.
Nyce is quiet.
“So what’s the plan, Killa-F?” Ez asks.
“We have to be clear. We have to be stern,” Killa-F begins. Motivational music plays and an American flag waves behind him, “We have to stand up in front of this nation, in front of the whole world, and say: DON’T drop that thun thun!”
“AYYYY!” The FaNaTTicZ cheer in response. They all hang up their phones and grab their signs, marching en route to Washington, D.C.
“Are you sure this will work?” Nyce asks, bouncing a sign that reads “Drop Bass Not Thun Thun”.
“It has to,” Ez declares.
The gang is halted at the White House gates.
“We need to speak with the President,” Killa-F states.
“It’s urgent,” Ez adds.
“Yeah, and why should we believe that?” the intimidating (even to The FaNaTTicZ, so you know he’s, like, really intimidating) guard asks, lowering his sunglasses.
Boldly, Jayarah steps forward.
“The Truth…” the guard whispers in awe.
“I only spit the Truth,” Jayarah The Truth spits, “and my boys here are spittin’ truths too.”
The guard says nothing, but nods his head lightly and steps aside.
“Mr. President, we need to make an announcement, immediately,” Killa-F says as he barges into the Oval Office.
Barack Obama looks up from behind his desk, where he is conveniently in the middle of addressing the American people. Killa-F and the rest of The FaNaTTicZ rush toward the desk, sharing complicated handshakes with the President before taking his place in front of the camera.
Ez begins to beat box.
“People of America,” Killa-F begins, “I implore you: stop dropping the thun thun.”
“AYYYY!” Jayarah and Nyce shout.
“Don’t drop that thun thun!” Killa-F continues. The other FaNaTTicZ continue to respond to this call, and they begin to fall into a rhythm. They can’t help it; the spirit of hip-hop lives within them. And sure enough, the American public can only feel the beat, but cannot heed the warning. America as a whole begins to twerk.
It begins in hip areas: The Bronx, Compton, Chi-raq. But then the ceaseless twerking spreads ironically to Portland and Maine, and finally catches on across the nation, across the globe.
“DON’T!” Killa-F cries, but it is too late. President Barack Obama is twerking before him. He’s actually pretty decent at it, but that is not enough to stop them.
The people do not notice the earth trembling beneath their already trembling lower backs. Cracks in the earth spring up and grow in length and width, spreading across the Earth’s crust; swallowing entire cities.
The FaNaTTicZ hold each other, rubbing each other’s backs as silent tears fall.
-Bri Forney, Senior Staff Writer