the limit | ✔

comatose

          "Yeeeaaah, so Prince is in a coma, and it's kinda my fault," Michael admitted to his friend and producer Quincy Jones before breaking down and deflecting the blame. "But it's totally Prince's fault he's in a coma, one-hundred and ten percent. I made that Kool-Aid for me to drink, but that greedy bastard took it right out of my hands and chugged it like a mad man."

          Quincy nodded his head as if he understood Michael's plight, but then he shook his head because he really didn't understand at all. "How did drinking Kool-Aid put Prince into a coma?" he asked.

          "Hell if I know," Michael responded halfheartedly. He folded his arms over his chest. "I may or may not have dumped a whole pound bag of sugar in it, but that's not the point. He didn't even drink all of it, but he still twitched like a dying bug."

          "Fucking dumbass," Quincy mumbled under his breath.

          "Excuse me, bitch, I'll fire you."

          Quincy perked up and plastered an enormous smile on his face. "What I meant to say was 'fucking genius'! You do realize that by putting Prince in a coma, you've eliminated your biggest competitor, right? You are now unmatched in the industry."

          Michael's eye twitched. "First of all," he said as he raised his finger in the air matter-of-factly, "I was never matched in the industry in the first place, especially not by him. Second, even if Prince being in a coma meant I'd be the only artist to sell a record for the rest of eternity, I still wouldn't want him to be in a coma. That's just messed up. I can handle my own and still be successful without my 'competition' needing to be asleep."

          Quincy raised his hands in defeat. He didn't feel like arguing with an ungrateful bitch that can't appreciate the grand opportunity placed before him. He believed Michael was an absolute moron for not taking advantage of Prince's unconsciousness to gain the upper hand in the business even though Michael was right---Prince was hardly competition for him. They were two totally different people with different styles, and even then, Prince---or anyone for that matter---could never reach the level of success Michael had and break the records he set. He already had the upper hand and used it to bitch slap anyone who threatened to dethrone him. "Whatever you say, boss." He lowered the volume of his voice so Michael couldn't hear him. "Pussy ass bitch."

          "Anyway, I'm gonna go visit Prince in the hospital. I feel like I owe him that, at least."

          "And how are you gonna sneak through the crowd of reporters huddled around outside of the hospital waiting for news on his condition without them noticing you and publishing a story about how you suck Prince's dick in the stall of a public men's restroom at Walmart?"

          Michael's face turned cherry red and burned like fire. After the embarrassment passed, he raised a brow at the reputable producer that also happened to be his friend. "Couldn't you have said that in a simpler way? Like, 'How are you going to avoid the paparazzi so they don't spread rumors?' The way you said that was so accusatory as if I actually perform oral sex on Prince in Walmart restrooms, which I don't, by the way. I just feel like you said a bunch of useless words. Besides, they might think I'm there to finish him off."

          "You mean make him cum?"

          "NO!" Michael's face burned a deep shade of red. "I meant KILL him, make him NOT ALIVE anymore! He almost died because of me, and they'll probably think I'm there to finish the job!"

          "Oh, well that could be taken in multiple ways. You can't blame me for misinterpreting what you said."

          "Pervert." And with that, Michael was on his way to the hospital to see Prince lay unconscious in a bed with a bunch of machines hooked up to his limp, motionless body.

          He was wearing a very clever disguise---a mustache and big old man glasses. The media didn't even notice him walk into the hospital.

          He was denied visitation rights because apparently only family could visit him and he was not family.

          So he snuck into Prince's hospital room through the window which was a difficult task because his room was on the fourth floor in the back of the building. He had to stack a few ladders on top of each other in order to get high enough.

          Thankfully no one was in the room when he broke the window with a brick to get in. It was a little over the top, but it was absolutely, undoubtedly necessary. He climbed in and popped a squat next to Prince's bed.

          He tapped Prince's cheek with the tip of his forefinger a few times. "Priiiiiiiiiince," he whispered somewhat loudly and obnoxiously as he ripped his fake mustache off and removed his sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. "Priiiiince, are you still aliiiiiive?" He tapped him a few more times. "Of course you're still alive, you're just asleep. But you really gotta wake up, man. I need to know if that Kool-Aid was good or not."

          Then Prince's little sister Tyka barged into the room and tried throwing hands at Michael. "Square up, cunt!" She yelled at him as she swung her fists at him. He shot up and started backing away from her ferociously flying fingers. "You put my brother in a coma, you piece of shit! You nearly killed him!" Her face turned red and a vein popped in her neck as she screamed at the frightened pop star. Tears welled in her eyes from the overwhelming emotions swelling in her chest.

          Michael's back hit the wall, and he was officially trapped by the frightening little lady coming towards him. He had backed himself into a corner and had nowhere else to go. "I'm sorry, but it really wasn't my fault!" he said with a trembling voice caused by terror as he slid down the wall until his caboose hit the floor.

          Tyka squated down so she could be eye-level with him. She poked a finger in his chest and growled, "Yes, it is your fault, you no good creep!"

          Michael shook his head and said, "It really isn't my fault. He barged into my house without my permission and drank my Kool-Aid, again, without permission. If he doesn't wanna be in a coma, he shouldn't drink other people's Kool-Aid."

          Tyka thrust her hand at Michael and grabbed his throat, squeezing it slightly in her hand. "You're going to fix this."

          "H-how?"

          She reached into the front left pocket of her jeans with her free hand and pulled out a piece of paper. "On this paper is an address." She violently stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket. "You will go there and meet a man named George. From there, he will tell you what to do. And if you screw this up, I will find you, and I will kill you dead. Got it, buster?" She squeezed his throat a little tighter.

          Unable to speak, Michael simply nodded his head to show her he understood.

          "Good." She released her hold on his neck and left the room.