Gucci's Day Outby StillmaticChaptersPrologue: So IcedThe Start of the DayChillin' With Pinkie Woods, Birdwoman, and BubblesPrologue: So IcedGucci’s Day Out Prologue: So Iced By: Stillmatic It was another night of partying, drinking, toking, and just plain living it up for Gucci and his gang of cohorts. None stood in their way as the night crept on, as not a single being dared to rile up his anger. Of course, there was just one creature, one so indescribably hateful and distrusting of Gucci. This creature was Young Jeezy. Jeezy exhibited his tenacity to protect his assets with the only way he knew how, to provide a healthy dose of murder to his adversary. It goes without saying that these two men of the Southern United States were once close friends who occasionally collaborated together to make music. That was long in the past for both of them at this point, with each of them battling court cases over rights and other trivialities. Anyone caught in the crossfire was most likely left bleeding to death or horrifically damaged, as they had done to their relationship. Not all was about conflict between each other, however, and when the weekend came, the fighting ceased. Gucci’s group of close friends and Jeezy’s gang of trusted individuals would temporarily stop getting at each other’s throats for a short time before they returned to their indefinitely long feud. But it was on this particular day, it was far different than what was left mutually agreed and unspoken. Tonight, in Decatur, Georgia on May 10th, 2005, was the last day one man would live. Humming to himself, Gucci stuck his tongue out into the air. It met the blunt he recently rolled, a fine piece of art, and gave it a good amount of fluid in order to stick together. The rapper was currently chilling in his fine friend’s bachelor pad, having a good time with his friends. There was nothing quite like being together in a group and just spending time constantly high throughout the night. He despised it when he was alone, mostly because that was one of the worst times to get messed up on something and company always made everything better. Except sex. That was something between him and some bitch he liked. “’Ey yo nigga, you done wit’ that shit ye’?” Gucci smirked casually and met the eyes of the man looking down at him as he finished, “Chyeah, why? You think you getting’ som’ dis shit? Dis shhhiiiiitttt, right her’?” His friend smacked the air with his hand and stepped in place to show his frustration, “Man, ya stay playin’ like dat shits funny or some shit!” The rapper chortled to himself, amused by his friend, “Ight, ight, chill. Got that shit right her’ for ya,” he said, passing the blunt to his companion. Nearby, someone kicked in the front door with more force than necessary, forcing the house to shake slightly and Gucci to flinch. The blunt slipped from his dark fingers and took the most horror-inducing plunge straight to the floor. Time seemed to slow down for that brief frame of a few seconds as his hands vainly reached out to grab the paraphernalia. “Noooooo!” Gucci cried out. It dropped to the floor, bouncing several times before settling on the blue carpet. They both stared at it for a good moment before a person rushed in. They didn’t give him any attention as he leaned onto the couch, gasping for breath, with hands splayed out and moving wildly. Gucci grabbed the blunt to look it over, narrowing his eyes down to small slits. “Hmm… Ight! It’s alive, mothafuckas! Let’s smoke this shit!” The man who ran in shouted, trying to get their attention, “YO! JEEZY’S BOYS ARE ON THEY WAY HERE, DAWG!” Both original occupiers of the large living room immediately snapped their heads to the taller man. They then both shared looks and jumped to their feet, reaching behind their backs. From between their waists and belts, they procured handguns they had specifically for such an occasion. Without much hesitation, Gucci lit the blunt, took a pull, and passed it to the guy opposite him. He gritted his teeth, “Ight, let’s do this shit!” As if on cue, a bullet shattered a nearby window, sending glass to the floor. The man with the blunt pulled it away from his face and scowled deeply, “MOTHERFUCKERS! MY MOMS IS GONNA KILL ME FOR THAT SHIT!” Multiple bullets whizzed by, breaking random vases, electronics, and other valuables, “… Mothafuckas…” Not willing to take their time, each of them blind-fired from behind cover, which was mostly the couch they were just sitting on toppled over onto its back. It wasn’t much a shield, as evidenced when a bullet went straight through it and barely missed Gucci’s head. He ducked further and rolled out of cover to fire. Taking aim, he fired continuously while screaming out, “CHYEAH! SPECIAL AGENT GUCCI!” More pieces of metal flew overhead, forcing Gucci to hug the carpet. He reloaded his weapon and realized he was on his second, and last, clip. Things were not looking good, not at all. Taking initiative, the rapper headed into a nearby hallway connecting to the front door, ducking low as to not get shot. Right as he turned a corner, his face met the end of a gun barrel, the dark metal pressed against his forehead. “…Sheeit…” He glanced up, finding a man he recognized as Pookie Loc staring down at him. Their eyes met and Loc grinned a wide smile, his dirty teeth flashing something fierce. Gucci swallowed, finding it hard to believe his life was finally over. “Ya done fucked up Gucc’! Now yo’ ass is capped!” The last thing Gucci Mane saw was the fire in the barrel, right before he ducked his head down and received the bullet to the top of his skull, partially shattering it and dropping the rapper to the floor. Loc froze up for a second, realizing what he just did. Then, he chuckled quietly, letting the laughter build up until it was a massive form of hysteria, echoing through the Georgia night as if it were a moment of celebration. Pookie Loc left the house sprinting, quickly getting into his car along with his accomplices. Before he left the vicinity, he glanced back at the body from his car window. It was finally over. Now nothing would stop Young Jeezy’s reign of tyranny over southern states in the form of rap. The world would never be the same again. Gucci Mane felt to rub his head only for it to not respond, groaning in agony as the pain set in. Sweat dripped off his face, sliding down his neck and making his smock stick to his chest. It was an absolutely disgusting feeling to have, but he was left incapacitated for the most part. Soreness enraptured his body, forcing him to stay still where he was. Where he was. Where was he? “Ugh…” Despite the pounding within his head, the rapper managed to connect the feeling of softness under him to that of a bed. A bed? How did he end up in a bed? ‘Shiiiit… I must’ve got fucked up bad an’ ended up in the hospital…’ No body part responded as of yet, silencing him and preventing movement for what felt like hours. After far too long, a sound was heard nearby. It sounded like… ‘Da fuck is that shit..?’ The only thing that Gucci could relate the sound to was a Dutch dancer he remembered seeing in a movie once. She wore wooden shoes and some freaky dress he dared not wish on any woman he knew. He mentally shuddered, somewhat scarred from the culture shock that was presented to him back then. So, this was like that then? He was in a hospital, being attended by a Dutch dancer girl and almost dead. It was almost a regular day. The sound of a door opening nearby informed him that whoever was walking around with noisy shoes decided to step in to either treat or check up on him. What he seriously wanted at the moment was none of that. The craving for some kind of doping drug was becoming too much for him, and the incessant pain within his head gave no reprieve. If this path continued, he felt as though he’d soon be fiending for something. The person got closer and touched seemingly random objects around him, with him remaining there, unmoving. Then, it hit him. Whatever it was that person gave was damn strong, and he felt himself lull into a lofty state, only to fall into a deep slumber. The throbbing within his skull died down to nothing, letting him relax. He forced his eyes open a crack, just barely enough to make out a blurry image of what seemed to be something white, pink and short. The rapper blamed it on the drug before finally passing out from exhaustion and the chemical in question. Gucci awoke with a start, flailing wildly and tumbling out of his bed. The floor was a hard fall, eliciting a groan to come from him. He shuddered, feeling nauseous all of a sudden. The rapper crawled forward, letting his legs drop behind him from above. Forcing himself up, Gucci Mane stood shakily on his feet and stumbled towards a nearby sink. With a turn of the handle and splash of ice-cold water on his face, the man began to fully wake up from the drowsiness whatever drug he received earlier gave him. A quick self-slap to the face alleviated the rest of it. Fully functioning now, he examined himself in the mirror. Same beautiful face, as always. The bandages on top of his head were new, but they looked pretty pimpin’, so no taking them off just yet. ‘Damn! Imagine when those reporters see this shit! Takin’ bullets to the fuckin’ head and shit!’ There wasn’t much else to inspect about himself other than that he was wearing some hospital smock that looked distorted and irregularly shaped. He put “Getting my threads and bling back” on his list of things to do, along with “Get percs” and “Kill Jeezy.” Gucci glanced around the room, finally taking in its appearance. It was… small, really. Not what he expected. There was no other patron residing in a bed nearby either, which also seemed quite odd. White walls all over, various medical equipment, a bed, some food on a table were all that made the small room. There were no indications of some form of visitors coming, a shocking surprise to the rapper. He would have expected crowds to come to see what happened to him, if not riots to take place. Gucci chuckled to himself, realizing how stupid that sounded. However, something next to the food caught his eyes. It was… a glass bottle. Oh no though, not just any ordinary glass bottle. This one was filled to the brim with pills. He closed in on the helpless container and pried it open, examining the pills within. The label on the bottle led to no conclusion as to what it was, what with the eccentric script that was on it. ‘… This is one of them Hebrew medicines, right? Them letters look like it. Shit, Moses lived for like, a hundred years! This shit’s probably what that nigga was eating before lunch!’ With that, he snatched a pill and swallowed it, washing it down with a piece of bread and cup of water nearby. He blinked slowly, feeling quite relaxed for a few seconds. All the pain subsided and made way for a certain bliss that just rang through his body, making the rapper feel as though he’d never even experiencing such a trivial thing like pain before. Gucci laughed quietly to himself but quieted once he noticed his clothes sitting on a chair across the room. He quickly disrobed from the smock and got dressed in his regular attire, which consisted of a white thermal, a red and white Letterman jacket, an ostentatiously large watch studded with diamonds, several chains, blue jeans, a belt (which was purely for show and not meant to hold up his sagging pants), a pair of white Nike’s. He grinned deviously, feeling everything in his universe become right within just a few minutes. Gucci took a moment to check what he had on him, finding everything as it was, including his handgun and ammo. A few dimes of piff, some Dutches, his wallet, and all sorts of random odds and ends packed his jacket and pockets, including those pills he found. It was as if nothing had happened at all, despite him knowing full well he’d just barely survived getting shot in the head. He nearly rubbed his head but immediately reeled his hand back in fear of sending waves of pain through his body. Bored so far, the rapper took his leave and exited through the door nearby. He entered a long hallway lined with possibly dozens of doors both ways. The end was clearly in sight, but it wasn’t worth the trouble to think about where it would lead. A sign that showed the designs of the building as well as routes to take in case of a fire indicated that he was on the second floor of the hospital. Gucci spotted a stairwell not even a few yards away, quickly making haste and heading down the stairs. As he exited the stairwell, Gucci noticed that the hospital was particularly devoid of life and not a single doctor made themselves know. Then again, after taking a quick look out a window, it was probably late in the night. Making the best out of his opportunity, the rapper planned on checking himself out and heading back home. At least he’d be able to get much better medical treatment in Atlanta than wherever this hellhole was. After walking for a few minutes and following maps, the man was lead to the lobby, where nothing stirred in the least. A front desk was situated to the right of him, where a particularly interesting oddity stood out amongst the mundane architecture and styling of the hospital. Some kind of white thing was slumped over on the desk, snoring lightly. Pink hair was tied in a bun at what seemed to be the head, where the now fallen nurse’s hat once resided. Gucci Mane cocked an eyebrow up, finding the sight before him not only extremely freaky, but beyond strange. It must’ve been the drugs he took. Using that as a form of reasoning, he quickly signed himself out using a nearby