Today something momentous happened. I discovered my place in the Star Wars universe. It happened in Dolores Park, while trying to determine the easiest way to lure my girlfriend out of the park and away from Pokemon Go. Boba tea, I thought, that should do it. And then it hit me; my name; the letters emblazoned in crimson against a streaking, ashen sky; Boba Fetty Wap.
How it took this long to dawn on me, I can't say, but now that I've found my place in the Star Wars canon I can rest easy. Just think: The Intergalactic Misadventures of Boba Fetty Wap. Who wouldn't want to read about that? Imagine all of the wacky space hijinks I'd get myself into as the world's first hip-hop bounty hunter. My debut album, It's a Trap, Queen, inspired by Admiral Ackbar, would for the first time in music history, break platinum. My beats would be so fire they'd need to freeze them in carbonite to handle them. My stardom would be catapulted into deep space, into the farthest-reaching, most elusive sectors of the known universe. Darth Vader, the greatest Sith to ever live, would make guest appearances on my tracks, from the grave. Just like Tupac. The number one single off the album, a cover of Jermaine Jackson's "Let's Get Serious," featuring Darth Sidious, aptly titled "Let's Get Sidious, would be an interstellar hit.
But to be a historied antihero I'd need to do more than just sell records and make more cheddar than I knew what to do with. I'd need to become a bounty hunter. And so it happened like this:
During a sellout, Pepsi-sponsored performance on Tatooine, my hair and face catch fire as the result of an ill-timed pyrotechnics explosion, leaving me hideously scarred and disfigured. The recovery is hard, and the pain is even worse. I lose an eye. Weeks go by while I lie in bed, clutching a blaster, contemplating suicide, cursing my fate. Eventually word gets out that my injury was no accident. It had been the work of a gang of rival musicians, jealous of my success. After faking my death, I leverage my enormous wealth by hiring Django Fett's brother, Mango Fett, to train me in the ways of stealth combat, surveillance and tracking, so that I might systematically set out to destroy each and every person involved in the plot against me. It takes years of training. Mango and I form an unlikely alliance and forge a deep friendship. He becomes like a father to me. On an ordinary night out in the delta quadrant off Bonadon, on a routine bounty collection, something goes wrong. Mango's jetpack malfunctions, sending him careening over a pod bay door and into a narrowing trash compactor. Seeing that the end is near, Mango reveals to me my true birth origins and tells me I'm actually the bastard son of his brother, Django. He dies as his helmet is tragically crushed like a soda can.
Employing my newfound tracking skills, I eventually locate my biological father, Django. When we meet he cuts off my hand and tells me I'm his father. Confused, I tell him that he's wrong, that he's my father and it's the whole reason I sought him out in the first place. In retaliation, I blast his dick off with Mango's blaster that he'd given me before he'd been compacted. Castrated, but realizing I held his brother's blaster, and must therefore be telling the truth, he listens as I recount the story of Mango's death. Revitalized by a deep sense of filial duty, Django obliges to avenge mine and Mango's assailants. Upon capturing and interrogating one of the men who'd ambushed Mango and I near Bonadon, we learn that they were working for an even larger organization than we'd previously believed, that unbeknownst to me, tucked away in my iced-out Jesus-head chain was a hologram sex tape of the emperor fucking an underage girl in her chocolate death star. The tape, if its contents were made public, would be the empire's undoing. It must be destroyed at all costs. There had even been a cadre of rogue Jedi recruited for bringing me in. So I did the only thing I could, the only way I knew how. I'd bring them to me. But to do it, I'd need to host a party.
I'd make the performance of a lifetime, back from the dead. It was the only way we'd be guaranteed to attract them. We flew out in the Millennium Bentley and set course for Alderaan, the cloud city, to get lifted. We smoked the stickiest of the icky and put more trees in the air than Endor. We popped bottles of Cristal and passed the finest Courvoisier. Things only started to get ugly when Lando brought the sizzurp out. There was the inevitable altercation and subsequent shooting, though it wasn't clear who shot first. The bitches scattered, glass shattered, and the only thing that mattered was getting our shit gathered. We ducked out backstage and waited. Then he came. In all his glowing, orange glory. The evil brainiac behind it all: Darth Donald. His hair looked thinner in person, and it seemed to be always about to blow off. It reminded me of the top of a cockatoo's head. And his hands, his hands were smaller than a child's. With a squint, a cocked head, and puckered lips, he revealed an enormous orange lightsaber. It was huge. I've got the best lightsaber, he said, it's the biggest. You know, you can't find a bigger lightsaber anywhere, even if you tried. It's not even possible. With one swoop of his arm he cut Django into two. That's when something in me awakened. It came up from deep within me. The force. A beam of firm, solid light ripped through my jeans and blared balefully. The color was purple and pulsing and it coruscated electrically. Darth Donald heaved a heavy blow at me but my saber was unmoved. He swung again, even more forcefully than the first time, but still my beam didn't budge. Emboldened by his futility, my sword swelled. I saw his eyes shrink as it overtook his in size. It's not possible, he screamed, swinging violently, desperately, parrying pathetically as I encroached. It was hammer time.
I used the force. I forced it in, and forced him out of existence.
And that's how my story begins...
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