Kanye West - Prologue lyrics

[Intro] "You might think you've peeped the scene You haven't, the real one's far too mean The watered down one, the one you know Was made up centuries ago They made it sound all whack and corny Yes, it's awful, blasted boring Twisted fictions, sick addictions Well, gather 'round children, zip it, listen" [P.S. Malone - October 27, 2017] Deep in the heart of the Alaskan wastelands, miles removed from human civilization, an oversized, overpowered, all-terrain monster truck barrelled across the frozen tundra. Behind the wheel sat P.S. Malone, his smile glittering of diamonds and gold. Malone was not your typical smuggler, who wore mundane clothes and kept a low profile. He was flashy, and gritty, and looked untrustworthy—a crooked redneck from the dirty south, with frayed braids, a patchy beard, and an insatiable lust for all things shiny. Even if it meant trekking to the coldest ends the earth, every export had its price. The sun was at its apex and sparkled brightly off the powdered floor. Otherwise, Malone held the earth's highest vantage, and a bird's eye view across the land. White snow met blue skies everywhere he looked, joining together along one distant horizon. He gazed over the world in wonderment and awe. This must be how God felt watching over his creation. Billows of smoke clouded the windshield, as the smuggler puffed a joint as thick as a Cuban cigar. He had an entire tin of them stored in his jacket pocket, pacing himself for the long journey ahead. P.S. Malone couldn't get much higher. With the bu*t of the joint wedged firmly in a j**el-encrusted grin, he reached his free hand into a bag on the pa**enger's seat. He felt a childlike giddiness rummaging through the contents—two hundred thousand dollars, stacked and bound. His heftiest payday to date. There was a bonus fifty thousand available as well, but only if he reached his destination by midnight. The directions were simple and easy to follow. Follow the compa** due south. You'll know when you find us. He'd even been told to underline it. The contraband was strapped to the bed of the pickup truck on account of the bumpy ride. Cases of bourbon mostly, a few of vodka and gin, and four large suitcases stacked in the centre, zipped and bound with plastic cables. Malone had cut open one of the straps to see what they were hiding, but found nothing inside except candles in gla** jars. Perhaps he'd grown accustomed to to dangerous goods, or maybe spending six months in waiting along the north-Alaskan shores had hyped him up for a role more glorious than rum-runner. He had hoped for something a tad more exciting. Something to brag about when he returned to Dallas, a quarter of the way to millionaire status. But for now he was focused on the road ahead, racing for his keep. Malone lost patience with each pa**ing hour, wondering how much farther he had to go. At four o'clock, the sun began its descent, though it was the only thing that changed. By five o'clock, it had disappeared behind the horizon, though the skyline still glowed of fuchsia and gold. By six o'clock, only darkness—but still no end in sight. Was he the one who was getting swindled? He dove his hand into the bag beside him to ensure the money was still his. After several more hours, the now-weary Malone spotted a shape in the distance. Hard to make out from so far away, but with a clear silhouette in the glare of his high beams. The engine roared in pure delight as he thrust his foot on the pedal and sent two-tonnes of motorized muscle bounding through the night. Soon, he recognized the outline of a cabin, not much bigger than a garden shed. There weren't any vehicles outside the property, nor any smoke wafting from the chimney, but Malone could hear a faint echo in the distance. Thirty yards from the shelter he rolled to a stop. Any hopes his journey had ended were immediately put to rest. Something had smashed its way in through the door. The bottom half lay in shards buried in the snow. The top hinge was still clinging for its life, screeching in mercy as the wind kept tossing it into the door frame. “Hello?” he called out through his window. “Anybody in there?” He waited, but could only hear the incessant banging of the door. Back-and-forth it swung like a pendulum, then all in an instant it stopped. After a moment of stillness, it tore from its hinge, and came crashing to the ground. A white hare bounded out of the cabin—the first sign of life since he left. It darted away from the crumbling wreckage, and hopped straight into the light of the high beam. Malone took it mean there was no one inside, but had no interest checking. If this was meant to be his final destination, then he'd been taken for a ride. He grabbed for a joint to help him