clipboard and pushed his way out the hospital doors. What he saw next was the single most irritating thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. Outside of the hospital was a fairly rustic village, with little thatched roofs and market stands and many other clichés he didn’t hold a very high opinion of. He’d never seen anything quite like this, but he already knew he hated it. It was irrational of him to think so, but when wasn’t he irrational? Gucci looked to the left, finding streets made of stone and dirt. A quick nod to the right gave the same result. His eyes narrowed, with him becoming frustrated quiet quickly. A grimace crossed his face and he scratched the back of his neck in confusion. “Da fu- Yo! Where the fuck am I?!” He yelled out to nobody in particular. Today was just getting weirder and weirder for the southern rapper. Tomorrow was sure to be the opposite, right? Author's Notes Oh man, what was I on when I decided to write this shit? Well, to put it simply, this is the result of me losing a bet. What did I have to do? Stick Gucci Mane in Equestria. I wrote Gucci's thoughts and lines to the best of my knowledge of him, so hopefully their close to what he'd actually think/say. I think that's just about all I have to say. Stay Trilla. The Start of the DayGucci’s Day Out Chapter 1: The Start of the Day By: Stillmatic Gucci looked around. The streets were perfectly empty, a tell-tale sign of future activities that would delve into possible illicitness and the like. Such a small village was far too tranquil for the Atlanta rapper, leaving him a bit uneasy and confused. He was used to weapons firing, screams resonating, and cars honking into all hours of the night. Of course, where he was at the moment was a far cry from what he’d call “civilization.” “Yo man, da fuck is this shit? Where am I?” He pulled out his phone to call one of his boys for help only to find he had no service. The man grumbled to himself and pocketed the device for now, only to reach back into his jacket pocket and remove his red and white cap. It was placed firmly upon his head, completing his ensemble and restoring equilibrium to the universe, preventing a meltdown of catastrophic proportions. Now that that matter was settled, Gucci opted to head down a lonely street to his right. For quite a while, it was fairly silent with the exception of crickets and other insects. The rapper was severely unsettled by the lack of sound and movement. Little houses with thatched roofs and other antiquities were in all directions as he walked, which proved a daunting task the more progress he made to an unknown destination. Suddenly, something caught his eye to his left, forcing the man to stop in his tracks and stare. And what a sight it was. Standing tall before Gucci was a building, though no ordinary building it was. The gingerbread walls, icing covered trim, chocolate roof, and oh the very tip! It was a cupcake with three very large candles adorning it! Such a magnificent testament to baked confectionaries was surely something to gawk at, and Gucci held to objection to doing so. Despite the only light being a few sparse street lamps scattered about, his eyes took in the amazing sight as if his life depended on it! He grabbed for his heart, feeling as though it ruptured from sheer astonishment. Those precious ocular orbs of his scanned the structure, finding it quite delectable looking from his current angle. Not once did he consider why such a building existed, but he wouldn’t have really cared anyway. He’d seen weirder things in his time as a living being, but this ranked high nonetheless. Gucci took a step forward and grabbed for an area of frosted gingerbread by the stairs to the building. It crumbled in his grip, much to his dismay. Taking another, this time more gently, the rapper munched down on the baked-good turned housing and chewed. His mouth movements eventually slowed to a halt, where it nearly fell open. It had tasted like nothing he’d ever had before, as if angels themselves baked sweets just for him and him only. Gucci held back tears and took a single bite before placing the remainder of his snack back where it originally resided. “… Yo… that shit was off tha’ hook…” His stomach grumbled lightly, indicating his lack of nourishment in the hospital. Gucci felt regret at not eating the food he left behind, almost tempting him to go back and capture it for himself. Such ambitions were cut short when a smell wafted into his nose, completely obliterating all plans of moving away from the building. It smelled like… cinnamon? Candy? He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it smelled damn fine in his opinion. Gucci walked beside the stairs and glanced through the windows, finding the lights in what he assumed to be the kitchen on. It clicked in his mind instantly; they were cooking and baking. And that meant he could get something to eat. His stomach made a series of gurgling sounds, clearly upset at his lack of movement towards kicking in the door and looting everything edible in sight. Of course, a refined man such as himself would do no such thing (yet), and simply knocked on the door like a gentleman. It took a few moments, giving him time to realize that the sun was coming over the horizon and over a forest nearby. Eventually, the clip-clopping of more Dutch shoes alerted him to someone coming to the horizontally-split door. He also made a note of how short the door was compared to him. “Them Dutchies must be midgets or some shit in real life…” he openly mused, “I don’t give a shit though, them niggas make some nice ass rollin’ material.” The top half of the door opened and Gucci turned his head to find nothing in front of him. He leaned in and looked to the left, then the right, and seeing nothing that could open the door. It left him stumped for a moment, before a throat being cleared near him brought his eyes downwards. There, before him, was a bluish, cerulean colored horse thing of sorts. Not bothering with what was obviously a side-effect of the drug, Gucci knocked once against the doorway again, raising a brow in annoyance. “Yo! Anyone here? I need some food, ASAP!” Another throat clearing, “Excuse me? I’m right here, dearie.” Gucci looked back at the creature and coned a hand by his mouth, “An’ you got a horse or somethin’ up in yo’ house too! Might wanna fix that ‘less you want that shit all up in there anyway an’ shit.” “Well, I’ll- Listen, young stallion! I will not be spoken to like that in my own home! Do you understand me?” He saw her mouth move this time, “Da fuck? Is you talkin’? To me?” The rapper rubbed his eyes, “Oooohhh daaammnnn, the piiiillllsssss! Those shits musta fucked me up baaaaddd. Chyeah! That’s why you’s talkin’ to me right now, right?” Mrs. Cake was left confused at the creature speaking to her at that moment. She’d never seen such a creature, let alone one dressed so absurdly, in her life. It acted as if it thought she couldn’t speak or was nonexistent. Then, it came to her. Wasn’t this that thing that a few ponies found bleeding its head off in the middle of town yesterday? Sure looked like it, minus all the gratuitous amounts of blood that it had caked on its body earlier. The mare cocked her head to the side, confused at the encounter she was participating in. Did this thing not know what an Equestrian was? If so, how could it speak the language (she decided to use the word speak loosely, due to her not quite understanding the lingo and accent fully)? The thought pestered her for a good few seconds before her motherly instincts automatically kicked in. If this thing was hurt, she would have to do her part by helping it. Mrs. Cake couldn’t possibly leave the poor thing to go hungry after suffering such a horrific injury. Such a thing was just plain rude and heartless, which suddenly made her regret snapping at it. Without hesitation, the mare opened the door and beckoned for the rapper to come in, which he ironically did with hesitation. Gucci looked around, finding the place extremely bizarre and in serious need of redecoration. It was obviously a bakery, what with all the tables and the counter and all sorts of bullshit he didn’t bother acknowledging. He scratched his chin idly in thought until the magical horse thing near him began to speak again. “Welcome to our little bakery, dearie. I know what happened to you earlier and I’m sorry to hear about the injuries.” She frowned, “They must hurt a bit, don’t they?” Gucci decided to go along with the whole talking horse thing until his high wore off, “Naw, that shit’s ight for now, though.” He bared his teeth and lifted a chain, “CHYEAH! Gonna take more than some trick ass nigga to take down GUUUUCCCCIII!” She nodded in understanding and motioned for him to come to the counter, where various treats lied, calling for the rapper to consume them and absorb their tasty intestines and faces within his gullet. His eye caught a banana-nut muffin within a glass case nearby that looked oddly attractive, yet familiar at the same time. The horse had its back turned for a moment and he leaned in close, looking at it. For whatever reason, the top was severed, revealing a red center. Two googly-eyes were glued onto it, disturbing the man. Then it spoke in a whiny whisper, “Hey! Just take me! What’re they gonna do? Putcha in jail? You’re Bob Kelso! Just grab me and run!” His eyes widened, “DO IT!” Mesmerized by the muffin, Gucci reached out to grab said treat, only for his hand to collide with the glass surface that restricted such actions. The muffin laughed to itself at Gucci’s frustration and spoke to him again, this time in realization. “Wait! This isn’t the hospital! And you’re not Bob!” “Chyeah, the fuck you think?” It’s voice suddenly changed to a more deeper tone, “Ight, ight, sorry mah nigga, I apologize for fuckin’ with you an’ shit, but a nigga got to do his job, ya’kna’mean?” Gucci nodded his head, understanding what kind of position the muffin was in, “Chyeah, ight, I feel you, nigga.” “Dearie? Who’re you talking to?” He turned his head to find the horse woman thing staring at him, slightly worried at his actions. She supposed such things were common if you’d suffered such severe injuries as he did, making her feel all the more sympathetic to him. Mrs. Cake trotted behind the counter and smiled, “Would you like the muffin? They’re today’s special, our Derpy Muffins.” Gucci spotted the muffin shaking ever so faintly, “Nah, but,” he pulled out his emergency monocle from within his jacket and set it on his eye, “Would I be able to partake in some fine Earl Grey, perhaps? Possibly some scones and the like on the side to slate my hunger as well?” He pocketed the monocle immediately after speaking. “Hmm,” she said, putting a hoof to her chin in thought, “well, I’ve never heard of ‘Earl Grey’, but I can whip up some tea for you in a jiffy! The scones should be done soon too, dearie. Have a seat at one of the tables and I’ll bring them right over, alright?” Gucci nodded and made his way to a table to sit down, reclining comfortably and shutting his eyes. He found himself at peace for a few moments, that is, until his Gucci Senses went off and his arm extended forward, grabbing an object. The rapper opened his eyes to find that he’d caught a tea plate along with its cup. Mrs. Cake gave him a relieved but curious look, silently wondering how he knew she lost her balance. She shrugged it off and placed the scones before him, waiting patiently to see his reaction. Gucci’s hand dipped back into his pocket and pulled out his monocle, placing upon his right eye again. With a grace that would have made Queen Elizabeth weep from jealousy, the man dipped the marvelous scone into the tea and took a bite. His face faltered for a moment, losing its dignified, cultured look. The scone was slowly put back down on the plate from which it came. Mrs. Cake found him staring into her eyes, “My word, these are simply scrumptious! I’ve never tasted something so delectable in quite a while, I must say! By Jove, these must be the grandest treat I’ve consumed yet!” He took off the monocle and pocketed it, “Nah, fo’ serious tho’, them shits are pretty good.” “Oh! Well, I’m glad you liked it so much! Carrot baked them only a little bit ago.” An orangey stallion peeked his head out of the backroom, “Honey? Did you call me?” “Oh nothing, dear, just giving our guest some scones and tea,” Mrs. Cake said, waving a hoof down dismissively. Gucci raised a scone towards the stallion, “Them shits are good.” Mr. Cake nodded his head and stepped fully into view, “Glad you like them; not many ponies get them for some reason.” He sighed, “I suppose they’d rather get muffins or cupcakes instead of something with actual culture.” “Uncivilized plebeians,” Gucci added. “Say…” Mr. Cake started, “Aren’t you that thing that everpony was talking about?” “I’m not surprised,” The rapper said, his voice muffled as he ejected bits of scone while speaking, “Every nigga loves the Guc’.” “Everynigga? You mean everypony, right?” “Chyeah, whatever, nigga.” Mr. Cake turned back towards the kitchen, “Well, I hope you start feeling better soon. Must’ve been a real doozy on your head, whatever happened, that is. Enjoy the rest of the scones.” Gucci Mane nodded and shoved the rest of the scones down his throat, followed by the tea. Luckily for him, he’d spent the money to invent a SO ICY brand Icy-Regulator. The harsh heat from the tea did nothing to hurt his throat, as it passed through cool and as cold as ice. Of course, the chip in throat itched at times, but at least he has a one up over everyone else. “Dearie, didn’t