The Slim Shady Look-Alike - By Christopher Jacobs

It was beneath a bridge on the intersection of Hayvenhurst & Plummer, Los Angeles, when the Slim-Shady lookalike shoved Jim onto the heated grime of the concrete canal. The year was 2000; I thought the world would've ended when the clock hit zero, Jim knew better; he pre-ordered tickets for Eminem Live in LA. When he revealed the 3 tickets to Terry and I, the world began again… except it fell apart at this very moment.

"Give it back you bastards!" Terry yelled as I helped Jim to his feet. The 3 punks were led by the wannabe with bleached hair; he flaunted the stolen tickets in our face. 
"It sounds like the little faggots want their tickets back." He sniffs through his snort-broken nose. 
Terry charged at him but was beaten back down. These guys were twice our size and age; where we've cleverly bunked high school to be here, they've bunked their luxury life of cooking burgers at McDonalds for coke and endorphins. 

The words "Forget it Terry" wither from Jim's mouth as the hood rats jaunt away. Terry rises up, bruised and scuffed. "Fuck this short-cut - fuck this year!"
"Its OK dude," I assure him, "my Mum gave me some money, it should be enough to buy some more tickets-"
"-Leave it man," Jim interrupts, "That's your birthday money, you can't-" 
"-I was going to pay you back with it anyway... What're we going to do now?"
"I say we hunt down those ass-gobblers." Terry affirms picking up a large stick from the floor.
"Fuck that Terry" Jim retorts.
"Ass-gobblers?" I repeat, poking fun at him.
"Fuck you man, you stood there and watched it all happen!"
"What was I supposed to do, get beat up like you guys as we trickle in one by one!?"
"Fuck you James, you pussy."
"I'm not a fuckin pussy, I just know when I'm in a no win scenario - it's called having a brain."
"Chill guys, its OK-" Jim pleads.
"This is an act of war. They started it... Lets buy a gun with your money, hunt them down..." mumbles Terry, pacing frantically around the canal; he swings the large stick and breaks it over the concrete pillar. 
"Chill-out man!" Jim rushes over and grabs him. "Just ignore those guys and-"
"- Ask yourself Jim, what would Eminem do!? He wouldn't just sit around doing shit, he'd kill them!" 
"That's what his psycho fans like Stan would say." I interject.
"I'm not the one who stood by and did nothing. I tried to help!"
"Yeah, look where that got you. We can't buy a gun, we certainly can't bring it to the concert, think about Em." I say. "Do we want to go to this thing or not?"
A silence emerges.
I break it.
"Y'know, fuck it, I'm going to the concert - Its Emi-fuckin-em!" 

I climb out of the canal. Terry cools down a bit so Jim lets go; they exchange a few friendly punches as they follow. 

We found ourselves under the blazing California sun, queuing in a line of pasty-punks and females that would sell their ovaries to meet the real Slim Shady. We were all relatively quiet. Terry's face looks like he's swallowed a bag of pins and Jim was glancing around, looking out for those 3 ass-holes and scouting for prospective babes he'd eventually not talk to. A dude in a Hawaiian shirt patrolled the queue a couple of times; told people he was selling tickets. Probably fake - no buyers. An ice-cream truck set up stall next to the queue. Real ice - many buyers. We queued for hours, the lads moaning that their legs would collapse. I leaned to the side and glanced at the front. We were about a third of a way from the cashier, then the dreaded sign appears - "SOLD OUT." People at the front rioted as those further back wallow in defeat and despair; these particular feelings were amplified for us three. The word "Damn." Slipped from under my breath. 
"What're we gonna do now?" Terry echoes, his gaze silently distraught. 
Jim whispers what we're all scared to hear; "We could head back home... I guess."
"No - my parents drove us out here to watch Eminem live." I reply, leading us out from the dispersing crowd,  "What should I tell them? That we were mugged trying to buy some booze? Going back isn't an option."
"We don't have any other options available!" Jim panics.
"We could sneak in, we could see if anyone is re-selling their tickets, we could..."
"-buy a weapon and rob someone of their tickets?" Terry interrupts. 
Jim and I were a bit staggered. "I refuse to become like them dude." I break it to him.
"Yeah, same here; that's a bit too much." Jim adds. 
"Then we won't accomplish anything. You guys are limited and are limiting me." Terry blathers as he struts away. 
"Terry, come on man!"
"Leave him, dude."
"We can't just leave him," Jim says worried, "I'll make sure he's OK - chill on the bridge for a minute."
Jim springs off after him, leaving me in the setting sun with my tattered cap and opened(?) backpack.

