It is a mild spring day in Hamilton Heights. Gypsy cabs are zooming up and down the West Side Highway. Churros are being sold as the rooster crows. At a distance, a hate-filled bodega cat languidly stretches, and cocks its tabby ear. “I think someone is talking to about me,” it says. One paw in front of the other, it lands gingerly in front of the Mac Book, and is alerted to the offending tweet:
Azealia chokes on her disdain-tinged breath. “Who is this child and what deems her worthy to talk to me? My latest single is at the top of the charts in Sokovia! I’m headlining in the Soviet Bloc festival circuit!”
She pauses to ponder; does her Googles on the indignant spirit who deigned to cast aspersions her way. “Perhaps she doesn’t know who I am. Let me deliver a gentle reminder.”
“@AZEALIABANKS: Never heard of you before. Never even seen you on TV…Your aren’t a star. You aren’t a topic. You’re a meme.”
“?@AZEALIABANKS: and you need to grow some hips and start ur menses. stay in a child's place.”
No sooner than hitting send to her IG tour announcements of East Coast Bodegas, Banks is stunned by an overhand right counter that impressed even the likes of Canelo Alvarez:
120 characters stopped her in her tracks faster than last evening’s hairball. “Who the fuck does she think she is? You ain’t messing with no average bitch, girl. I can ruin your whole life, girl. Watch me type this up and hit click, girl.”
“@AZEALIABANKS: lol ur mom’s been pimping you out to disney since you were a lil girl. lets see what you end up like at 21. bye!”
Having returned from her catnap, Banks opens her screen with the hubris of a woman possessing no shame whatsoever as to verbally harassing a teenager, only to be hit with a reckoning harnessed by the unique fury of young pubescence:
All the rage expelled itself from her body, along the vestiges of a career long deferred. There was no glee, no remorse. There was simply nothingness.
Madame Stanks lays down forlornly, humiliated by the latent realization that no amount of maliciousness can outweight the sharp-tongued timbre of an eight grader. Stanks merely adopted the darkness; middle schoolers are born in it, molded by it.
Stanks glances around, extending her arms throughout social media to latch on to the allies that stood by her as the darkness once did. One by one, the emails come in. “We regret to inform you…” “Due to unforeseen circumstances…” “In light of recent events…”
Tremulously searching for the last bit of indignation in her rapidly deteriorating spirit, she plaintively replies: “but what about my dark skin?!” In a collectively curt response she is merely sent a picture: the embiggened avi of an aforementioned 14-year-old with everything to offer the world, including time to get in that ass.
Here lies Azealia Stanks’ career; gone but not yet forgotten. Ashes to ashes, dust to paying gigs.
***Please stay tuned for “Accountability,” “Reformation,” “Forgiveness,” “Resurrection,” “Hope,” and “Redemption”***