that hurt? That tea was piping-hot!” He chuckled at the small horse thing, “I’m too icy to get hurt by the heat! Chyeah!” Mrs. Cake rolled her eyes and smiled, “Well, you go on and enjoy yourself. It’s still a bit early, but I’m sure there’s something to do.” “Ight,” he replied, pulling out his wallet, “You got change for a Benjy?” “A what?” “A hundred.” “A hundred what?” She asked, confused. “A hundred dollars, damn!” He produced said bill from his wallet and held it out to her, “… Is it supposed to be money?” “Chyeah, what else?” “I’m sorry, dearie,” Mrs. Cake said with a shake of the head, “But Equestria uses bits as a currency.” Gucci pulled out a dime bag full of a green, leafy substance, “Ight, I’ll share an’ shit, but how much you askin’ for?” She tilted her head to the side, “What is that?” The blue mare sniffed it, “I’ve never smelled an herb like that before.” “That’s because that shit is the fine herb, ya get me? This shit’ll fuck you right up!” “Hmm, interesting…” Mrs. Cake suddenly got an idea, “Dearie, would you like to earn some bits? You seem to be familiar with cooking, what with carrying spices and herbs on yourself and what not. The breakfast is already on the house, but would you be interested in helping out for some pay? We could always use a pair of helping hooves around.” Gucci considered it for a moment, “Uhh… Chyeah, why not? Better than bein’ a bum-ass nigga, sittin’ aroun’ and shit all up in this place like I ain’t got shit to do, ya’kna’mean?” She nodded, “Of course, dearie. Now, let’s head to the back, alright?” The rapper followed the pony behind the counter and towards a pair of swinging towards. They stepped through, miraculously surviving the ordeal, and watched as Carrot Cake was busily mixing ingredients and baking various goods. He turned his head back and smiled knowingly towards his wife. She nodded back and motioned Gucci forward to a sink, where he washed his hands with some lavender soap. The man was then given an apron, a bowl, a wooden spoon, and different ingredients. Mr. Cake nodded his head, “Alright, Cup usually has somepony to help during the early mornings, if they’re up to it.” He looked the rapper up and down, examining him, “I guess that’s you then, huh?” “Burr.” “Good enough for me. You’re going to be making brownies, okay? It’s extremely important that you take your time and make enough for the entire town to get some. There’s going to be a town-hall meeting later today that we’re catering and it’s important that we do an excellent job! Do you think you can do that?” “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” “I suppose so, whoever that is. Everything you need is here, just follow the steps in the cookbook over there,” He pointed to a thick book on a nearby counter, “and just have fun with it! Do your best and enjoy yourself!” Gucci raised a brow at the horse but shrugged, “Ight. You might wanna get a blanket or some shit.” Carrot looked away from his soufflé for a moment to glance at the rapper, “Why would I do that?” A malevolent grin crossed Gucci’s face, “Because this motherfucker’s ‘bout to get mad icy up in here!” The baker smiled back, “Good! I like that! Personally, I think our sweets taste better when someone who’s confident is making them! Now, go get ‘em!” The man turned to his work station and quickly got to work. Within only a few minutes, a large, wooden bowl was filled to the brim with brown, chocolaty goo. Gucci looked back towards the stallion, finding his back turned. With a devilish smile, he pulled out a few ounces of piff from his jacket pockets and began dumping them into the mix, throwing away the bags and stirring the bowl. “Aww, chyeah! Shit’s about to get fun…” Gucci stated, relishing in what was to come. Little did he know what kind of impact he’d have today on the small town, or what kind of one it would have on him. Still, what did he care? He was Gucci Mane, rapper extraordinaire. With that settled within his mind, he continued the process of baking and grinning to his heart’s content, happy that he was going to get paid and make others happier than him today. Wasn’t life just grand? Gucci lifted the monocle to his right eye, “Very much so, ol’ chap!” He quickly stowed it away. “Did you say something?” Carrot asked. “Nah, but I think you’re brownies ‘bout to get more popular after today.” “Well, if you’re that confident, you might just have a position waiting for you tomorrow too! That is, if you’re interested.” “Maybe,” Gucci said while scratching his chin in thought, “but if anyone asks, I’m just rollin’ a cigarette.” Author's Notes I'd like to thank everyone who showed their support by giving a positive comment or thumbs up. You're all classy motherfuckers, did you know that? Of course, there are others among you that don't believe in the greatness that is Gucci. Those uncultured oafs are simply jealous of his success, and why wouldn't they be? They're obviously tone-deaf if they can't appreciate his music. So I compiled a list of who's a G and who isn't. Not G's (They're all bitches in my book): jd896 Solar Eclipse Gypsy (Probably the biggest bitch out of all of them) U.S.S. Oakland Now, for the Original Gangsters who've proven their classiness, among other admirable traits: Gagster Spiffy Mcsquee DarrParrot The Stallion John Hood CaptRico Sakara Handcannon Bro, who showed exemplary valor by making a similar story involving Vanilla Ice. Now all we need is for someone to make a Flava Flav in Equestria one. Also, it turns out people have posted referalls to this story on Facebook and some Livestream channel. Thanks, I guess. Don't know what the fuck that means, but it sounds like it's a positive, so word, it must be good. Until next time, my Brothers, Stay Trilla. Here, for reading this far, have a complimentary Gucci Mane to take home: Chillin' With Pinkie Woods, Birdwoman, and BubblesGucci’s Day Out Chapter 2: Chillin’ with Pinkie Woods, Birdwoman, and Bubbles By: Stillmatic Standing tall, was Gucci Mane, arbiter of rap, defender of blunts, and maker of money. It have just hit morning and his job of cooking baked goods had already been accomplished with minimal casualties. He had a small pouch full of ducats (he preferred calling them “duckets”), a full belly, a scone in hand, and a nothing to lose. The weather was sunny and full of life, something he appreciated just a tad. But the best part? He made brownies. Today was going to be a good day. “Chyeah it is. ‘S like one of them ‘Fridays,’ an’ shit.” A bushel of pink sprung out from behind his back, “Heya mister! Who ya’ talking to?” He rolled his eyes, “Whoever the fuck I want, you gotta problem with that shit?” “Nope! But if I did, I’d might have ta pop a cap in your flank!” “Yeah, ight…” Gucci murmured, “Ya ain’t got that blat-blat shit up on ya.” She suddenly switched to his other shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Oh! That’s what you think, but I know better!” Gucci placed his palm firmly on her snout and shoved her off of him, “Mmmmhmmmm. If you knew better, ya’d do better, ya feel me?” The pink pony landed on all fours, “Hmm, nope! But here,” she pulled out a small, folded card out of seemingly nowhere, “That’s for you! Because you helped Mr. and Mrs. Cake earlier this morning when I was all sleepy-weepy!” The man flipped open the card and looked it over quickly. It was admittedly impressive in design, and even seemed to be catered to his individual tastes. Drawings of yellow diamonds met at each corner, with white and tan bricks creating a border around it. A significant amount of detail went into the center, which featured several ice-cubes with little stalactites of ice hanging down them. Over that it read, “You’re invited! Come at 5:30 P.M. to the Sugarcube Corner for a super-duper ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ Party!” Gucci nodded, “Ight.” She tilted her head to the side, “Say, what’s your name?” He pulled a mic from his pocket and held it to his mouth, “They call me Gucci Mane, but my name is Radric Davis an’-“ “Oooh! Ooh! Are we doing a song? Arewearewehuh?” The rapper nodded again, “Can I pick the song? Pleeeeeaaaase?” Gucci grunted indifferently, “Whatever, nigga.” “Yes! By the way, I’m Pinkie Pie! Tell me if you know this one! Also! Do you like parties?” “Fuck chyeah I do!” “Then sing along!” The pony cleared her throat and pulled her own mic from somewhere, “ALL I WANNA DO IS PARTY-“ “AN’ BULLSHIT!” He yelled. “AND PARTY!” “AN’ BULLSHIT!” “CAKES IN THE BACK LOOKIN’ RIGHTEOUS!” “TOP’S MESSED! THINK I MIGHT JUST!” “HIT ‘EM WITH A LITTLE PINKIE ONE-OH-ONE!” “HOW TO PARTY LIKE WE NEVE’ DONE!” “AND HAVE FUN WITH EQUESTRIAN RUM!” “WE CONVERSTATIN’, GOT BLUNTS IN ROTATION!” “MY COLT GUCC’ GONNA CLOCK AND GOT TA WASTIN’!” “WE’RE SMOKIN’, DRINKIN’, GOT THEM PONIES THINKIN’!” They both rapped simultaneously. “IF SWEETS SMELL BAD, THEN THIS PONY PINKIE STINKIN’!” Gucci yelled. “IS IT OUR CHARM? WE GOT THE PONIES AROUND OUR ARMS!” “GRABBIN’ ME, SAYIN’ LET’S LEAVE CALM!” “WE’RE BOPPIN’ HOOVES AND BALLIN’ AGAIN!” “ROLLIN’ BLUNTS, ‘BOUT TO GET A SCONE AGAIN!” “ZIGGAS START TO LOC OUT, SWEETS GOT ‘EM CHOKIN’ OUT!” “CAKES WAS THROWN AND A FUCKIN’ FIGHT BROKE OUT!” And like that, a fight broke out. A hoof suddenly hit Gucci in the side of the face, staggering him slightly. Out of nowhere, a massive mob of angry ponies was fighting, with him and Pinkie at the center. It seemed as though their rapping attracted unsavory attention and something eventually set off all of the citizens against each other. Gucci slapped the stallion across the face and stole whatever bits he could find off his unconscious body. Then, both him and the pink pony casually walked from the scene and sat at a park bench while random ponies fought some sort of battle. Pinkie hopped into the air, throwing her legs in random directions with a smile, “THAT! WAS! AWESOME! We really need to do that again sometime!” Gucci chuckled, “Chyeah, mos’ def’. I di’nt think ya’ll knew how to rap an’ shit like that. Shit was fierce!” “Aww, come on! You were great too!” “Nigga, I never said I wasn’t.” She giggled, “You’re funny!” With that, she jumped off the bench and began to hop away, “Remember!” Pinkie shouted, “Be at Sugarcube Corner at 5:30!” Gucci smirked, “Ight.” And so, our hero began another epic journey through the world. That is, until the pink pony came back, bouncing happily without a care in the world. He put the mic back in his jacket and waited for a few moments, just enough time for Pinkie to reach him again. “Hi!” “’Ey.” “Wanna go prank some ponies?” “Chyeah.” “Okie-Dokie-Lokie! Let’s go!” They were soon off, ready to cause disaster and chaos at every turn, much to the pleasure of a certain deity watching. Gucci wore a fancy suit he stole from some business that he quickly tailored to fit him. His exceptional skill to do random shit wasn’t very well known, but dangerously dapper in most cases. He had stolen the title of “Gucci” from the Shaolin Master of Fashion, Aldo Gucci, of the House of Gucci. It wasn’t easy, but he defeated the Master, taking his powers of Fashion, Swag, Style, and Class. Of course, this made Gucci Mane the new Master, but his clandestine usurpation went, thankfully, unnoticed. That had been nearly fifteen years ago. The rapper pulled a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses and placed them on his face. Another mic found itself within his hand as he adjusted his tie and pressed a finger to the single headphone in his right ear. Pinkie stood roughly a few feet away, holding a golf club and staring it down the shaft. She was dressed in some belted khaki pants, with a blue polo tucked in and a tan sweater vest on her chest. A green, Scottish golfing hat was on her head, with a little puffy ball of white on top. They were finally ready to begin. Gucci cleared his throat and spoke through his mic, “Hello and welcome to the Bad Pony World Championship PGA Tour. I’m your host for today, Mase Gumbel. With this last birdie right here, Pinkie Woods winning the championship from the three-time champion, Fuzzy Bastard.” He pointed to the puffy ball atop her hat, “Silence audience, I think-“ “Hey! Are we gonna start or not?” “Damn’t bitch! I’m bein’ a newsman!” He grunted, “Chyeah, get this shit over with already.” “Alrighty!” Pinkie Pie took the golf club with her mouth and aimed at the golf ball filled with sneezing power. The mare quickly swung, launching the object hundreds of feet away and straight at a carrot stand. Both of them watched as it exploded and launched sneezing powder all over the yellow mare attending the stand. Of course, she overreacted and began screaming about UFO’s in between sneezes. Such was life in Ponyville. Gucci snatched the golf club and smacked a ball himself, flinging it straight towards the horn of a purple mare. The ball was embedded and released the sneezing powder in a nearby radius that caught only her and a dragon on her back. Both the human and the pony laughed their asses off, finding hilarious pleasure in watching the duo across town sneeze uncontrollably. Pinkie attempted to give a thumb’s up, but it failed miserably and was only able to provide a hoof’s up. “Oooh! Nice shot!” The rapper watched proudly as his work still terrorized the innocent mare and dragon, “Oh damn, I’m nice as fuck wit’ dat shit. Time for one more, chyeah!” Gucci loaded another ball on his tee and took aim at another mare. Suddenly, some bird in the sky caught his keen eye. Being the benevolent and charitable person that he was, Gucci hit a ball right at it to share in the powder. The bird was knocked right out the sky