The concert starts in an hour; I stayed on the bridge whilst Terry and Jim were trying to buy some cigarettes and beer from the corner shop. That's when the dude passed by. The dude who donned the floral-blue Hawaiian shirt. He smelt of scotch and cigs, his untrimmed stubble oddly complimented his oily black hair, and he was absorbed in a pseudo-religion of business jargon (the screen of his nifty flip-phone). 
"Yo, excuse me sir?" I frigidly ask.
He stops in his tracks - scans me head to toe. 
"You're not the guy." He asserts. "You look familiar though."
"Me and my friends saw you in the line for Eminem tickets."
"My friends and I."
"There's more of you?"
"Why - Who's asking!?"
At this point, I was confused, and baffled as to how this conversion was in his control.
"Do you still have any to sell?"
"Do you have any to sell?" He sarcastically repeats. "Let me ask the questions here punk." He says holding back his laughter - however, he seems distracted, constantly scanning the sky, his phone, his pocket-watch, all in that order.
"I'm not a punk-"
"-Then you a cop?" He blurts out.
"Why would I-"
He points his flip phone at my face.
"I'm asking the questions kid." He says, trying to hold in his giggles.
"I just want 3 Eminem tickets dude."
"Who the other two for, your friends in the FBI?"
"I'm not a cop, I don't know where you're getting this idea from."
"Tell Mulder and Scully that."
I turn to see Terry and Jim return.
"Who are you?" Jim sincerely asks.
"Ask your friend here, any of you gents feds?" His hysterics slyly break through.
Terry and Jim reply in sync. "Nah." "Nope."
He looks at Terry trying to open his pack of Camel straights.
"Then lemme grip a cig." He demands smiling.
Terry's threatened. He looks at me for approval. What the fuck am I supposed to say.
"Listen lad, do you want these Eminem tickets or not?"
"I've been mugged already today. Fuck you." Terry replies as rips opens the pack and lights the first cig. 
"-So are you still selling tickets for the Eminem concert tonight or what!?" I quickly interject.
He looks at me somewhat pleasingly surprised. Maybe I'm reading him wrong.
"Sold out I'm afraid." He says, one eyebrow raised with a smug smile stamped on his face. We all let out a collective groan.
"I don't believe it." Terry stabs.
"Oh yeah? Listen kid, I've got other services; drugs, escorts, you name it. But I don't have any more tickets for Emi-fuckin-em."
We stand in limbo, un-progressively contemplating; he continually glances at his phone.
"Do you sell guns?" Terry asks, breaking the silence.
"Got a shipment coming in this evening mullato. You tryin' to shoot the people who mugged you earlier?"
"Shame, I don't sell guns to psycho kids."
Terry grabs him by his shirt but the man quickly jabs him in the nose.
The cigarette flies out of Terry's mouth onto the floor. The dude picks it up, takes a drag and leans back as we hold our raging friend.
"Don't fucking call me a psycho you dick-dribbler!"
"Heh, dick-dribbler..." The dude remarks.
"My Dad served in the Korean war, you don't know shit!" Terry rages on. 
"Yeah, well, with your chemistry, you guys are asking for trouble. You gotta chill, flow with the times, so go on... beat it."
I stay back to end our conversation as Jim drags Terry away; "Thanks for nothing man."
"No problemo mano, here take this for your troubles." He throws a small bag of Mary Jane into my hand.
"Thanks... What's your name dude?" I inquire.
"Its Michigan." He asserts.
"James." I reply.
As I leave to catch up with the other two, he yells after me, "Yo James, the Eminem tickets, they were fakes anyway." He looks back at his phone, then to the  sky and takes another drag.

