Now That's What I Call Alternative Literature

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'Waka Flocka Flame and I' by August Smith


Waka Flocka Flame and I go for
a brisk walk in the park. We throw
a Frisbee around and jump into
the piles of dead leaves. “Thank
goodness you wore your scarf,”
he says to me. “It’s awfully cold out.”


Waka Flocka Flame and I
are driving downtown on
our way to get sushi. He turns to me
and says, “’Drivin’ with my bricksquad,
Fuckin’ with this kush’
. That’s
a line from my new album.” And I say,
“wow thank you for the lyrical sneak peak.”


Waka Flocka Flame and I are hanging out
playing Wii Sports and drinking root beer
on a Friday night.
“Let’s order pizza,” he suggests. 
“But I don’t have any money,” I reply.
“Don’t worry, I have a coupon for free pizza,”
he says.  And I say, “You really are an amazing friend.”


It is Halloween and Waka Flocka Flame and I are
going trick or treating. Waka Flocka Flame is
dressed up as a pirate. I am dressed up as 
a pirate Waka Flocka Flame. I give him all 
my kit kats because those are his favorite candy.


Waka Flocka Flame and I are having our morning 
coffee together in the kitchen. The fluorescent rays of
morning light glide in through the window. I change the 
radio from a classic rock station to the BBC, but Waka
Flocka Flame glares at me until I change the station. I then 
remember that BBC Music gave his most recent album
an unfavorable review. “I’m sorry, I forgot,” I say. 
Silence. A small red bird twitters outside the window.


Waka Flocka Flame and I are at a party
in the Vine Neighborhood. 
Sometimes he makes my friends uncomfortable
by yelling “bricksquad”- or sometimes just “squad”- in their
faces, and he always plays his own music when he gets the chance.
We leave the party early so we can smoke weed
and watch Frasier. On the way home, Waka Flocka Flame
says, “What is the most awesome thing you can think of?”
I say, “A half-pipe built between two volcanoes.”
Waka Flocka Flame says, “Yeah, that’s pretty good.”


Waka Flocka Flame and I are building
a fort, no girls allowed. There are blue Christmas lights
threaded around the fort, and stacks of comic books
hold down the corners. Drinking hot cocoa and wielding a flashlight,
he tells me that his two greatest fears are getting haircuts
and  metal music. “Metal is from hell,” he tells me, 
and I reply, “That’s what makes it inescapable.”
And he says, “It was nice of hell to share their
local music with us.”


Waka Flocka Flame has had a massive heart attack,
and I am sitting with Bricksquad in the waiting room,
wringing my hands. The doctor comes in to tell us
that it doesn’t look good. A man on the television
says something about soap scum. A woman nearby
is brandishing a hair brush and yelling at her child who is crying, 
and I feel like crying,
but I don’t because no fucking way am I about to cry in front of Bricksquad.


I am at Waka Flocka Flame’s funeral. Mr. and Mrs. Flame are there.
I tell them I’m sorry for their loss, but they don’t say it back.
After the ceremony, I go for a walk in the cemetery to smoke a cigarette. 
The leaves are still a beautiful shade of orange but this 

time it annoys me. A squirrel runs past and I kick a stone at it and yell “bricksquad”


August Smith is a 21 year-old poet and shitty driver living in Kalamazoo, MI. You can find more of his work here
tags: august smith