Sessions in Hell.

It wasn't at all what he'd expected. There was no fire. No brimstone. Instead of sulfur he smelled magnolias. Instead of a blazing inferno it was just a regular June day in Alabama. Hot, to be sure, but certainly not enough to cause him to wail and gnash his teeth. It wasn't dark and gloomy, either. The sun was shining, the birds singing, the bees a-buzzing, and everywhere around him was the sound of laughter. Their laughter burned him up faster than any hell fire ever could.

One might not think this was damnation, he thought bitterly, if not for the company,

"Boy, why are you standing there staring at the clouds? Ain't you got work to be doing?"

The voice startled him. The sudden fear that rose up inside him at the sound of it filled him with hatred, for them and himself, but he dared not give it a voice. "Yessir." he squeaked weakly, shuffling off to get another tray of hors d'oeuvres, as peals of laughter lashed at his bent, scarred back.

The kitchen hummed as usual. There was no shortage of food or drink to be taken out to the party guests, who had endless appetites, but he was the only server here. The cook, his only collaborator in this endless and goalless endeavor, glanced at him with desperate, bloodshot eyes as he entered and was immediately scolded by the kitchen master.

"Get back to work!" her overseer, a monster of a woman with skin like mahogany that loomed over her always, bellowed at once. She jumped visibly at the shouted command and, returning her attention immediately to her monstrous sixteen burner gas range, continued to stir her many pots.

"You see this here, Jeffy?" The overseer said to him in a mockingly conspiratorial tone, "Paula thinks she's special. Maybe this kitchen isn't hot enough for her. What do you think?"

"I don-"

"Shut the fuck up, you little elf looking bitch!" She screamed at him immediately. "No one cares what you think! Get the fuck out of my kitchen!"

He grabbed another of the large silver serving platters and exited the kitchen quickly. Her cackles seeming to physically push him from the room. 

Outside again, Jefferson Beauregard Sessions the Third began to move from one group of party goers, seated in groups of six or so and scattered across the gigantic lawn, to another so that they could graze from his tray. Most of them ignored him completely. He preferred that. It stung him a little when they waved him away without looking at him, dismissing him as though he were an animal, but he said nothing. Any protest would be followed swiftly by all manner of harsh punishments. 

Sometimes they put him in the stocks. Other times, he was flogged. Once, when he'd struck a party goer for tripping him and sending his tray flying onto another, he'd been forced to wear an iron collar with three long sharp prongs that protruded from it. They'd engraved a big "J" on the front of it just for him, they'd said with glee as they'd fastened it around his neck, because he was their special guy. Once they'd removed the collar, some weeks later, they had hung it up above his bed in his quarters. It was the first and last thing he saw each day. 

"Come here, boy!" That voice again. He broke out into gooseflesh immediately. He knew who it was even before he turned to look upon the speaker. He stared hard at Jeff over his steepled fingers. 

"Y-yessir!" Sessions replied in a meek voice as he rushed over to offer up his tray.

"Mmm! These look good!" The man said approvingly as he plucked a fried green tomato slider from the tray. "You ever try these, boy?" The question was followed by giggles from the other guests at the table.

"No, sir." 

"Aw! That's too bad." He replied, mockingly. This exchange happened in one way or the other every single day. Or what seemed like a day to Jeff. Time was funny here. "Why not, boy? Why can't you eat?" More chuckles followed.

"Because this food is for people, sir."

"That's right, Jeff. This food is for people. And what are you?"

"I'm just a pasty little savage. A white devil that deserves nothing but hatred. A rabid cloven hoof animal that is no better than a cow, goat, or pig." Jeff knew the words now. They'd been hard to learn, at first, but he couldn't forget them now. They were as seared onto the surface of his brain as their brands were on the surface of his skin. 

"Run along now, boy." He said, as the chuckles turned to roars of approval and amusement.

"Yessir, Mister Malcolm, sir." He said, relieved to be dismissed, and turned to leave. Suddenly, the air was pushed from his lungs as a heavy fist drove up into his diaphragm with impossible force. The punch lifted him high into the air and sent his tray spinning through the air. As he crashed to the ground at a sickening, bone crushing velocity his vision dimmed and he almost rejoiced at the loss of consciousness that was surely coming. Alas, it did not. Gasping for air, tears streaming down his face, his every bone and muscle screaming in horror, Jeff looked up at his assailant.

"I'm a bad man!" He yelled down at him, throwing back his head and howling with glee. 

"As much as I abhor violence in all it's forms, that shit right there is pretty damn funny."

"You're not wrong, Martin." Malcolm said.

"I don't know, man. It just seems so heavy. Like, is this guy really that bad?" 

"You're smoking entirely too much grass, Jimi." Martin replied. "This man is the very scum of the earth. His entire existence was spent making life harder for our people and easier for his own. He trampled the very freedom that we all fought for, that we all lived for, and that we all died for. As far as I'm concerned, he deserves every torment, trial, and tribulation that the after life can provide."

"Ok, man. Whatever. He's bad. But look. This is heaven, man. Heaven, you dig? And we're spending it being mean? It just seems wrong." Jimi ended his short speech with a long drag of the joint that was forever in his hand.

"Pffft. Man, fuck that. Punch that bitch ass motherfucker again, Ali."

"Of course, you would say that, Pac!" laughed Malcolm. "What about you, Jesus? What do you think?"

