This was the story:
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The entire floor was filled with standing MCs. Just an endless sea of faceless black shadows of men, slowly inching their way towards the center. The supposed 'hero' - a humble man known as Kurupt hailing from the grainy scene of California - lay there in the middle amongst the cluttered soulless figures with only a sliver of energy left. His chest pounded breathlessly as he bellowed into the mic. With every complete rhyme, another soulless beast collapsed into defeat.
"Yo cuz, you can't ABC me, raised in California where the chronic burns freely". The next demon was laid to rest.
Then, the horn blared.
Kurupt wiped the sweat from his face. His rapid fire pacing had paid off; the next circle of MCs wasn't due to close in for another few minutes. He gloomily tallied the last wave into the stained chair leg next to him. Only about 700 MCs have been slayed according to his count. Staring at disbelief at the tally marks, physical exhaustion was beginning to take a toll on his mental state.
"I can't do this", he told himself. "There are just too many of them here."
Kurupt analyzed his situation. All of California was cheering him on. His entire home state being carried across his back. He could not bear to let them see him fail. He felt irresponsible. His reckless behavior and inflated ego contributed to the tribulation that he dug himself into. Kurupt took his sweat drenched Dodgers cap off and gave it a loving stare. "I just want you guys to get the respect you deserve" he spoke to the logo as he gave it a motherly caress.
He closed his eyes and soon thereafter briefly drifted into sleep. Palm trees, rolling hills, and chronic smoke. Impalas and hydrolics. Beach cruisers and Raiders Nation. Home was all he wanted. The horn blared, signaling the start of the next circle of MCs. Kurupt begrudgingly rose to his feet, microphone in hand. In his dazed state, the demons managed to get th first line off.
"You've dined fine wine with a side serving of the dead, now it's divine rhyme time as I smack the kufi off ya head."
That seemed to have did it. The microphone surged with electricity. The screams of torture echoed throughout the club. Kurupt had let one get the better of him. He immediately collapsed into a broken whimper. As he lay there absorbing the shocks of both the rhyme and the electricity, the demons were zeroing in. What he felt were his last moments were now upon him.
Kurupt searched the nearby area, searching for his cap as it was the last symbol of the only thing he wanted. Under the table he found it, laying there next to a full Hennessey bottle. He let out a sorrowful sigh and woefully picked up both items. Cap atop his head and bottle in hand, he decided to take one last drink. One last reminder of home before the demons took his soul and assimilated him into demonhood. Kurupt opened the bottle and inhaled the alcoholic aroma it emitted. "Tha Dogg Pound" he said as he took a large gulp of liquor.
Time seemed to stop. The club he was in was suddenly empty and the whole world had gone white. Perplexed, he jumped at the sudden sound of 2Pac's voice in his head. "It's West Side. Ride or die" 2Pac said. The line echoed in Kurupt's head as the real world once again slowly painted back into focus.
Kurupt had felt a new life suddenly injected into him. 2Pac's words had given him new strength. "It's West Side... for life", he told himself. Kurupt swiftly got back on his feet, and looked at his hat one more time. "This is for ya'll" he said to his Dodger's logo. He placed the cap snugly around his head, and sharpened his eyes.
"Colin Powell would weep at the way I'm destroying ya, you've reached the fukking danger zone: welcome to California."
As the story goes, Kurupt emerged atop a pile of corpses at the club doors many hours later with a newfound sense of completion to himself. Kurupt readjusted his hat, exited the building and jumped in his impala. He gave one last look at the club before riding off into the sunset.
Rappers 50 places back just standing in line rehearsing their lines. 
