Sailor Moon Chronicles R
Busting Rhymes for Joy
PaRappa the Rapper, Stage On!
The Witches 5 were all sitting in a common room in their secret lair. The common room was a parlor decorated in black stone, cherry wood, and red cloth. The rays of the sun were stifled completely by scarlet curtains. The only light came from candles. Telulu sat on a red velvet sofa and read fashion magazines while Eugeal and Byruit were busy working on laptop computers at cherry wood desks. Cyprine stood in front of a tall mirror and posed before it while experimenting with a new skin exfoliator.
"Do you think this stuff is really working?" Cyprine asked Telulu.
"I have total faith in that exfoliator," Telulu said, turning away from the magazine and onto Cyprine's reflection. "It is all natural, made from tropical plants from the Rain Forests. I use it and have no regrets."
Just then, the door to the parlor burst open, and Mimet pranced in with high spirits. She cared a CD in her hand. "Guess what I found?" she squealed.
"Crabs?" Byruit said, not looking away from her computer but still intending a joke.
"No," said Mimet. She held the CD up for all of them to see. The CD bared the words "PaRappa the Rapper" in its title printed to look like graffiti on a brick wall.
"PaRappa?" Cyprine said curiously. "Who is that?"
"He happens to be a sensation on Corneria," Mimet explained. "He is a yellow dog around our age with a rap career that has soared high and mighty. He is super famous." She skipped to the boom box on one of the counters and placed the CD inside the machine. "You all will love him."
An urban beat came on. It was soon accompanied by PaRappa's rapping. The song was essentially about drunken girls coming onto him in club.
"I have no idea what he is saying, but it sounds cool," Mimet squealed blissfully.
"Shut that trash off!" Eugeal hallowed with her hands over her ears. "I can't stand rap music." She got up from her desk, walked over to the boom box, and pressed the stop button.
"I was listening to that!" Mimet whined.
"How can you stand that drivel," retorted Eugeal. "It is nothing but crude sentences spoken to cheap music."
"You can be such a fuddy-duddy, Eugeal," complained Mimet.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Asajj Ventress appeared in the doorway. This alien woman met the youthful room with a chill of distain for these happy girls. Her slender, white body was dressed in her usual tight, black halter top and floor-length black dress. Her bold head was lusterless in the candle light. Her cerulean eyes came to Mimet and Eugeal.
"Ganondorf has another assignment ready," said Ventress, as she glided towards the two girls. "The youth shall be our next target. You are to choose someone of influence and bring them into our control. That person shall spread our message to the minds of the people. Search for a target now and stop squabbling."
None of the witches liked Ventress, for she was cold and seductive in a manner that was "creepy" for them.
"I know the perfect target," Eugeal said.
"Do you?" Ventress said softly.
Eugeal picked up the PaRappa CD and showed it to Ventress. "This rapper is very famous among teenagers and is a perfect candidate for a demon's host."
"Interesting," said Ventress. "I shall tell Ganondorf of your plan, so he can pick out the right kind of demon for him. You shall be sent out to curse this boy."
"What?" Mimet shrieked in outrage. "I want to go."
Ventress laughed. "Not a chance. Mimet, Kaorinite has told Ganondorf all about your failures attempting to steal hearts from only the handsomest celebrity men. You are distracted far too easily by fame and beauty, my dear." She turned around and left the room, closing the door behind.
"He is so creepy," Telulu said.
"You have to admit that, for a dude, he can work that dress," commented Cyprine.
