Get back home, things are wrong
Well not really, it was bad all along
Before he left, adds up to a ball of power
Thoughts at a thousand miles per hour
Hello, ghetto, let your brain breathe,
believe there's always more, ahhhhh!
-Outkast, Bombs over Baghdad

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Balls of Power Book One

The 24-Karat-Gold-Inlaid Bling

The 24-Karat-Gold-Inlaid Bling forms the first part of a story in three volumes. The first volume is set in a universe like ours, but everyone in it forms bad movie stereotypes. The second volume is set in the universe we know, only in the ghetto. The third volume will take place in such eclectic locales as Venice Beach, Compton, Brooklyn, Detroit, and Newark.

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Chapter One – Lying, the Bitch, and the Wardrobe

"Lyra, you're not taking this seriously. Behave yourself," said Lyra's dæmon, Pantalaimon.

"Shut the hell up," snapped Lyra. "You're such a pussy. You wouldn't last two days in the hood."

"You realize that we're the same person, right?"

Lyra bitch-slapped her dæmon hard. "Listen, you furry piece of crap!" she shouted. "I'm in charge here! Me! You best shut up before I snap your little neck!"

"Um...am I interrupting something?" came a sudden voice from the door at the other end of the room. The Steward entered, his red setter dæmon trotting at his heels. "I mean...what are you doing in here, Lyra Belacqua? You're due for a good thrashing, you are! Just wait until I get my hands – "

He was interrupted by Lyra moving up to him seductively, swaying her hips. "You can get your hands on me any time you want," she whispered, her face inches from his, before pushing up against him and feeling him express his – feelings – for her – physically. Erm, I mean, you get what I'm saying? Any more and I'll have to post this on Adultfanfiction.

She gave him a teasing kiss on the lips before slipping a piece of paper with her room number on it into his pocket. "Knock twice, then twice again," she whispered, almost spitting the words in his face with a physical sense of power she found overwhelming, yet addictive. "If you don't tell anyone you found me here, I'll make it worth your while." Pan, meanwhile, was in his sexiest doggy form sniffing the butt of the Steward's dæmon. The older man nodded slowly, at which point Lyra sidled into the wardrobe, the Steward looking longingly after her.

The second the door was closed, Pan turned into a llama and spat in Lyra's face. "That was the most disgusting thing I've ever had to do," he said. "That dog was, like, fifty."

Lyra was still smiling, relishing the last traces of the adrenaline rush just subsiding. She had a profound skill with seduction, even though she was only – what, eleven, twelve? – years old. No man had ever been able to resist her when she turned her charm on. Her immense narcissism, however, meant that she was never attracted to anyone other than herself.

"Why are we even hiding in here, anyway?" asked Pan. "We're gonna get caught."

Lyra, still smiling, grabbed her dæmon by the private parts and squeezed tightly, at the same time clamping a hand over his mouth to prevent him from giving her position away. "How many times do I need to ask you to shut up?" she asked sweetly, relinquishing her hold only when she felt his complete submission. She found things difficult with that little nagging voice in her head, and so she made as many attempts to silence it as she could.

The door opened again, but this time it was the Godfather who entered, accompanied by two flunkies. "One of you, behind the curtains," said the old man, his raven dæmon flapping her wings. "You, in the wardrobe!" Lyra mentally sighed before pulling out her butcher knife, which she of course carried with her at all times. She remained completely silent as the man pulled open the wardrobe door, hiding in the shadow on the opposite side of the closet. Once the strange man was inside and had pulled the door almost completely closed, Lyra, smiling, slid the knife carefully, gently, directly through the man's heart. She pulled it out again, ordering her dæmon to lick it clean, for blood made her queasy.

She moved the dead body aside and peered out the crack the strange man had left in the door. The other man had positioned himself behind the curtains, and Lyra saw him pocket a pistol before disappearing from her sight altogether. At this, a sudden revelation hit her: they were hit men, and their job was to kill her uncle, father, and cousin Lord Asriel IV.

"Now aren't you glad we came here?" Lyra asked Pantalaimon, a trill to her voice that would suggest to some that she was happy. But Pan knew better.

She was suddenly distracted as smooth jazz music began to penetrate the scene. Somehow a disco ball was flashing on the walls, and her uncle-father-cousin Lord Asriel, complete with furs, high-tops, and pimp cane, entered the room.

"Gr-oovay!" he crooned, although to the best of his knowledge there was no one else in the room.

The Steward entered again, a suspicious-looking stain on the front of his trousers.

"Sappnin'! Right on! How is you? It be supa fine t'see ya' again. 'S coo', bro," spoke Asriel, ambling towards the table. "I gots arrived too late t'eat. Man! ah' gots'ta wait here."

"Very well, Lord Asriel," spoke the Steward, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "If you'll have a seat right there, the Godfather will be right with you."

"Coo'," spoke her many-times-over relative, sitting at a place where, Lyra saw, he was in perfect sniper range of the hit man still waiting behind the curtain. Once the Steward exited, Lyra burst from the wardrobe, throwing her knife across the room directly into the forehead of the hit man. He fell forward, taking most of the curtain with him.

Lord Asriel did a complicated series of flips and somehow managed to catch the curtains before they hit the ground. Quickly setting them back up again, he made a series of movements with his hands too fast for the human eye to follow. When he was done the curtain stood exactly as before, the man's body had disappeared, and a strong lemony clean scent had filled the majority of the room.

"Why you hangin' here, jive turkey?" he asked. "Answa' me. I gon' smack you up, bitch!"

"Ooh, you know we can't here, Ozzie," said Lyra, giggling and blushing furiously, running a hand down his chest.

Asriel pushed her away. "Get cho' ass back in that wardrobe, girl!" he cried. "They gon' notice somethin's up!"

Lyra did as she was told. My earlier statement can be revised: she was attracted to one other person: Lord Asriel IV, aka Ozzie, making her family tree more screwed up than anyone could have imagined.

She pulled the wardrobe door exactly as far shut as it was before, leaving the slight crack so the Godfather would think his hit man was still in place. Just as she finished, the door opened yet again, and the Godfather himself entered.

"Welcome, Asriel," said the old man, a silky-smooth overtone outlining his words. "The family extend their heartfelt greetings."

Asriel nodded.

"Sappnin'. Dank ya' fo' yo' hospitality. Slap mah fro!" he stated enthusiastically, appearing for all the world like nothing had happened. Indeed, in his mind nothing had, for Lyra had forgotten to tell him about the plot to take his life.

Oops.

The Godfather attempted to slap his fro, but missed, for Lord Asriel IV had no fro.

"Please, tell me the reason for this unexpected visit," said the Godfather, his voice a mixture of every Italian-gangster accent ever manufactured in Hollywood.

"I gots'ta show ya' drough interpretive boogie," said Asriel. "Set me down some disco ball and play "Stayin' Alive" by de Bee Gees. I'm goin' t'boogie! Right on!"