and fell to the ground in a fit of sneezes and growls. Pinkie’s smile faded, “Uh-oh…” “What?” “That’s Gilda…” Gucci looked back at the bird to finally realize it had been a Griffon instead. He would be lying if he admitted he cared or if it even changed anything, however. The Griffon stood up and glared at the two, seething in anger. “Hey! *sneeze* What’s the *sneeze* big idea, you dweebs?” Gucci pulled a pill out of his little glass bottle and popped it, “Nah, we get geeked up, none ‘a that shit.” “*sneeze* What?” Pinkie popped out from Gilda’s left shoulder and leaned on her, “Girl, he’s geeked up!” “Bitch, I might be!” He replied back mirthfully. Gilda, confused, tilted her head to the side as the powder wore off. She sniffled once and held out her claw to Gucci. “Nice shot.” He shook it, “Burrr.” Gilda had to admit, most ponies would be running in terror right about now if they purposely hit a Griffon with a golf ball full of sneeze powder. But the human in front of her hadn’t, and actually stood calmly, as if waiting for some event to start. She watched as he checked his watch and take a bite out of a scone he had within his jacket. For some reason, she felt the beginnings of respect for the bi-pedal in front of her, who showed no fear or anxiety. For her, the Griffon, it was a breath of fresh air. Gilda gave a confident smirk, “Say, what’re you guys doing? Pullin’ pranks?” Pinkie, eager to get on good terms with Gilda again, nodded rapidly, “Yup! We just got Carrot Top, Twilight, and Spike!” She shrugged in response, “Don’t even know who they are.” Gucci nodded, “Word, that nigga Carrot Top ain’t even funny nomore. Nigga needs to get his shit together, ASAP.” “Say…” Pinkie started, thinking the same thing as Gilda, “What’s that word you keep saying mean?” “’Word’?” “No, that other one. ‘Nigga.’” “Yeah,” Gilda nodded, “What’s that even mean?” Gucci pulled out his monocle and placed it over his glasses, “My dear ladies, the term,” he airquoted, “’Nigga’ is one of the most versatile and multi-use word within the African-American English Vernacular Ebonics Language. One might use it address a friend or companion, or possibly even someone you don’t know or hate. The uses for ‘nigga’ are endless, really. My use of it is to describe an acquaintance.” He pulled away the monocle and put it back within his jacket. “Huh,” Gilda replied, “That actually seems pretty cool. Think I’ll start using that now, ‘nigga.’” Pinkie hopped up and down, “Yeah! Nigga’s the new super-duper fun word!” The rapper simply shrugged, “Ight.” “So, niggas, what do you two wanna do for fun?” the pony asked. Gilda considered leaving for a moment, feeling out of place. She then looked at Gucci and remembered he was some unknown creature who felt perfectly at ease with a bunch of ponies. No way she’d be called chicken for backing out when he was so easily keeping his cool. The Griffon puffed her chest, “I think we oughta prank some more. Turn some heads and stuff.” “Gucci?” “Ight.” “Let’sssss gooooo!” The pink pony yelled. With that, the unholy trinity was off to commit more dastardly deeds and cause general chaos. The fun was liable to even possibly become doubled. Pinkie swooned and fell to the floor with a hoof to her forehead, “Oh! Please! Somepony save me! I’m so defenseless and weak and this big bad Griffon is going to eat me!” “Roar,” Gilda shouted, smirking in the process. A stallion by the name of Caramel shot his head upwards, his ears darting around like antennas. He turned his head to find an odd scene that seemed somewhat threatening. Before him was that mare Pinkie Pie lying beside a bush near the Sugarcube Corner. A villain-like Griffon (Gilda, he thought her name was) wearing a cape, monocle, top hat, and moustache (he found that part strangely arousing) looming over her slowly, as if she were going in for a kill with the already extended claws. While Caramel was usually a cowardly pony and not very bright, he felt a sudden surge of courage within him. Especially so when he saw Pinkie dressed as some old-timey burlesque dancer, feathery hat included. The heroic stallion leaped onto the scene and pointed a hoof, “Stop right there, villainous scum! You won’t be hurting Pinkie Pie anytime soon!” “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it? Oh, shoot-” The Griffon looked at her claw and read off her script, “Uh… Nigga, please! Then do something, nigga! Or you… Best be leaving? Err, nigga.” She added for good measure. Pinkie waved a hoof dramatically in the air, “Oh, Caramel, help me! Swoon! Sigh!” He ran towards Gilda and pulled his hoof back as far as possible. With a stop when in proximity, the hero threw his arm forward with all of his strength and gave an effeminate grunt. Gilda barely felt the girly slap on her back leg and murmured several insults. “Oh! Woe is me! I have been defeated and bested by you in hoof-to-claw combat!” She fell over and shot her appendages in the air, her tongue sticking out of her beak, “I am dead.” Caramel was sweating incredibly from the tension but forced himself forward to the mare he had just saved the life of. He cradled her seemingly tired and wounded body and held her neck up, tears streaming down his face. “Why, Pinkie, why? Why did this have to happen to you?” She coughed once, “Cldsirg…” “What?” “I said, ‘closer.’” He obliged and moved in a few inches. “Closer…” Caramel did so again. Pinkie twitched several times, “Closer!” He readily moved in as close as possible, rubbing up against her. “Now…” she whispered in his ear, “… do you like surprises?” He tilted his head in confusion, “…Huh?” Suddenly, some creature leaped out of the nearby bush, throwing its arms wildly in the air, yelling, “DISTRICT COURT JUDGES WORK WITH OTHER MISCELLANEOUS JUDICIAL DIVISIONS AND PERSONNEL IN HANDLING THEIR CASELOADS! THEY INCLUDE THE TERRITORIAL COURTS, U.S. MAGISTRATES AND BANKRUPTCY COURTS!” Caramel fell backwards, babbling in fright. He then passed out on the ground, his heart nearly rupturing from both shock and fear. His back legs twitched around several times before he just stopped entirely, other than his chest still rising and falling. All three pranksters broke out in laughter and walked from the scene, with a few caring citizens heading over to Caramel to make sure he wasn’t dead. The group kept walking until they reached the park, where they stopped to rest. Pinkie hopped off the bench and smiled at her two compatriots, “Well, I gotta prepare for the party! You guys are coming, riiiiiggght?” She finished by extending her neck out. “You gonna have lemonade?” “Of course, silly!” She said, lightly hitting his leg with her hoof. “Ight, then.” “Goody! See you niggas later!” The mare exclaimed as she clopped her hooves together and zipped off. Gilda snorted and watched as ponies passed in the park, “Man, this place is boring.” “Word. Shit is unnatural.” “So, where ya from?” “Aaaattttlanta!” he responded, “Where the real niggas at!” Gucci stood up, “Chyeah! Motherfuck Jeezy! Motherfuck Jay-Z! Motherfuck Def Jam! Gentlemen, here comes the left blow!” He threw a few punches and continued, “Cause I’m the G-U-C-C-I and this is the season! To let the real motherfuckin’ G’s in! Yo-“ “Hey, are you singing a song?” Gucci stopped and deflated, “Bitch, I was rapping some hard shit. Fuck it though, I’m tired as shit right now.” “You were whatting?” “Rapping, doy!” “Huh. Never heard of something like that before,” she admitted. “Yeah, well that shi-“ he stopped and stared at something in front of him. “Hey, what’s-“ Gilda looked at what he was seeing. Not far from where the two were, a gray mare with blond hair and bubbles on her flank was sitting on her haunches, being terrorized by four stallions who shouted rude names at her. It was obvious she was crying; even from their distance it was easily visible. Now, Gucci was a kind and benevolent man who knew justice inside and out. Certain things set him off, like excessive use of the word “cracker” and hate crimes. But seeing this made him depressed. And no one makes Gucci Mane depressed and gets away with it, at least, intact they don’t. “Hey, what’re you doing?” Gilda asked as he stomped off towards the stallions. “Gonna bust at some bitches, bitch.” Gucci stood over the group of stallions and listened to the various insults they threw at the crying mare. “DERPDERPDERP!” “COME ON, DERPINATOR! WHY DON’T YOU GET YOUR PRECIOUS MUFFINS TO HELP YOU?” “LOOK AT THIS FREAK! WHAT KINDA MARE IS CROSS-EYED?” “HAH! HOW SHE EVEN HAD THAT FOAL IS BEYOND ME! WHOEVER WOULD WANT TO HAVE ONE WITH HER IS A STUPI-“ That last stallion was rudely cut off when one of Gucci’s right shoe was planted in his face. This didn’t go unnoticed as the other stallions took offensive stances, each surprised to see an unknown creature suddenly attacking them. “WHAT IN CELESTIA’S BEARD IS THAT!” The nearest one yelled. He was the second pony to got merced mercilessly. Gucci pistol-whipped his head, sending him into a forced state of unconsciousness. The other two shifted back, nearly ready to run. “Ya’ll messed with the wrong bitch, ya heard?” “OH SWEET LUNA IT TALKS!” Gucci pulled out his monocle, “My word, no need to assume such offensive things and presume that I cannot speak. Truly, you sirs are no better than the slavers of the 1600’s who destroyed Africa. I’d like to have a talking to with your mothers after this! Now,” he stuff the monocle back in, “have atcha, niggas!” A brown stallion jumped at him, which failed miserably as Gucci grabbed him by the throat and threw him to the floor. He then proceeded to kick the pony in the crotch until he was sure it was out cold. Gucci turned to find the last beginning to run away. Not on his watch. For he was, The Dark Gucc’. Gucci leaped onto the back of the pony and gave him a really hard noogie, dropping him to the floor in pain. Then, from what he’d learn from the Shaolin temples of the 36 Chambers, he karate-chopped the stallion in the head, crumpling him into an unconscious pile. Gucci didn’t even break a sweat. He headed back to the mare and walked off without a word until Gilda flew up by him. “Whoa! That was awesome! Where’d you learn to do that?” Gucci smirked, “Niggas need to learn howta fight on’a streets, ya heard Birdwoman? Them Wu-Tang niggas taught me how to do that shit with their kung-fu-taboo-voodoo-Okinawa type shit.” “Darn, I really need to learn that stuff. Where can I find one of tho-“ “Excuse me?” a voice called out. They both turned to find the mare from just a few moments ago wiping her eyes clean of tears. She sniffled once and looked up at Gucci with puffy eyes. “…Thank you… for helping me. Nopony else ever does anymore… and well, they usually make fun of me behind my back…” Gucci withheld his fury and pulled a Cuban cigar from his jacket, lighting it, “All in a day’s work for the iciest nigga out there.” Gilda, in a moment of curiosity, landed next to the mare, who flinched back slightly, “Say, why do you let them do that? Can’tcha just beat ‘em up?” The mare looked away, “I-I don’t know how to fight… and-and I don’t want to fight! I don’t like hurting other ponies!” The rapper puffed out some smoke, “Gotta learn to protect ya neck, or else ye’ll get wrecked, y’kna’mean?” The Griffon stared at the pony in slight confusion. Being of warrior blood, Gilda always found meekness and weakness to both be the same thing, and the combination was always an infuriatingly revolting sight. Yet, she felt sorry for the mare instead of lashing out like she did with that other pegasus a while back. “Uh… well,” Gilda placed one claw behind her neck and the other on the shoulder of the gray mare, “If those jerks ever um… mess with you again, find me or him.” She puffed out her chest proudly, “We’ll sort ‘em out. Right?” She turned to Gucci, expecting him to confirm her words. Of course, when she noticed he was he wasn’t around, she looked in every direction. The mare pointed to the left, where the man was looting bits off of the knocked out bodies. Gilda face-clawed and turned back to the pony. “You gotta name?” The mare looked somewhat thankful, “Derpy.” “Huh.” Was all Gilda could respond with. Gucci came back with several slinkies hanging from his hands, “Nigga’s had some nice shit. Damn! I need a blunt, right about fuckin’ now!” The rapper then proceeded to roll a blunt after throwing his cigar into a trash bin, which soon caught fire. Oblivious, he continued to do as he pleased as the pony and the Griffon simply watched in awe at his iciness. Far, far away, a draconequus was laughing incredibly hard at the new interloper’s antics. He hadn’t seen such things in thousands of years, and the laughter was refreshing! For now, however, he’d keep watching the human who trespassed in another world. Until things could really get interesting, that is. Oh, how he loved to see such unintentional chaos just manifest without restraint! Delightful. The draconequus sighed happily and continued to wait to see what the rapper would do next. Surely, something of amazing proportions. He was sure of it. Author's Notes Yo, yo, yo, niggas! What's poppin'? Now, sorry for the wait, I had other shit to take care of. Now, see if you can catch all the rap references in this chapter. Older shit, West Coast, East Coast shit! Anyway, thanks for everyone who reads and likes this shit. Ya'll niggas make me proud to have written such an amazing piece of work that deserves to be in the Library of Congress. Until next time, guys. Also, who the fuck posted this on Gucci's LastFM page? That nigga is gonna send someone to kill me or some shit now! Or worse, HIS LAWYERS! OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK! As Always, Stay Trilla.