A monsoon of screaming fans waited outside the glass threshold of a record store, gripping pens and autograph books and CDs. The most fanatical of them pressed their faces against the glass and let they drool make water marks on the windows to make it looked like it had just rained. The record store workers were afraid of opening the store and letting in the stampede. Of course, PaRappa was sweating. PaRappa was a young, teenage, anthropomorphic dog with creamy fur and floppy black ears that flopped down from under his red, wool cap, a pointless, in practicality, accessory given that he was wearing a blue tank-top, baggy, darker blue sweat pants, and red tennis shoes. He was quite "cute", a description that doesn't quite brush him well since he is a rapper. He was at the record signing of his CD along with two other friends, a bear and another dog. The bear, P.J. Berri, was PaRappa's best friend and arguably his sidekick. He was a little short and dumpy yet an amazing DJ who often assisted PaRappa in his concerts and CDs. He looked sleepy and dressed like a normal boy from the hood: loose-fitting t-shirt, oversized sweatpants, tennis shoes endorsed by some athlete (which one was not that important). The dog boy was similar in appearance to PaRappa. However, there was no relation. He also had nicely combed blonde hair on his head. His name was Matt Major. He was rather clean-cut and proper as well and in a lot of purple clothing.
"This CD of yours really made it big, PaRappa," said Matt.
"There are a lot of people out there," P.J. said lazily. "I'm sure glad that I don't have to sign all those CDs."
"Don't keep reminding me!" whined PaRappa.
When the doors opened, the flood of screaming fans burst through for the autographs they would cherish. After dozens and hundreds of autographs, PaRappa was carried away by his two friends to a SUV parked behind the store with an aching hand. Matt drove the car. There next destination was the house of their good friend, Byron Jones. Unfortunately, like vultures, paparazzi in black cars saw them pull out from the back alley. This was unfortunate. The flashing lights, speeding cars, moderate traffic: this was unfortunate. Every red light would lead to a SUV full flashing cameras stopping right at their side.
"Can't we get a break today?" complained P.J.
"I can shake them," said Matt, strongly gripping the wheel.
Matt turned the car into the turnoff into the freeway. The engine revved as it matched up the speeds of the others on the road. The paparazzi still pursued them up onto the elevated street that swirled into the heavier part of the city, away from Byron's neighborhood. Matt used the thickening freeway to his advantages. Some lane changes, speed-ups, slow-downs: they were all helpful in shaking off the paparazzi.
"Matt, you're so amazing!" cheered PaRappa, not seeing a single paparazzo through the back window. "You got rid of them."
"That's why you have me around," said Matt, "for that and fighting off the screaming fans."
"You know it!" laughed PaRappa. "Thank you!"
Since the chase was done and won, they finally drove to the lavish gated community where Byron, Petunia, Emily, and PaRappa himself lived. Cameras caught every angle around the gate, capturing everything entering and leaving. Matt leaned out of the window and punched in the entrance code. The steel bars of the enormous golden gate inched open until finally granting access into the Eden of mansions. The terrain was wavy as those of Earth's Beverly Hills and had the same degree of gluttonous grandeur. So big, so glamorous, so extravagant, so garish it was silly. Every inch of flora was green and colored by the intricate, and actually quite wasteful, sprinkler systems that watered everything in range at regularly scheduled intervals every day, every week, every season, so the grounds were always green except when snow fell. The owners had nothing to do with these feats of vegetation sculpturing. These works of art were painstakingly sculpted by the workers while the owners barely even spent the time to admire the work. Spectators complemented the owners on this art. An enormous garage would belong to a single house and have more cars than needed for a whole city block. These garages were often enlarged to fit more cars because there can never be enough. Cars and pools were the envy of the neighbors. All wanted that little bit bigger. The things inside these houses were, of course, expensive, grand, amazing, or pointless. It was all about pride.
Byron's house was one of the loveliest. The pure white façade was beautiful as the sun struck it. Three floors for the three people it had. Matt parked the SUV near the mansion's doors. PaRappa rang the doorbell and awaited the answer from most likely the butler.
Byron sat in a black leather office chair with his electric guitar perched in his lap. That professional grade instrument was plugged into the best (allowed in a residential zone) amp money could buy. The volume was on very low to keep the song pleasurable for Emily, who sat on his king-sized bed with Timmy. Byron's head bobbed up and down yet did not disturb his raised rabbit ears. Emily gazed dreamily with a blissful whimsy fluttering in her heart at her boyfriend as he had a backdrop of soccer, martial arts, and surfing trophies. Byron was very lucky. As the son of two ultra successful actors, he had it all, at least in the material world.