think, but found the tin was empty. That's when he noticed the hare now perched on its hind legs. It's long, pointy ears were like two large antennas, and its tiny pink nose was sniffing curiously in his direction. For a moment it locked eyes with him through the windshield, then turned away and bounded ahead, leaving a trail in the path of his headlights. Several times it paused and looked back at truck—as if expecting him to follow. Malone eased his foot off the brake, and began rolling toward his furry escort. He followed it along a modest incline, no different from the hundreds of slopes he'd conquered to this point. As he rounded the summit however, Malone's j**el-encrusted jaw fell open in awe. He was seated atop a ma**ive gorge, descending as deep as the ocean floor. Through the darkness he could see the shadows of a forest, rooted deep in the valley below. It was both immense and immaculate—something he might find in National Geographic. A fjord of trees winding through a wintery canyon, extending so far into the distance Malone couldn't see his end. Even from atop the vale, Malone could smell the pine. He looked over his shoulder at the old, ravaged shelter, and the endless expanse of barren terrain. The forest, conversely, was bursting with life and at least offered a grain of hope. For a time he sat there twisting his beard, ruminating over the rest of his money and the dwindling hours until midnight. 'Follow the compa** due south,' he read. 'You'll know when you find us.' Malone jolted his foot on the gas, tearing down the ridge as the white hare hurdled out of his way. Driving into the forest was like stumbling upon a hidden utopia. A single pa**ageway had been cleared from brush, barely wide enough to fit his hulking pickup. As an endless stream of trees pressed in either side, Malone gripped both hands tight to the wheel. At first the woods were a welcome change of scenery; he was tired of navigating endless white seas. Yet constantly dodging tree trunks was onerous work, and forced him down to a frustratingly slow pace. With only three hours left to claim his bonus, time was now of the essence. With two hours until midnight, Malone felt no closer to his destination. He had hoped to have cleared the forest by now, but it was only getting thicker. Exhaustion was setting in as well, so he rolled down the window to feel the air on his face. To make matters worse, the fuel light had lit up on his dashboard. Malone would have to make another pit stop. He pulled his toque over his braids, grabbed his gloves, and hopped out with both feet into snow. He hobbled gingerly to the back of the vehicle, red gas can in hand. As the pickup truck glugged down the contents of the canteen, Malone took in his surroundings. With so many trees, he couldn't see far, though he did hear a rustling of branches. A wolf's howl echoed from over the treetops, spooking the gas can right out his hands. Several more voices added to the chorus, sending the forest into a panicked frenzy. Creatures all around began hissing and squeaking, stirring through the brush as they scurried away. Malone couldn't see them but was quick to follow suit, hurrying back to the front of his truck. Once in his seat, he scanned the forest for any wildlife, reaching for the pistol he kept in the same bag as his money. He was mainly focused on keeping an eye out for hungry wolves. He never expected the giant white beast which emerged from the trees. Malone had been to enough rodeos in his life to know horses weren't built for the Arctic—yet standing before him was the most impressive stallion he'd ever seen. It was larger than any Clydesdale, both in height and breadth, and had a thick white coat that blended almost seamlessly with the snow. Malone rubbed his eyes in disbelief, as it stopped before his vehicle. It was the equine equivalent of his monstrous pickup. Though the wolves' voices were moving toward them, the stallion showed no signs of fear. It held a firm stance in the centre of the path, so that Malone could not drive forward. Together they waited until the howling softened and eventually died away. As if signifying he was safe to proceed, the horse trotted out of his way. Malone watched as the magnificent beast disappeared into the pines. Unlike the hare, it didn't look back. Once he was certain the horse was gone, he placed the gun back in his bag, fired up the engine and continued his search for the end of the road. The clock on the dash read eleven-fifteen. The trees had grown as tall as buildings, and created a canopy between Malone and the night sky. Eleven-twenty. Eleven-thirty. Eleven-forty. Time was slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to slow it down. As the minutes wore on he became more reckless, scrapping