In his last interview before he died, crocodile hunter Steve Irwin seemed distraught, unfocused. Though he complied with every question, and gave in-depth, thorough responses, his eyes kept averting. Sweat matted the hair underneath his hat, sliding down his face to saturate his shirt. When asked about his distraction, Irwin hesitated, looked away, and then looked straight at the interviewer with a hint of worry on his face. It was clear something was on his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, then reconsidered, looking away again. He couldn't speak. Not yet.
A week prior, British explorer Bear Grylls was interviewed at his villa in Australia. His palms were open, shirt was off; yet despite his relaxed state, he seemed uncomfortable. When asked about the string of wildfires and deer murders of the past month, Grylls got tense. His Coca-Cola bottle dropped to the floor, provoked by his shaking hands. It was something that was on his mind for weeks, robbing him of sleep: the reason why he delayed his flight back to Britain. The case had clearly weighed on him, depleting his energy to the point that in the first time in his life, he thought about retiring, even reconsidering his life's purpose. Nothing was certain anymore.
The root of their concern was no recent one. It originated in a case which plagued the exploration community for decades, a case so potent that not even the greatest explorers in the world could crack it. It left the likes of Irwin and Grylls feeling unfulfilled in life, leaving a spate that no accomplishment could rectify. They felt like trash -- or as both would say, rubbish. Mediocre in their own eyes.
20 years earlier, a group of seamen were traveling the coast of New South Wales, Australia. During a pit stop at a coffee shop, there was a couple talking frantically about whether to leave town. Their voices grew more worried and irate over time, even fearful, but everyone in the near empty shop minded their business. They were probably just druggies, the way they were carrying on. On the television, a news reporter was talking about a huge storm that would hit by nightfall. The sailors assumed this was the reason why the couple was arguing, and continued eating. They didn't have time to get off focus anyway -- they had to be in Mullumbimby by daybreak.
Things were terrible on the seas. The waves were high; currents were strong. Two of the sailors doubted they would make it, and started to get seasick. The rain was overbearing now, and the boat started to flood. It was only a matter of time before they sank.
Thinking quickly, the sailors pulled onto the nearest island. As soon as they hit shore, the men stumbled out of the boat, coughing and out of breath. By all means, they were lucky to be alive. The men didn't know they rolled onto the haunted town of Picton, New South Wales. They would soon find out.
The men saw the figure of a 5-year-old girl come out of the shadows. Tired and out of breath, they thought they were hallucinating. They weren't.
"I'm still in the murder bizness" whispered the young Iggy Azalea. The men froze on sight. For the stories were true.
"Please, Ms. Azalea," pleaded the men. They didn't want any trouble. They had spent all day on the boat writing lyrics and testing them out against each other in a cipher. To lose metaphors now would be too great a sin to bear. But Iggy was unsigned and hungry.
She started to shake uncontrollably. Her arms came up -- was she going to sneeze? No, she was just... rapping? The words were unformulated and sounded like gibberish. But the men knew this threat well. It is said that she got her rapping ability by invading a Jamaican spot in Brooklyn and absorbing the powers of jerk chicken, noted for its ability to turn even the most pasty of white girls into a Chiraq savage.
The men were never to be seen again.
Throughout the years, the story of Iggy had been passed down through word of mouth. She was a spirit found only in certain conditions. It is rumored that if you say Iggy Azalea three times in the mirror at night in any given recording studio, she shows up to snatch your weave. If you're a man, she takes your fitted. Gratatata. She had continuously been seen at the most historic of world events -- the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the hanging of Saddam Hussein, the release of "The Life of Pablo" at Madison Square Garden, and most recently, the release of Gucci Mane from prison. She is whispered about among circles of old ladies in Russia; in ghost stories by campfire in California; over rat rap battles in the Bronx. Her influence was solidified with the advent of Grand Hustle records by the wizard known as T.I. Her wrath was never-ending; terrifying; omnipotent. She is the only one who could beat Frieza without powering up. She is the mastermind behind Donald Trump, an instrument for rap domination. She is the real Voldemort. She is death.
Please, for the sake of the world. For the sake of generations to come. For the sake of global warming and chemical homeostasis worldwide. Everyone in the world, raise both hands, and concentrate -- Goku needs you for the spirit bomb. Give him your powers. Give your money to Kendrick.
This is a public service announcement from Ron Vasquez and Waka Flocka Flame.