Prologue: So IcedGucci’s Day Out Prologue: So Iced By: Stillmatic It was another night of partying, drinking, toking, and just plain living it up for Gucci and his gang of cohorts. None stood in their way as the night crept on, as not a single being dared to rile up his anger. Of course, there was just one creature, one so indescribably hateful and distrusting of Gucci. This creature was Young Jeezy. Jeezy exhibited his tenacity to protect his assets with the only way he knew how, to provide a healthy dose of murder to his adversary. It goes without saying that these two men of the Southern United States were once close friends who occasionally collaborated together to make music. That was long in the past for both of them at this point, with each of them battling court cases over rights and other trivialities. Anyone caught in the crossfire was most likely left bleeding to death or horrifically damaged, as they had done to their relationship. Not all was about conflict between each other, however, and when the weekend came, the fighting ceased. Gucci’s group of close friends and Jeezy’s gang of trusted individuals would temporarily stop getting at each other’s throats for a short time before they returned to their indefinitely long feud. But it was on this particular day, it was far different than what was left mutually agreed and unspoken. Tonight, in Decatur, Georgia on May 10th, 2005, was the last day one man would live. Humming to himself, Gucci stuck his tongue out into the air. It met the blunt he recently rolled, a fine piece of art, and gave it a good amount of fluid in order to stick together. The rapper was currently chilling in his fine friend’s bachelor pad, having a good time with his friends. There was nothing quite like being together in a group and just spending time constantly high throughout the night. He despised it when he was alone, mostly because that was one of the worst times to get messed up on something and company always made everything better. Except sex. That was something between him and some bitch he liked. “’Ey yo nigga, you done wit’ that shit ye’?” Gucci smirked casually and met the eyes of the man looking down at him as he finished, “Chyeah, why? You think you getting’ som’ dis shit? Dis shhhiiiiitttt, right her’?” His friend smacked the air with his hand and stepped in place to show his frustration, “Man, ya stay playin’ like dat shits funny or some shit!” The rapper chortled to himself, amused by his friend, “Ight, ight, chill. Got that shit right her’ for ya,” he said, passing the blunt to his companion. Nearby, someone kicked in the front door with more force than necessary, forcing the house to shake slightly and Gucci to flinch. The blunt slipped from his dark fingers and took the most horror-inducing plunge straight to the floor. Time seemed to slow down for that brief frame of a few seconds as his hands vainly reached out to grab the paraphernalia. “Noooooo!” Gucci cried out. It dropped to the floor, bouncing several times before settling on the blue carpet. They both stared at it for a good moment before a person rushed in. They didn’t give him any attention as he leaned onto the couch, gasping for breath, with hands splayed out and moving wildly. Gucci grabbed the blunt to look it over, narrowing his eyes down to small slits. “Hmm… Ight! It’s alive, mothafuckas! Let’s smoke this shit!” The man who ran in shouted, trying to get their attention, “YO! JEEZY’S BOYS ARE ON THEY WAY HERE, DAWG!” Both original occupiers of the large living room immediately snapped their heads to the taller man. They then both shared looks and jumped to their feet, reaching behind their backs. From between their waists and belts, they procured handguns they had specifically for such an occasion. Without much hesitation, Gucci lit the blunt, took a pull, and passed it to the guy opposite him. He gritted his teeth, “Ight, let’s do this shit!” As if on cue, a bullet shattered a nearby window, sending glass to the floor. The man with the blunt pulled it away from his face and scowled deeply, “MOTHERFUCKERS! MY MOMS IS GONNA KILL ME FOR THAT SHIT!” Multiple bullets whizzed by, breaking random vases, electronics, and other valuables, “… Mothafuckas…” Not willing to take their time, each of them blind-fired from behind cover, which was mostly the couch they were just sitting on toppled over onto its back. It wasn’t much a shield, as evidenced when a bullet went straight through it and barely missed Gucci’s head. He ducked further and rolled out of cover to fire. Taking aim, he fired continuously while screaming out, “CHYEAH! SPECIAL AGENT GUCCI!” More pieces of metal flew overhead, forcing Gucci to hug the carpet. He reloaded his weapon and realized he was on his second, and last, clip. Things were not looking good, not at all. Taking initiative, the rapper headed into a nearby hallway connecting to the front door, ducking low as to not get shot. Right as he turned a corner, his face met the end of a gun barrel, the dark metal pressed against his forehead. “…Sheeit…” He glanced up, finding a man he recognized as Pookie Loc staring down at him. Their eyes met and Loc grinned a wide smile, his dirty teeth flashing something fierce. Gucci swallowed, finding it hard to believe his life was finally over. “Ya done fucked up Gucc’! Now yo’ ass is capped!” The last thing Gucci Mane saw was the fire in the barrel, right before he ducked his head down and received the bullet to the top of his skull, partially shattering it and dropping the rapper to the floor. Loc froze up for a second, realizing what he just did. Then, he chuckled quietly, letting the laughter build up until it was a massive form of hysteria, echoing through the Georgia night as if it were a moment of celebration. Pookie Loc left the house sprinting, quickly getting into his car along with his accomplices. Before he left the vicinity, he glanced back at the body from his car window. It was finally over. Now nothing would stop Young Jeezy’s reign of tyranny over southern states in the form of rap. The world would never be the same again. Gucci Mane felt to rub his head only for it to not respond, groaning in agony as the pain set in. Sweat dripped off his face, sliding down his neck and making his smock stick to his chest. It was an absolutely disgusting feeling to have, but he was left incapacitated for the most part. Soreness enraptured his body, forcing him to stay still where he was. Where he was. Where was he? “Ugh…” Despite the pounding within his head, the rapper managed to connect the feeling of softness under him to that of a bed. A bed? How did he end up in a bed? ‘Shiiiit… I must’ve got fucked up bad an’ ended up in the hospital…’ No body part responded as of yet, silencing him and preventing movement for what felt like hours. After far too long, a sound was heard nearby. It sounded like… ‘Da fuck is that shit..?’ The only thing that Gucci could relate the sound to was a Dutch dancer he remembered seeing in a movie once. She wore wooden shoes and some freaky dress he dared not wish on any woman he knew. He mentally shuddered, somewhat scarred from the culture shock that was presented to him back then. So, this was like that then? He was in a hospital, being attended by a Dutch dancer girl and almost dead. It was almost a regular day. The sound of a door opening nearby informed him that whoever was walking around with noisy shoes decided to step in to either treat or check up on him. What he seriously wanted at the moment was none of that. The craving for some kind of doping drug was becoming too much for him, and the incessant pain within his head gave no reprieve. If this path continued, he felt as though he’d soon be fiending for something. The person got closer and touched seemingly random objects around him, with him remaining there, unmoving. Then, it hit him. Whatever it was that person gave was damn strong, and he felt himself lull into a lofty state, only to fall into a deep slumber. The throbbing within his skull died down to nothing, letting him relax. He forced his eyes open a crack, just barely enough to make out a blurry image of what seemed to be something white, pink and short. The rapper blamed it on the drug before finally passing out from exhaustion and the chemical in question. Gucci awoke with a start, flailing wildly and tumbling out of his bed. The floor was a hard fall, eliciting a groan to come from him. He shuddered, feeling nauseous all of a sudden. The rapper crawled forward, letting his legs drop behind him from above. Forcing himself up, Gucci Mane stood shakily on his feet and stumbled towards a nearby sink. With a turn of the handle and splash of ice-cold water on his face, the man began to fully wake up from the drowsiness whatever drug he received earlier gave him. A quick self-slap to the face alleviated the rest of it. Fully functioning now, he examined himself in the mirror. Same beautiful face, as always. The bandages on top of his head were new, but they looked pretty pimpin’, so no taking them off just yet. ‘Damn! Imagine when those reporters see this shit! Takin’ bullets to the fuckin’ head and shit!’ There wasn’t much else to inspect about himself other than that he was wearing some hospital smock that looked distorted and irregularly shaped. He put “Getting my threads and bling back” on his list of things to do, along with “Get percs” and “Kill Jeezy.” Gucci glanced around the room, finally taking in its appearance. It was… small, really. Not what he expected. There was no other patron residing in a bed nearby either, which also seemed quite odd. White walls all over, various medical equipment, a bed, some food on a table were all that made the small room. There were no indications of some form of visitors coming, a shocking surprise to the rapper. He would have expected crowds to come to see what happened to him, if not riots to take place. Gucci chuckled to himself, realizing how stupid that sounded. However, something next to the food caught his eyes. It was… a glass bottle. Oh no though, not just any ordinary glass bottle. This one was filled to the brim with pills. He closed in on the helpless container and pried it open, examining the pills within. The label on the bottle led to no conclusion as to what it was, what with the eccentric script that was on it. ‘… This is one of them Hebrew medicines, right? Them letters look like it. Shit, Moses lived for like, a hundred years! This shit’s probably what that nigga was eating before lunch!’ With that, he snatched a pill and swallowed it, washing it down with a piece of bread and cup of water nearby. He blinked slowly, feeling quite relaxed for a few seconds. All the pain subsided and made way for a certain bliss that just rang through his body, making the rapper feel as though he’d never even experiencing such a trivial thing like pain before. Gucci laughed quietly to himself but quieted once he noticed his clothes sitting on a chair across the room. He quickly disrobed from the smock and got dressed in his regular attire, which consisted of a white thermal, a red and white Letterman jacket, an ostentatiously large watch studded with diamonds, several chains, blue jeans, a belt (which was purely for show and not meant to hold up his sagging pants), a pair of white Nike’s. He grinned deviously, feeling everything in his universe become right within just a few minutes. Gucci took a moment to check what he had on him, finding everything as it was, including his handgun and ammo. A few dimes of piff, some Dutches, his wallet, and all sorts of random odds and ends packed his jacket and pockets, including those pills he found. It was as if nothing had happened at all, despite him knowing full well he’d just barely survived getting shot in the head. He nearly rubbed his head but immediately reeled his hand back in fear of sending waves of pain through his body. Bored so far, the rapper took his leave and exited through the door nearby. He entered a long hallway lined with possibly dozens of doors both ways. The end was clearly in sight, but it wasn’t worth the trouble to think about where it would lead. A sign that showed the designs of the building as well as routes to take in case of a fire indicated that he was on the second floor of the hospital. Gucci spotted a stairwell not even a few yards away, quickly making haste and heading down the stairs. As he exited the stairwell, Gucci noticed that the hospital was particularly devoid of life and not a single doctor made themselves know. Then again, after taking a quick look out a window, it was probably late in the night. Making the best out of his opportunity, the rapper planned on checking himself out and heading back home. At least he’d be able to get much better medical treatment in Atlanta than wherever this hellhole was. After walking for a few minutes and following maps, the man was lead to the lobby, where nothing stirred in the least. A front desk was situated to the right of him, where a particularly interesting oddity stood out amongst the mundane architecture and styling of the hospital. Some kind of white thing was slumped over on the desk, snoring lightly. Pink hair was tied in a bun at what seemed to be the head, where the now fallen nurse’s hat once resided. Gucci Mane cocked an eyebrow up, finding the sight before him not only extremely freaky, but beyond strange. It must’ve been the drugs he took. Using that as a form of reasoning, he quickly signed himself out using a nearby clipboard and pushed his way out the hospital doors. What he saw next was the single most irritating thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. Outside of the hospital was a fairly rustic village, with little thatched roofs and market stands and many other clichés he didn’t hold a very high opinion of. He’d never seen anything quite like this, but he already knew he hated it. It was irrational of him to think so, but when wasn’t he irrational? Gucci looked to the left, finding streets made of stone and dirt. A quick nod to the right gave the same result. His eyes narrowed, with him becoming frustrated quiet quickly. A grimace crossed his face and he scratched the back of his neck in confusion. “Da fu- Yo! Where the fuck am I?!” He yelled out to nobody in particular. Today was just getting weirder and weirder for the southern rapper. Tomorrow was sure to be the opposite, right? Author's Notes Oh man, what was I on when I decided to write this shit? Well, to put it simply, this is the result of me losing a bet. What did I have to do? Stick Gucci Mane in Equestria. I wrote Gucci's thoughts and lines to the best of my knowledge of him, so hopefully their close to what he'd actually think/say. I think that's just about all I have to say. Stay Trilla.