against the pine branches to his left and his right. At eleven forty-seven, Malone spotted the gate. Relief washed over him like holy water. Salvation, at last. The property was enclosed by a thick chain-link fence, almost as tall as the trees surrounding it. Concrete pillars reinforced the perimeter, while thick strands of barbed wire coiled around the top like a thorny serpent. The gate retracted as he pulled up before it. A security camera swivelled as it followed him inside. Malone had hardly cleared the entrance when it started closing behind him. What stood before him resembled an ancient castle, equipped with stone walls, round towers and a large wooden door. It appeared both solid and impenetrable, but also had the weathered look of a garrison under siege. A single turret emerged from the centre of the stronghold. The highest lookout point over the territory. Even before he shut off the engine, four men emerged from the fortress to greet him. Quickly he hopped out the vehicle to meet them. It didn't take long for Malone to pick the leader—he was the only one wearing a suit of the bunch. “Ahh, Mr. Malone” the man said, shuffling down the entrance steps. “Impeccable timing.” Malone let out a half-hearted laugh. He was only just realizing how tired he felt. “Clarence Norton,”said the man, reaching out to shake Malone's hand. “We spoke on the phone—some many months ago now. Glad to see you've made it one piece. Not everyone can handle this drive, you know.” No kidding, he thought. “Some nice teeth you got there, by the way. Very shiny.” Malone had forgotten he was still wearing his grills—for once they were the last thing on his mind. Flashing his golden ivories was usually a point of pride for the smuggler, but here in depths of the Alaskan wilderness, they didn't seem so impressive. Whatever was happening here seemed more important than money. Why should Clarence Norton give a sh** about his gaudy grin? The other men had marched straight to the back of the truck bed, and were already unloading the cargo. One by one they sliced the luggage straps, and examined the contents inside. When they came to the piece that Malone had tampered with, a couple of them shot him suspicious glances. Then they proceeded to unzip the suitcase, packed to the brim with scented candles. “Clarence…” Malone began. He felt the urgent need to leave. “You want the rest of your money,” the man said, a jovial smile on his face. “Yes,” said Malone. “I better get going.” “We have plenty of room inside if you'd like to stay the night.” He looked up at the ma**ive fortress. “I think I'll have to pa**,” he said. “The south is calling me back home.” “Is there anyway I can persuade you to stick around for another run? I'll pay you extra for this one. It's so hard finding a reliable deliverer.” “I don't think so,” he replied. “I have a feeling I'll like Alaska even less in December.” “Fair enough,” said Clarence, looking disappointed. “Let me run inside and grab your money.” As Clarence headed back to the entrance, Malone couldn't help but hide his smile. He began envisioning all the ways he'd splurge his new earnings. A gold chain, or two. Most definitely new grills. Maybe a pair of Gucci flip-flops, just for the hell of it. It didn't really matter what he was spending on—as long as it fizzled and banged. A deafening blast then rifled through the air. It felt like a harpoon had been launched into Malone's skull. He clutched at his left ear, which was warm and wet with his blood. His entire body was paralyzed in shock, except for his pupils which darted wildly in their sockets, searching for the man who put a bullet through his head. Clarence was halfway to the castle. He seemed not to notice that shots had been fired. Malone then looked up to the top of the turret, where the figure of a man was watching him through a scope. “Found her,” said one of Clarence's henchmen, who was crouched next to the final suitcase. Crammed inside was the body of a young woman with olive skin, no older than thirty. She was bound up tight in woolly blankets, though her face was pale and rashlike from the cold. Malone didn't know whether she was dead or alive—he couldn't tell which was worse. He watched blankly as the henchman reached inside the case, and pulled out a thin black wallet. “Nasim Hossein,” he read aloud, studying a piece of ID. “A Harvard grad as well.” He then placed the wallet in his own back pocket, and zipped the suitcase back up. The three of them headed back to the entrance, lugging her unconscious body inside. Malone tried to call out after them—a**hole ba*tards, you'll rot in hell—but all that escaped from his mouth however, were huffs of empty air. Face first he fell in the snow, and P.S Malone was never heard from again.