All eyes turned to the bearded, dark-skinned man at the far end of the table. He'd been quiet during the entire exchange, neither talking nor laughing, and he looked at them now as if seeing them all for the first time. Jeff looked up at him, hopefully.

"Brothers," Jesus said, "This is your heaven and his hell. Everything you see here is for you to enjoy. That includes the suffering of this evil creature that lies here before us. He was cruel, wicked, spiteful, and vicious. He lacked all kindness, honesty, and empathy. He loved nothing but wealth and cherished nothing but power. He served false gods and worshiped false idols. His damnation has been commanded by my father and yours." Jesus reached out and snatched the joint from Jimi's fingers. He took a long, thoughtful pull from it, and, smiling broadly down at Sessions, said "Punch that bitch ass motherfucker again, Muhammad."

Grinning, Ali lunged at Jeff, who was still prone, and planted a devastating right hook in his dumb, shocked face. This time the darkness did take him. He let it slide over him like a warm blanket and drifted into oblivion. 

Rapper, Actor, Gangsta, Spy.

0000 hours.

September 8th, 1996.

Beneath the Las Vegas strip.


The faint sound of sirens drifted down to him from above. Even down here, in the dark, he could hear the chaos that he'd created. The crisis actors they'd employed were right now screaming to the police about the murder they had just witnessed. Hundreds of them. A fake homeless man was telling an LVPD detective about where he'd been when the shooting had started. Two women, planted to portray groupies on the way to the club, were being interveiwed by another about the chase and shoot out that they'd been caught in the midst of. A group of four KBG agents, disguised as South Side crip gang members from LA,  lurked nearby in order to be spotted at the scene. Below it all agent Oleg Abram Romanoff smiled to himself with great satisfaction. After ten long years undercover he was finally able to return home. He longed to shed this identity and be himself again. Still, he would miss it.

It was a lot of fun being Tupac.

1427 hours.

May 23rd, 1985.

Leningrad, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

He'd been a very youthful looking seventeen years old when the operation had started. He'd been finishing his eleventh year at St. Petersburg High School 281. On an unremarkable Thursday afternoon he'd been summoned via the loudspeaker from his English class to the principal's office. When he'd arrived he'd found the room occupied not by his principal, Kira Petrovna Gribanovskaya, but by a severe young man in an expensive tailored suit. He was reclined in her chair with his feet on her desk.

"Sit down, Oleg." He ordered him. And sit he did. "Why are you here?"

"You sent for me." He responded simply.

"Ah. Indeed." The man nodded approvingly. "But I do not mean in this room. Why are you here? Why are you in this place?"

"I am here to learn."

"To learn what, exactly?" The man asked with a smile.

"I am currently taking English, Latin, Russian military history with an-"

"No. Stop. This is not what I mean either." He interrupted.

Oleg was puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I know. We will change all of this." Smiling again. He removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward. "I want to know why you are wasting your time in this school reading books you have already read and answering questions you already know the answers to instead of being of use."

"I suppose... I suppose I just haven't found my next step." Oleg admitted reluctantly.

"Yes!" He shouted as he slammed his palms down on the desk. "This is what I suspected! You have not yet found a purpose! Is this not so?"

"Yes. It is so."

"Of course. As I said." The man stood, rounded the desk, and leaned on the front edge of it. Standing between it and Oleg he took a more intimate tone. "Oleg, what if I told you that I could make you one of the biggest stars that the world has ever seen? That your unfortunate skin condition could be your greatest asset?"

Oleg didn't have a "skin condition". Oleg was black. Still, in Russia it was almost accepted that being black was a disability. Luckily for Oleg, he'd been the smartest person in every room he'd ever stepped into since he could walk. At this moment, however, he was not so sure. A million questions swirled around his head. He asked none of them. "I'd ask you where to sign." He said instead.

The man roared with laughter. "Fantastic!" He bellowed, taking Oleg's hand into his own and shaking it, and Oleg, vigorously. "You are doing a great thing for your country. For the world."

"I want nothing more..." He let the last word hang and the man picked up immediately on the implied question.

"Yes, of course. My name." He grinned from ear to ear and reached into his jacket. "My name is Vlad. I will be your handler for this entire operation." From his coat he produced a Walkman.

"Is that... Is that a Sony?!" Oleg asked, impressed despite himself.

"Yes. It's for you, Oleg." He handed Oleg the coveted object. "But more important than the Walkman is the tape inside it. Press play."

Oleg placed the headphones on his ears and hit the play button. From the tiny speakers blared music that he'd never heard the like of before. There was rock guitars, heavy drums, keyboards, and all manner of strange instruments that he couldn't place. Over all of it, in time with the beat, was heavily American accented talking.

"What is this?" Oleg asked, yelling over the music that only he could hear. Vlad laughed and pulled the headphones gently from his ears.

"Run DMC." Vlad said.

"Run what?"

"It's called Hip Hop, Oleg." He said, laughing.  "It's going to change the world. And you're going to help."

Vlad grabbed him by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet so that they were face to face and eye to eye.

"I am going to make you the biggest rapper that ever lived, Oleg. I'm going to make you a legend. I'm going to put all eyes on you." He turned back to the desk, plucked his hat from it's surface, and put it on. "Come on, my boy. It's time we make some changes."