The Start of the DayGucci’s Day Out Chapter 1: The Start of the Day By: Stillmatic Gucci looked around. The streets were perfectly empty, a tell-tale sign of future activities that would delve into possible illicitness and the like. Such a small village was far too tranquil for the Atlanta rapper, leaving him a bit uneasy and confused. He was used to weapons firing, screams resonating, and cars honking into all hours of the night. Of course, where he was at the moment was a far cry from what he’d call “civilization.” “Yo man, da fuck is this shit? Where am I?” He pulled out his phone to call one of his boys for help only to find he had no service. The man grumbled to himself and pocketed the device for now, only to reach back into his jacket pocket and remove his red and white cap. It was placed firmly upon his head, completing his ensemble and restoring equilibrium to the universe, preventing a meltdown of catastrophic proportions. Now that that matter was settled, Gucci opted to head down a lonely street to his right. For quite a while, it was fairly silent with the exception of crickets and other insects. The rapper was severely unsettled by the lack of sound and movement. Little houses with thatched roofs and other antiquities were in all directions as he walked, which proved a daunting task the more progress he made to an unknown destination. Suddenly, something caught his eye to his left, forcing the man to stop in his tracks and stare. And what a sight it was. Standing tall before Gucci was a building, though no ordinary building it was. The gingerbread walls, icing covered trim, chocolate roof, and oh the very tip! It was a cupcake with three very large candles adorning it! Such a magnificent testament to baked confectionaries was surely something to gawk at, and Gucci held to objection to doing so. Despite the only light being a few sparse street lamps scattered about, his eyes took in the amazing sight as if his life depended on it! He grabbed for his heart, feeling as though it ruptured from sheer astonishment. Those precious ocular orbs of his scanned the structure, finding it quite delectable looking from his current angle. Not once did he consider why such a building existed, but he wouldn’t have really cared anyway. He’d seen weirder things in his time as a living being, but this ranked high nonetheless. Gucci took a step forward and grabbed for an area of frosted gingerbread by the stairs to the building. It crumbled in his grip, much to his dismay. Taking another, this time more gently, the rapper munched down on the baked-good turned housing and chewed. His mouth movements eventually slowed to a halt, where it nearly fell open. It had tasted like nothing he’d ever had before, as if angels themselves baked sweets just for him and him only. Gucci held back tears and took a single bite before placing the remainder of his snack back where it originally resided. “… Yo… that shit was off tha’ hook…” His stomach grumbled lightly, indicating his lack of nourishment in the hospital. Gucci felt regret at not eating the food he left behind, almost tempting him to go back and capture it for himself. Such ambitions were cut short when a smell wafted into his nose, completely obliterating all plans of moving away from the building. It smelled like… cinnamon? Candy? He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it smelled damn fine in his opinion. Gucci walked beside the stairs and glanced through the windows, finding the lights in what he assumed to be the kitchen on. It clicked in his mind instantly; they were cooking and baking. And that meant he could get something to eat. His stomach made a series of gurgling sounds, clearly upset at his lack of movement towards kicking in the door and looting everything edible in sight. Of course, a refined man such as himself would do no such thing (yet), and simply knocked on the door like a gentleman. It took a few moments, giving him time to realize that the sun was coming over the horizon and over a forest nearby. Eventually, the clip-clopping of more Dutch shoes alerted him to someone coming to the horizontally-split door. He also made a note of how short the door was compared to him. “Them Dutchies must be midgets or some shit in real life…” he openly mused, “I don’t give a shit though, them niggas make some nice ass rollin’ material.” The top half of the door opened and Gucci turned his head to find nothing in front of him. He leaned in and looked to the left, then the right, and seeing nothing that could open the door. It left him stumped for a moment, before a throat being cleared near him brought his eyes downwards. There, before him, was a bluish, cerulean colored horse thing of sorts. Not bothering with what was obviously a side-effect of the drug, Gucci knocked once against the doorway again, raising a brow in annoyance. “Yo! Anyone here? I need some food, ASAP!” Another throat clearing, “Excuse me? I’m right here, dearie.” Gucci looked back at the creature and coned a hand by his mouth, “An’ you got a horse or somethin’ up in yo’ house too! Might wanna fix that ‘less you want that shit all up in there anyway an’ shit.” “Well, I’ll- Listen, young stallion! I will not be spoken to like that in my own home! Do you understand me?” He saw her mouth move this time, “Da fuck? Is you talkin’? To me?” The rapper rubbed his eyes, “Oooohhh daaammnnn, the piiiillllsssss! Those shits musta fucked me up baaaaddd. Chyeah! That’s why you’s talkin’ to me right now, right?” Mrs. Cake was left confused at the creature speaking to her at that moment. She’d never seen such a creature, let alone one dressed so absurdly, in her life. It acted as if it thought she couldn’t speak or was nonexistent. Then, it came to her. Wasn’t this that thing that a few ponies found bleeding its head off in the middle of town yesterday? Sure looked like it, minus all the gratuitous amounts of blood that it had caked on its body earlier. The mare cocked her head to the side, confused at the encounter she was participating in. Did this thing not know what an Equestrian was? If so, how could it speak the language (she decided to use the word speak loosely, due to her not quite understanding the lingo and accent fully)? The thought pestered her for a good few seconds before her motherly instincts automatically kicked in. If this thing was hurt, she would have to do her part by helping it. Mrs. Cake couldn’t possibly leave the poor thing to go hungry after suffering such a horrific injury. Such a thing was just plain rude and heartless, which suddenly made her regret snapping at it. Without hesitation, the mare opened the door and beckoned for the rapper to come in, which he ironically did with hesitation. Gucci looked around, finding the place extremely bizarre and in serious need of redecoration. It was obviously a bakery, what with all the tables and the counter and all sorts of bullshit he didn’t bother acknowledging. He scratched his chin idly in thought until the magical horse thing near him began to speak again. “Welcome to our little bakery, dearie. I know what happened to you earlier and I’m sorry to hear about the injuries.” She frowned, “They must hurt a bit, don’t they?” Gucci decided to go along with the whole talking horse thing until his high wore off, “Naw, that shit’s ight for now, though.” He bared his teeth and lifted a chain, “CHYEAH! Gonna take more than some trick ass nigga to take down GUUUUCCCCIII!” She nodded in understanding and motioned for him to come to the counter, where various treats lied, calling for the rapper to consume them and absorb their tasty intestines and faces within his gullet. His eye caught a banana-nut muffin within a glass case nearby that looked oddly attractive, yet familiar at the same time. The horse had its back turned for a moment and he leaned in close, looking at it. For whatever reason, the top was severed, revealing a red center. Two googly-eyes were glued onto it, disturbing the man. Then it spoke in a whiny whisper, “Hey! Just take me! What’re they gonna do? Putcha in jail? You’re Bob Kelso! Just grab me and run!” His eyes widened, “DO IT!” Mesmerized by the muffin, Gucci reached out to grab said treat, only for his hand to collide with the glass surface that restricted such actions. The muffin laughed to itself at Gucci’s frustration and spoke to him again, this time in realization. “Wait! This isn’t the hospital! And you’re not Bob!” “Chyeah, the fuck you think?” It’s voice suddenly changed to a more deeper tone, “Ight, ight, sorry mah nigga, I apologize for fuckin’ with you an’ shit, but a nigga got to do his job, ya’kna’mean?” Gucci nodded his head, understanding what kind of position the muffin was in, “Chyeah, ight, I feel you, nigga.” “Dearie? Who’re you talking to?” He turned his head to find the horse woman thing staring at him, slightly worried at his actions. She supposed such things were common if you’d suffered such severe injuries as he did, making her feel all the more sympathetic to him. Mrs. Cake trotted behind the counter and smiled, “Would you like the muffin? They’re today’s special, our Derpy Muffins.” Gucci spotted the muffin shaking ever so faintly, “Nah, but,” he pulled out his emergency monocle from within his jacket and set it on his eye, “Would I be able to partake in some fine Earl Grey, perhaps? Possibly some scones and the like on the side to slate my hunger as well?” He pocketed the monocle immediately after speaking. “Hmm,” she said, putting a hoof to her chin in thought, “well, I’ve never heard of ‘Earl Grey’, but I can whip up some tea for you in a jiffy! The scones should be done soon too, dearie. Have a seat at one of the tables and I’ll bring them right over, alright?” Gucci nodded and made his way to a table to sit down, reclining comfortably and shutting his eyes. He found himself at peace for a few moments, that is, until his Gucci Senses went off and his arm extended forward, grabbing an object. The rapper opened his eyes to find that he’d caught a tea plate along with its cup. Mrs. Cake gave him a relieved but curious look, silently wondering how he knew she lost her balance. She shrugged it off and placed the scones before him, waiting patiently to see his reaction. Gucci’s hand dipped back into his pocket and pulled out his monocle, placing upon his right eye again. With a grace that would have made Queen Elizabeth weep from jealousy, the man dipped the marvelous scone into the tea and took a bite. His face faltered for a moment, losing its dignified, cultured look. The scone was slowly put back down on the plate from which it came. Mrs. Cake found him staring into her eyes, “My word, these are simply scrumptious! I’ve never tasted something so delectable in quite a while, I must say! By Jove, these must be the grandest treat I’ve consumed yet!” He took off the monocle and pocketed it, “Nah, fo’ serious tho’, them shits are pretty good.” “Oh! Well, I’m glad you liked it so much! Carrot baked them only a little bit ago.” An orangey stallion peeked his head out of the backroom, “Honey? Did you call me?” “Oh nothing, dear, just giving our guest some scones and tea,” Mrs. Cake said, waving a hoof down dismissively. Gucci raised a scone towards the stallion, “Them shits are good.” Mr. Cake nodded his head and stepped fully into view, “Glad you like them; not many ponies get them for some reason.” He sighed, “I suppose they’d rather get muffins or cupcakes instead of something with actual culture.” “Uncivilized plebeians,” Gucci added. “Say…” Mr. Cake started, “Aren’t you that thing that everpony was talking about?” “I’m not surprised,” The rapper said, his voice muffled as he ejected bits of scone while speaking, “Every nigga loves the Guc’.” “Everynigga? You mean everypony, right?” “Chyeah, whatever, nigga.” Mr. Cake turned back towards the kitchen, “Well, I hope you start feeling better soon. Must’ve been a real doozy on your head, whatever happened, that is. Enjoy the rest of the scones.” Gucci Mane nodded and shoved the rest of the scones down his throat, followed by the tea. Luckily for him, he’d spent the money to invent a SO ICY brand Icy-Regulator. The harsh heat from the tea did nothing to hurt his throat, as it passed through cool and as cold as ice. Of course, the chip in throat itched at times, but at least he has a one up over everyone else. “Dearie, didn’t that hurt? That tea was piping-hot!” He chuckled at