DJ Khaled stands atop a platform on Mansion's stage, fist in the air, microphone in hand, heavy gold around his neck.
Thousands of dollar bills explode in a hurricane of currency, fat purple thunder clouds of Himalayan kush blow around his camouflage pant legs, oceans of Luc Belaire Rosé flow into "Wale"-emblazoned styrofoams below him, and Rick Ross smiles in triumph to his right.
A thousand VIPs pack the stage and Paris Hilton's billion-dollar ass drops to the beat of "No New Friends." The whole room smells like money. Is this what it's like to suffer from success?
The nights starts like any other, with a line spreading from the front door of Mansion to some distant point miles down Washington Avenue. Joey Buddafucco says, "Forty dollars, get your money out!" And his voice is a hadouken, blasting down the sidewalk.
An army of red shirt enforcers (and giant dukes in suits and boots) surround the entrance to the Mansion. Inside, executive ladies collect the many giant stacks of cash and load them into registers.
There is smoke, and liquor; colored light, and bass. The DJ plays everybody's favorite song, and the staccato rhythm of high heel shoes clicking to the beat rings out wild like the steamy heart of this make-it-rain forest. Of course, this triple canopy is climate optimized.
Fun, fun, wherefore art thou, fun? "Right here motherfucker" says the dancefloor. And a million tits and asses bounce in unison.
Upstairs, party animals grab the handrails and wiggle to the beat.
In the main room, there's no place to hide from the rhythm or the light. In Mansion, everybody can see everybody from every angle, catching eyes from 2 feet to 200 feet away.
And the liquor flows like from the hands of angels; and they're hellbent on getting you good and fucked up.
Bosses skate through the space like ice hockey.
And then at 2:45 in the morning, the mighty Khaled arrives, cutting through the crowd like a machete in the Phillippines, a trail of entourage behind him, and no new friends getting in the way. He makes it to the stage and finds a place to chill.
You know, do some Instagram and shit
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The bass drops like a Hydrogen bomb. Torrential rivers of Cristal flow through the models and thugs, accountants and school teachers, drop outs and ivy leaguers, stars of stage, sport, and film united in the neverending quest for pussy, cock, and good times.
And then The Boss shows up.
And makes sure to share the wealth. Big dawg SpiffTV hands out the double m g Wale cups and proceeds to pour up the Rosé for anyone and everyone in the motherfuckin building.
And the Excuse My French and Master Minds girls do the same.
DJ Bulletproof throws down an avalanche of heavy rockers, and DJ Nasty prepares for his takeover.
Then Khaled climbs up and unleashes the fury of the streets saying "Put your motherfuckin' hands up in the sky if you out here hustlin' right now!"
And leads the people in a fiery charge toward the glory of a good time.
Then Sam Sneak takes the wheel.
And Rick Ross takes the mic. He says, "Two for me," and Khaled says, "Two for you."
And in the 4 a.m. hour, The Boss is like 'let there be high grade,' and it is good
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And The Boss is like 'may the pussy be forever wet,' and it is good
And DJ Khaled proclaims "Ace Hood! We Outchea! No New Friends! Shoutout Lex Promotions" And the good life is upon us all.
And then it's time for breakfast.