Black, sharp, and tinted gold, the pilot's outfit marches down the long exclusive corridors of Flint, Michigan Airport. The sound of suitcase wheels rolling
He nods to Jerry, the security guard - "Hey Jerry."
Jerry nods back in mutual agreement.
The wheels continue rolling
The Pilot sends a text before he reaches the airbus and dumps his suitcase on Cherrie. "Thanks love."
She complacently takes the luggage whilst fiddling with her bra.
He settles into the leather pilot seat. 
He sits with style. His co-pilot sits with form.
The pilot's style is broken though as he reaches into his ass-crack. He places the ball of cling-filmed white powder onto the dashboard. "Michigan's finest." 
He chuckles as he sits back, flips some switches on the dashboard, and places his headset on.
The cockpit rocks as Rolling Stones blasts from the music-player. The air hostesses are half naked, the co-pilot is getting a slurpy BJ and the pilot snorts white lines off the control board. Cherrie lands her ass on his pelvic lap, tattoos on her lower back. "Jerry said you paid him Jack."
"Jerry's a fucking moron. Mouths too big for his own good." He replies.
The pilot pours a line on her busty chest and snorts it as she wraps her arms around him. "Michel Pfeiffer is on this plane y'know." She tells him lovingly high.
"Get her in here then!" He roars, as he smooches her face off. 
Cherrie stops him, "Listen Jack, if you're paying Jerry off, why can't I get in on the action?" 
"Because if you knew the people we're in bed with babe, the only choice we have is to take the bribe."
"Who're you in bed with, Winona Ryder?" She asks jokingly; the pilot chuckles (he secretly has a massive crush on Winona).
"I wish... but we're definitely not in bed with Michelle Pfeiffer, or at least not yet!" He laughs as he shovels his face into her cleavage. 
She slips her hand into his pants, "So these people you're in bed with… they wouldn't have anything to do with the crates of weapons down in cargo?"
He slowly raises his head. "Who the fuck-" 
Cherrie takes out a cardboard cutter from her bra and jabs it in his throat. "Brad sends his regards to Michigan." The pilot holds her hand in place with his left and clamps her throat with his right, choking her on the control panel. The word "Bitch" drools from his mouth with a river of blood. Blood spouts everywhere, pouring onto the controls, spraying onto the screen.
The co-pilot panics; he throws the blood-covered air hostess off his dick, only she's starting to realise what's happening. The co-pilot bolts out through the cockpit's doors pant-less and falls onto the floor. The people in first class see the blood show-choke behind him. Michelle Pfeiffer puts down her magazine and pulls out a sub-machine gun. "FUCKING MICHIGAN!" she yells and sprays bullets across the cockpit.
BANG, the air marshal shoots her down. Alarms and sirens echo throughout the plane. The glass cracks. It explodes - the whisk of vacuum air sucks everything out of the cabins, a tornado wrecks through the rows of seats and blood and shell-casings. The bodies fly like rag-dolls attached to uncontrollable jet-packs. People screaming. The controls in the cockpit start sparking, smoking. The plane begins to descend.

The Eminem concert was about to start.
Michigan looks to the sky; the plane falls in the distance. His smug smile wears off. His brow fret with worry.

Meanwhile, a security guard escorts Terry, James and Jim out to the front. "No tickets, no show." He retorts. 
"Our tickets were stolen you mouth breather!" Terry yells. The guard takes no notice and re-assimilates back into position. 
The three start walking back across the bridge where the year 2000 ended. 
Below, in the canal, the 3 punks who mugged our protagonists were skipping in glee towards the concert. All of them now have bleached hair and fresh Stan tattoos on their shoulders. James spots them. 

I turn to Terry; he points his hand shaped like a gun at them. They didn't see us up here on the bridge. Humming. 
"Just like Korea," he mumbles. 
The humming turns into a wild ROAR. Jim looks the other way, towards the sky. "Guys..."
Terry was getting furious watching the 3 punks slowly skip with our stolen tickets. "GUYS!" 
I turn to see a plane falling right at us; "SHIT!" We duck - our heads almost scathed as the titan soars into the canal.
The punks turn to see the flaming plane sail and scream towards them; the bridge of which we 3 stand avoids the collision - a guardian angel graces me whilst the angel of vengeance laughs.
The smoking beast falls into the in-escapable canal-turned-runway.
Terry stands unflinching; his thumb goes down, he shoots.
The Slim-shady lookalikes begin to sprint,
however, I knew they couldn't outrun a falling plane from Michigan.