the small horse thing, “I’m too icy to get hurt by the heat! Chyeah!” Mrs. Cake rolled her eyes and smiled, “Well, you go on and enjoy yourself. It’s still a bit early, but I’m sure there’s something to do.” “Ight,” he replied, pulling out his wallet, “You got change for a Benjy?” “A what?” “A hundred.” “A hundred what?” She asked, confused. “A hundred dollars, damn!” He produced said bill from his wallet and held it out to her, “… Is it supposed to be money?” “Chyeah, what else?” “I’m sorry, dearie,” Mrs. Cake said with a shake of the head, “But Equestria uses bits as a currency.” Gucci pulled out a dime bag full of a green, leafy substance, “Ight, I’ll share an’ shit, but how much you askin’ for?” She tilted her head to the side, “What is that?” The blue mare sniffed it, “I’ve never smelled an herb like that before.” “That’s because that shit is the fine herb, ya get me? This shit’ll fuck you right up!” “Hmm, interesting…” Mrs. Cake suddenly got an idea, “Dearie, would you like to earn some bits? You seem to be familiar with cooking, what with carrying spices and herbs on yourself and what not. The breakfast is already on the house, but would you be interested in helping out for some pay? We could always use a pair of helping hooves around.” Gucci considered it for a moment, “Uhh… Chyeah, why not? Better than bein’ a bum-ass nigga, sittin’ aroun’ and shit all up in this place like I ain’t got shit to do, ya’kna’mean?” She nodded, “Of course, dearie. Now, let’s head to the back, alright?” The rapper followed the pony behind the counter and towards a pair of swinging towards. They stepped through, miraculously surviving the ordeal, and watched as Carrot Cake was busily mixing ingredients and baking various goods. He turned his head back and smiled knowingly towards his wife. She nodded back and motioned Gucci forward to a sink, where he washed his hands with some lavender soap. The man was then given an apron, a bowl, a wooden spoon, and different ingredients. Mr. Cake nodded his head, “Alright, Cup usually has somepony to help during the early mornings, if they’re up to it.” He looked the rapper up and down, examining him, “I guess that’s you then, huh?” “Burr.” “Good enough for me. You’re going to be making brownies, okay? It’s extremely important that you take your time and make enough for the entire town to get some. There’s going to be a town-hall meeting later today that we’re catering and it’s important that we do an excellent job! Do you think you can do that?” “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” “I suppose so, whoever that is. Everything you need is here, just follow the steps in the cookbook over there,” He pointed to a thick book on a nearby counter, “and just have fun with it! Do your best and enjoy yourself!” Gucci raised a brow at the horse but shrugged, “Ight. You might wanna get a blanket or some shit.” Carrot looked away from his soufflé for a moment to glance at the rapper, “Why would I do that?” A malevolent grin crossed Gucci’s face, “Because this motherfucker’s ‘bout to get mad icy up in here!” The baker smiled back, “Good! I like that! Personally, I think our sweets taste better when someone who’s confident is making them! Now, go get ‘em!” The man turned to his work station and quickly got to work. Within only a few minutes, a large, wooden bowl was filled to the brim with brown, chocolaty goo. Gucci looked back towards the stallion, finding his back turned. With a devilish smile, he pulled out a few ounces of piff from his jacket pockets and began dumping them into the mix, throwing away the bags and stirring the bowl. “Aww, chyeah! Shit’s about to get fun…” Gucci stated, relishing in what was to come. Little did he know what kind of impact he’d have today on the small town, or what kind of one it would have on him. Still, what did he care? He was Gucci Mane, rapper extraordinaire. With that settled within his mind, he continued the process of baking and grinning to his heart’s content, happy that he was going to get paid and make others happier than him today. Wasn’t life just grand? Gucci lifted the monocle to his right eye, “Very much so, ol’ chap!” He quickly stowed it away. “Did you say something?” Carrot asked. “Nah, but I think you’re brownies ‘bout to get more popular after today.” “Well, if you’re that confident, you might just have a position waiting for you tomorrow too! That is, if you’re interested.” “Maybe,” Gucci said while scratching his chin in thought, “but if anyone asks, I’m just rollin’ a cigarette.” Author's Notes I'd like to thank everyone who showed their support by giving a positive comment or thumbs up. You're all classy motherfuckers, did you know that? Of course, there are others among you that don't believe in the greatness that is Gucci. Those uncultured oafs are simply jealous of his success, and why wouldn't they be? They're obviously tone-deaf if they can't appreciate his music. So I compiled a list of who's a G and who isn't. Not G's (They're all bitches in my book): jd896 Solar Eclipse Gypsy (Probably the biggest bitch out of all of them) U.S.S. Oakland Now, for the Original Gangsters who've proven their classiness, among other admirable traits: Gagster Spiffy Mcsquee DarrParrot The Stallion John Hood CaptRico Sakara Handcannon Bro, who showed exemplary valor by making a similar story involving Vanilla Ice. Now all we need is for someone to make a Flava Flav in Equestria one. Also, it turns out people have posted referalls to this story on Facebook and some Livestream channel. Thanks, I guess. Don't know what the fuck that means, but it sounds like it's a positive, so word, it must be good. Until next time, my Brothers, Stay Trilla. Here, for reading this far, have a complimentary Gucci Mane to take home:
Chillin' With Pinkie Woods, Birdwoman, and BubblesGucci’s Day Out Chapter 2: Chillin’ with Pinkie Woods, Birdwoman, and Bubbles By: Stillmatic Standing tall, was Gucci Mane, arbiter of rap, defender of blunts, and maker of money. It have just hit morning and his job of cooking baked goods had already been accomplished with minimal casualties. He had a small pouch full of ducats (he preferred calling them “duckets”), a full belly, a scone in hand, and a nothing to lose. The weather was sunny and full of life, something he appreciated just a tad. But the best part? He made brownies. Today was going to be a good day. “Chyeah it is. ‘S like one of them ‘Fridays,’ an’ shit.” A bushel of pink sprung out from behind his back, “Heya mister! Who ya’ talking to?” He rolled his eyes, “Whoever the fuck I want, you gotta problem with that shit?” “Nope! But if I did, I’d might have ta pop a cap in your flank!” “Yeah, ight…” Gucci murmured, “Ya ain’t got that blat-blat shit up on ya.” She suddenly switched to his other shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Oh! That’s what you think, but I know better!” Gucci placed his palm firmly on her snout and shoved her off of him, “Mmmmhmmmm. If you knew better, ya’d do better, ya feel me?” The pink pony landed on all fours, “Hmm, nope! But here,” she pulled out a small, folded card out of seemingly nowhere, “That’s for you! Because you helped Mr. and Mrs. Cake earlier this morning when I was all sleepy-weepy!” The man flipped open the card and looked it over quickly. It was admittedly impressive in design, and even seemed to be catered to his individual tastes. Drawings of yellow diamonds met at each corner, with white and tan bricks creating a border around it. A significant amount of detail went into the center, which featured several ice-cubes with little stalactites of ice hanging down them. Over that it read, “You’re invited! Come at 5:30 P.M. to the Sugarcube Corner for a super-duper ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ Party!” Gucci nodded, “Ight.” She tilted her head to the side, “Say, what’s your name?” He pulled a mic from his pocket and held it to his mouth, “They call me Gucci Mane, but my name is Radric Davis an’-“ “Oooh! Ooh! Are we doing a song? Arewearewehuh?” The rapper nodded again, “Can I pick the song? Pleeeeeaaaase?” Gucci grunted indifferently, “Whatever, nigga.” “Yes! By the way, I’m Pinkie Pie! Tell me if you know this one! Also! Do you like parties?” “Fuck chyeah I do!” “Then sing along!” The pony cleared her throat and pulled her own mic from somewhere, “ALL I WANNA DO IS PARTY-“ “AN’ BULLSHIT!” He yelled. “AND PARTY!” “AN’ BULLSHIT!” “CAKES IN THE BACK LOOKIN’ RIGHTEOUS!” “TOP’S MESSED! THINK I MIGHT JUST!” “HIT ‘EM WITH A LITTLE PINKIE ONE-OH-ONE!” “HOW TO PARTY LIKE WE NEVE’ DONE!” “AND HAVE FUN WITH EQUESTRIAN RUM!” “WE CONVERSTATIN’, GOT BLUNTS IN ROTATION!” “MY COLT GUCC’ GONNA CLOCK AND GOT TA WASTIN’!” “WE’RE SMOKIN’, DRINKIN’, GOT THEM PONIES THINKIN’!” They both rapped simultaneously. “IF SWEETS SMELL BAD, THEN THIS PONY PINKIE STINKIN’!” Gucci yelled. “IS IT OUR CHARM? WE GOT THE PONIES AROUND OUR ARMS!” “GRABBIN’ ME, SAYIN’ LET’S LEAVE CALM!” “WE’RE BOPPIN’ HOOVES AND BALLIN’ AGAIN!” “ROLLIN’ BLUNTS, ‘BOUT TO GET A SCONE AGAIN!” “ZIGGAS START TO LOC OUT, SWEETS GOT ‘EM CHOKIN’ OUT!” “CAKES WAS THROWN AND A FUCKIN’ FIGHT BROKE OUT!” And like that, a fight broke out. A hoof suddenly hit Gucci in the side of the face, staggering him slightly. Out of nowhere, a massive mob of angry ponies was fighting, with him and Pinkie at the center. It seemed as though their rapping attracted unsavory attention and something eventually set off all of the citizens against each other. Gucci slapped the stallion across the face and stole whatever bits he could find off his unconscious body. Then, both him and the pink pony casually walked from the scene and sat at a park bench while random ponies fought some sort of battle. Pinkie hopped into the air, throwing her legs in random directions with a smile, “THAT! WAS! AWESOME! We really need to do that again sometime!” Gucci chuckled, “Chyeah, mos’ def’. I di’nt think ya’ll knew how to rap an’ shit like that. Shit was fierce!” “Aww, come on! You were great too!” “Nigga, I never said I wasn’t.” She giggled, “You’re funny!” With that, she jumped off the bench and began to hop away, “Remember!” Pinkie shouted, “Be at Sugarcube Corner at 5:30!” Gucci smirked, “Ight.” And so, our hero began another epic journey through the world. That is, until the pink pony came back, bouncing happily without a care in the world. He put the mic back in his jacket and waited for a few moments, just enough time for Pinkie to reach him again. “Hi!” “’Ey.” “Wanna go prank some ponies?” “Chyeah.” “Okie-Dokie-Lokie! Let’s go!” They were soon off, ready to cause disaster and chaos at every turn, much to the pleasure of a certain deity watching. Gucci wore a fancy suit he stole from some business that he quickly tailored to fit him. His exceptional skill to do random shit wasn’t very well known, but dangerously dapper in most cases. He had stolen the title of “Gucci” from the Shaolin Master of Fashion, Aldo Gucci, of the House of Gucci. It wasn’t easy, but he defeated the Master, taking his powers of Fashion, Swag, Style, and Class. Of course, this made Gucci Mane the new Master, but his clandestine usurpation went, thankfully, unnoticed. That had been nearly fifteen years ago. The rapper pulled a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses and placed them on his face. Another mic found itself within his hand as he adjusted his tie and pressed a finger to the single headphone in his right ear. Pinkie stood roughly a few feet away, holding a golf club and staring it down the shaft. She was dressed in some belted khaki pants, with a blue polo tucked in and a tan sweater vest on her chest. A green, Scottish golfing hat was on her head, with a little puffy ball of white on top. They were finally ready to begin. Gucci cleared his throat and spoke through his mic, “Hello and welcome to the Bad Pony World Championship PGA Tour. I’m your host for today, Mase Gumbel. With this last birdie right here, Pinkie Woods winning the championship from the three-time champion, Fuzzy Bastard.” He pointed to the puffy ball atop her hat, “Silence audience, I think-“ “Hey! Are we gonna start or not?” “Damn’t bitch! I’m bein’ a newsman!” He grunted, “Chyeah, get this shit over with already.” “Alrighty!” Pinkie Pie took the golf club with her mouth and aimed at the golf ball filled with sneezing power. The mare quickly swung, launching the object hundreds of feet away and straight at a carrot stand. Both of them watched as it exploded and launched sneezing powder all over the yellow mare attending the stand. Of course, she overreacted and began screaming about UFO’s in between sneezes. Such was life in Ponyville. Gucci snatched the golf club and smacked a ball himself, flinging it straight towards the horn of a purple mare. The ball was embedded and released the sneezing powder in a nearby radius that caught only her and a dragon on her back. Both the human and the pony laughed their asses off, finding hilarious pleasure in watching the duo across town sneeze uncontrollably. Pinkie attempted to give a thumb’s up, but it failed miserably and was only able to provide a hoof’s up. “Oooh! Nice shot!” The rapper watched proudly as his work still terrorized the innocent mare and dragon, “Oh damn, I’m nice as fuck wit’ dat shit. Time for one more, chyeah!” Gucci loaded another ball on his tee and took aim at another mare. Suddenly, some bird in the sky caught his keen eye. Being the benevolent and charitable person that he was, Gucci hit a ball right at it to share in the powder. The bird was knocked right out the sky and fell to the ground in a fit of sneezes and growls. Pinkie’s