"Ooh!" squealed Emily. "Cuddles, you're so cool!"
"You're really good at the guitar," said Timmy. "I can sing, but you're good at everything."
"I know," Byron answered smugly. "Let's see Nutty even try any of the things I can do."
"Why did you bring him up?" asked Emily.
"Cuddles is just sore because Petunia said Nutty kicked a monster's a**," said Timmy.
"Shut up, Toothy," sneered Byron.
"You shouldn't let that bother you," said Emily. "Petunia was really impressed by him. I think she really likes him. I think Mime has some competition."
"My a**!" laughed Byron. "There is no way that that poor freak with a lazy eye has a chance against another freak with money."
"That's not very nice," scolded Emily.
Byron scoffed.
The butler came to the door and told them that PaRappa and his friends had arrived to take them to Club Fun, a dance club where PaRappa was scheduled to perform.
Every color in the spectrum flashed from lights on the floor, walls, and ceiling. The strove lights blazed through the air whenever the chiaroscuros were not flaring, shining lovely radiance on the ecstatic dancers whose whimsies and impulses took hold. The staleness of reason was shoved aside for the fantastic carefree ecstasy. The thoughts of the dancers were probably not even active. Their bodies were under an autopilot turned on by the music, yet their emotions of happiness were invoked and ablaze as an electrical euphoria. So what if rationality and coherent strings of thoughts were missing? They did not need to be present, for Club Fun was a place of sheer jubilation.
P.J. was the DJ for the club. His perpetually sleepiness (which was most likely caused by his late hours at the club) was nonexistent at the scratch boards. Never a complaint arose from any of the patrons, for all their whimsies were met by the maestro. PaRappa was there too, giving the vocals while P.J. handled the background music. PaRappa's song, "Love Together," was very different from the normal vitriolic, nonsensical drivel that so many rap artists, both Cornerian and Earthling, subjugate themselves to spouting so coarsely. PaRappa was not like them. Sure, every now and then a song of his would have some misogynistic undertones for commercial flypaper, but his grandest performance pieces were those that were of commendable lyrics. Love that was not a guise for a sexual thirst was the subject that many were so pleased to hear for once. He, unlike many, had his sights on only one girl. These songs were for her. Unfortunately, he had not won her heart yet. The loving family he had was also of great inspiration. Though motherless, he and his little sister, Pinto, were well-taken care of by their father. PaRappa stories were not of violence or sex; they were of seeking what is truly good in life. As the jubilant partiers danced, they danced to words of delight.
At the door, a motorcycle, carrying two riders, stopped. The riders, masked by helmets both wore tight, black leather. One was clearly a woman, and the other was clearly an anthropomorphic lizard. They shedding the helmets and gave their identities, Eugeal and Leon, only to people who could see through their whole guise. Both came into Club Fun with a somberness that was reflected outward by the blackness of the leather they wore. Leon's eyes slithered within their sockets and found PaRappa up on stage. Eugeal cuffed her hands over her ears. She hated rap music of all themes.
"We've found our target," Leon said to her, not knowing that she could not hear him.
PaRappa took a break after a series of songs. The heat of the strove lights exhausted him and made him sweat his clothes into a dampness that was usually attained by standing out in the rain. There was a quaint dressing room for him backstage that also housed a small bathroom with a shower. He disrobed and proceeded to cleanse is sweaty body. He twisted the knobs shut to end the water's flow and reach over to the counter for his towel. Once content with this job drying with the towel, he put on a blue robe yet also put his red cap back on too. A chill from nowhere made him shiver. When he opened the door, PaRappa found Eugeal in her witch clothes standing in the center of the small room.
"How the hell did you get in here?" PaRappa shrieked. "You may be a fan, but learn boundaries."
"I'm not of fan of c***," Eugeal scoffed, "but your music is loved by many. That will be useful."
"Securi…" Before he could finish is cry for help, Leon wrapped himself around PaRappa, holding a knife to the boy's neck, easily hushing him.
"Don't scream, PaRappa," said Eugeal, stepping forward. "You won't die if you just comply with us."