smile faded, “Uh-oh…” “What?” “That’s Gilda…” Gucci looked back at the bird to finally realize it had been a Griffon instead. He would be lying if he admitted he cared or if it even changed anything, however. The Griffon stood up and glared at the two, seething in anger. “Hey! *sneeze* What’s the *sneeze* big idea, you dweebs?” Gucci pulled a pill out of his little glass bottle and popped it, “Nah, we get geeked up, none ‘a that shit.” “*sneeze* What?” Pinkie popped out from Gilda’s left shoulder and leaned on her, “Girl, he’s geeked up!” “Bitch, I might be!” He replied back mirthfully. Gilda, confused, tilted her head to the side as the powder wore off. She sniffled once and held out her claw to Gucci. “Nice shot.” He shook it, “Burrr.” Gilda had to admit, most ponies would be running in terror right about now if they purposely hit a Griffon with a golf ball full of sneeze powder. But the human in front of her hadn’t, and actually stood calmly, as if waiting for some event to start. She watched as he checked his watch and take a bite out of a scone he had within his jacket. For some reason, she felt the beginnings of respect for the bi-pedal in front of her, who showed no fear or anxiety. For her, the Griffon, it was a breath of fresh air. Gilda gave a confident smirk, “Say, what’re you guys doing? Pullin’ pranks?” Pinkie, eager to get on good terms with Gilda again, nodded rapidly, “Yup! We just got Carrot Top, Twilight, and Spike!” She shrugged in response, “Don’t even know who they are.” Gucci nodded, “Word, that nigga Carrot Top ain’t even funny nomore. Nigga needs to get his shit together, ASAP.” “Say…” Pinkie started, thinking the same thing as Gilda, “What’s that word you keep saying mean?” “’Word’?” “No, that other one. ‘Nigga.’” “Yeah,” Gilda nodded, “What’s that even mean?” Gucci pulled out his monocle and placed it over his glasses, “My dear ladies, the term,” he airquoted, “’Nigga’ is one of the most versatile and multi-use word within the African-American English Vernacular Ebonics Language. One might use it address a friend or companion, or possibly even someone you don’t know or hate. The uses for ‘nigga’ are endless, really. My use of it is to describe an acquaintance.” He pulled away the monocle and put it back within his jacket. “Huh,” Gilda replied, “That actually seems pretty cool. Think I’ll start using that now, ‘nigga.’” Pinkie hopped up and down, “Yeah! Nigga’s the new super-duper fun word!” The rapper simply shrugged, “Ight.” “So, niggas, what do you two wanna do for fun?” the pony asked. Gilda considered leaving for a moment, feeling out of place. She then looked at Gucci and remembered he was some unknown creature who felt perfectly at ease with a bunch of ponies. No way she’d be called chicken for backing out when he was so easily keeping his cool. The Griffon puffed her chest, “I think we oughta prank some more. Turn some heads and stuff.” “Gucci?” “Ight.” “Let’sssss gooooo!” The pink pony yelled. With that, the unholy trinity was off to commit more dastardly deeds and cause general chaos. The fun was liable to even possibly become doubled. Pinkie swooned and fell to the floor with a hoof to her forehead, “Oh! Please! Somepony save me! I’m so defenseless and weak and this big bad Griffon is going to eat me!” “Roar,” Gilda shouted, smirking in the process. A stallion by the name of Caramel shot his head upwards, his ears darting around like antennas. He turned his head to find an odd scene that seemed somewhat threatening. Before him was that mare Pinkie Pie lying beside a bush near the Sugarcube Corner. A villain-like Griffon (Gilda, he thought her name was) wearing a cape, monocle, top hat, and moustache (he found that part strangely arousing) looming over her slowly, as if she were going in for a kill with the already extended claws. While Caramel was usually a cowardly pony and not very bright, he felt a sudden surge of courage within him. Especially so when he saw Pinkie dressed as some old-timey burlesque dancer, feathery hat included. The heroic stallion leaped onto the scene and pointed a hoof, “Stop right there, villainous scum! You won’t be hurting Pinkie Pie anytime soon!” “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it? Oh, shoot-” The Griffon looked at her claw and read off her script, “Uh… Nigga, please! Then do something, nigga! Or you… Best be leaving? Err, nigga.” She added for good measure. Pinkie waved a hoof dramatically in the air, “Oh, Caramel, help me! Swoon! Sigh!” He ran towards Gilda and pulled his hoof back as far as possible. With a stop when in proximity, the hero threw his arm forward with all of his strength and gave an effeminate grunt. Gilda barely felt the girly slap on her back leg and murmured several insults. “Oh! Woe is me! I have been defeated and bested by you in hoof-to-claw combat!” She fell over and shot her appendages in the air, her tongue sticking out of her beak, “I am dead.” Caramel was sweating incredibly from the tension but forced himself forward to the mare he had just saved the life of. He cradled her seemingly tired and wounded body and held her neck up, tears streaming down his face. “Why, Pinkie, why? Why did this have to happen to you?” She coughed once, “Cldsirg…” “What?” “I said, ‘closer.’” He obliged and moved in a few inches. “Closer…” Caramel did so again. Pinkie twitched several times, “Closer!” He readily moved in as close as possible, rubbing up against her. “Now…” she whispered in his ear, “… do you like surprises?” He tilted his head in confusion, “…Huh?” Suddenly, some creature leaped out of the nearby bush, throwing its arms wildly in the air, yelling, “DISTRICT COURT JUDGES WORK WITH OTHER MISCELLANEOUS JUDICIAL DIVISIONS AND PERSONNEL IN HANDLING THEIR CASELOADS! THEY INCLUDE THE TERRITORIAL COURTS, U.S. MAGISTRATES AND BANKRUPTCY COURTS!” Caramel fell backwards, babbling in fright. He then passed out on the ground, his heart nearly rupturing from both shock and fear. His back legs twitched around several times before he just stopped entirely, other than his chest still rising and falling. All three pranksters broke out in laughter and walked from the scene, with a few caring citizens heading over to Caramel to make sure he wasn’t dead. The group kept walking until they reached the park, where they stopped to rest. Pinkie hopped off the bench and smiled at her two compatriots, “Well, I gotta prepare for the party! You guys are coming, riiiiiggght?” She finished by extending her neck out. “You gonna have lemonade?” “Of course, silly!” She said, lightly hitting his leg with her hoof. “Ight, then.” “Goody! See you niggas later!” The mare exclaimed as she clopped her hooves together and zipped off. Gilda snorted and watched as ponies passed in the park, “Man, this place is boring.” “Word. Shit is unnatural.” “So, where ya from?” “Aaaattttlanta!” he responded, “Where the real niggas at!” Gucci stood up, “Chyeah! Motherfuck Jeezy! Motherfuck Jay-Z! Motherfuck Def Jam! Gentlemen, here comes the left blow!” He threw a few punches and continued, “Cause I’m the G-U-C-C-I and this is the season! To let the real motherfuckin’ G’s in! Yo-“ “Hey, are you singing a song?” Gucci stopped and deflated, “Bitch, I was rapping some hard shit. Fuck it though, I’m tired as shit right now.” “You were whatting?” “Rapping, doy!” “Huh. Never heard of something like that before,” she admitted. “Yeah, well that shi-“ he stopped and stared at something in front of him. “Hey, what’s-“ Gilda looked at what he was seeing. Not far from where the two were, a gray mare with blond hair and bubbles on her flank was sitting on her haunches, being terrorized by four stallions who shouted rude names at her. It was obvious she was crying; even from their distance it was easily visible. Now, Gucci was a kind and benevolent man who knew justice inside and out. Certain things set him off, like excessive use of the word “cracker” and hate crimes. But seeing this made him depressed. And no one makes Gucci Mane depressed and gets away with it, at least, intact they don’t. “Hey, what’re you doing?” Gilda asked as he stomped off towards the stallions. “Gonna bust at some bitches, bitch.” Gucci stood over the group of stallions and listened to the various insults they threw at the crying mare. “DERPDERPDERP!” “COME ON, DERPINATOR! WHY DON’T YOU GET YOUR PRECIOUS MUFFINS TO HELP YOU?” “LOOK AT THIS FREAK! WHAT KINDA MARE IS CROSS-EYED?” “HAH! HOW SHE EVEN HAD THAT FOAL IS BEYOND ME! WHOEVER WOULD WANT TO HAVE ONE WITH HER IS A STUPI-“ That last stallion was rudely cut off when one of Gucci’s right shoe was planted in his face. This didn’t go unnoticed as the other stallions took offensive stances, each surprised to see an unknown creature suddenly attacking them. “WHAT IN CELESTIA’S BEARD IS THAT!” The nearest one yelled. He was the second pony to got merced mercilessly. Gucci pistol-whipped his head, sending him into a forced state of unconsciousness. The other two shifted back, nearly ready to run. “Ya’ll messed with the wrong bitch, ya heard?” “OH SWEET LUNA IT TALKS!” Gucci pulled out his monocle, “My word, no need to assume such offensive things and presume that I cannot speak. Truly, you sirs are no better than the slavers of the 1600’s who destroyed Africa. I’d like to have a talking to with your mothers after this! Now,” he stuff the monocle back in, “have atcha, niggas!” A brown stallion jumped at him, which failed miserably as Gucci grabbed him by the throat and threw him to the floor. He then proceeded to kick the pony in the crotch until he was sure it was out cold. Gucci turned to find the last beginning to run away. Not on his watch. For he was, The Dark Gucc’. Gucci leaped onto the back of the pony and gave him a really hard noogie, dropping him to the floor in pain. Then, from what he’d learn from the Shaolin temples of the 36 Chambers, he karate-chopped the stallion in the head, crumpling him into an unconscious pile. Gucci didn’t even break a sweat. He headed back to the mare and walked off without a word until Gilda flew up by him. “Whoa! That was awesome! Where’d you learn to do that?” Gucci smirked, “Niggas need to learn howta fight on’a streets, ya heard Birdwoman? Them Wu-Tang niggas taught me how to do that shit with their kung-fu-taboo-voodoo-Okinawa type shit.” “Darn, I really need to learn that stuff. Where can I find one of tho-“ “Excuse me?” a voice called out. They both turned to find the mare from just a few moments ago wiping her eyes clean of tears. She sniffled once and looked up at Gucci with puffy eyes. “…Thank you… for helping me. Nopony else ever does anymore… and well, they usually make fun of me behind my back…” Gucci withheld his fury and pulled a Cuban cigar from his jacket, lighting it, “All in a day’s work for the iciest nigga out there.” Gilda, in a moment of curiosity, landed next to the mare, who flinched back slightly, “Say, why do you let them do that? Can’tcha just beat ‘em up?” The mare looked away, “I-I don’t know how to fight… and-and I don’t want to fight! I don’t like hurting other ponies!” The rapper puffed out some smoke, “Gotta learn to protect ya neck, or else ye’ll get wrecked, y’kna’mean?” The Griffon stared at the pony in slight confusion. Being of warrior blood, Gilda always found meekness and weakness to both be the same thing, and the combination was always an infuriatingly revolting sight. Yet, she felt sorry for the mare instead of lashing out like she did with that other pegasus a while back. “Uh… well,” Gilda placed one claw behind her neck and the other on the shoulder of the gray mare, “If those jerks ever um… mess with you again, find me or him.” She puffed out her chest proudly, “We’ll sort ‘em out. Right?” She turned to Gucci, expecting him to confirm her words. Of course, when she noticed he was he wasn’t around, she looked in every direction. The mare pointed to the left, where the man was looting bits off of the knocked out bodies. Gilda face-clawed and turned back to the pony. “You gotta name?” The mare looked somewhat thankful, “Derpy.” “Huh.” Was all Gilda could respond with. Gucci came back with several slinkies hanging from his hands, “Nigga’s had some nice shit. Damn! I need a blunt, right about fuckin’ now!” The rapper then proceeded to roll a blunt after throwing his cigar into a trash bin, which soon caught fire. Oblivious, he continued to do as he pleased as the pony and the Griffon simply watched in awe at his iciness. Far, far away, a draconequus was laughing incredibly hard at the new interloper’s antics. He hadn’t seen such things in thousands of years, and the laughter was refreshing! For now, however, he’d keep watching the human who trespassed in another world. Until things could really get interesting, that is. Oh, how he loved to see such unintentional chaos just manifest without restraint! Delightful. The draconequus sighed happily and continued to wait to see what the rapper would do next. Surely, something of amazing proportions. He was sure of it. Author's Notes Yo, yo, yo, niggas! What's poppin'? Now, sorry for the wait, I had other shit to take care of. Now, see if you can catch all the rap references in this chapter. Older shit, West Coast, East Coast shit! Anyway, thanks for everyone who reads and likes this shit. Ya'll niggas make me proud to have written such an amazing piece of work that deserves to be in the Library of Congress. Until next time, guys. Also, who the fuck posted this on Gucci's LastFM page? That nigga is gonna send someone to kill me or some shit now! Or worse, HIS LAWYERS! OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK! As Always, Stay Trilla.
