[Intro: Nicki Minaj]
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]
Travelling deep through the heart of the Alaskan wastelands, many miles removed from human civilization, an oversized, overpowered, all-terrain pickup truck barrelled across an endless expanse of snow-covered tundra. Behind its wheel sat P.S. Malone, his grin that glittering with diamonds and gold.

Malone wasn’t your typical smuggler. He didn’t wear mundane clothes or like to keep a low profile. He was flashy, and gritty, and not to be trusted. A crooked redneck from the dirty south, but with frayed braids, a patchy beard, and an insatiable lust for all things shiny. Every export had a price. Even if it meant trekking to the coldest ends of the earth.

The sun had reached apex in the early afternoon and sparkled brightly off the powdered floor below. Otherwise Malone held the highest vantage of the land, like a greedy buzzard perched atop an eight-cylinder nest. White snow joined blue sky as far as he could see, forming a continuous horizon that circled all the way around him. He gazed over the frozen abyss in awe, thinking this was how God must have felt watching over His creation.

The smuggler puffed a joint as thick as a Cuban cigar, causing billows of smoke to cloud the windshield. He had a whole tin of them stashed in his front jacket pocket, close to his heart for the long drive ahead. His favourite CDs were stored in the glovebox, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy cranked as loud as it could go.

P.S. Malone couldn’t get much higher.

With the butt of the joint wedged between his jewel-encrusted grills, he reached his free hand into a bag on the passenger’s seat. As he rummaged through the contents—two hundred thousand dollars stacked and bound—he felt the giddiness of a child on his way home from the toy store. It was far and away the most he’d ever been paid for his services, and that’s not even counting the bonus fifty thousand he’d been promised if he reached his destination by midnight. With nearly ten hours until then, Malone had all the time in the world.

There weren’t any roads to follow, though the directions were simple. Follow the compass due south until you reach the gate. And while the unpaved terrain would create problems for most vehicles, it was no match for the treads of his winterized monster truck.

The contraband was strapped to the bed of the pickup; a dozen or so cases of bourbon, a few of vodka and gin, and four large suitcases stacked in the centre, zipped and bound with plastic cables. Malone cut one of the straps loose to see what they were hiding, but all he found inside were dozens of jarred, scented candles.

Perhaps he’d grown accustomed to smuggling dangerous goods, or maybe six months of waiting in northern Alaskan had hyped him up for a role more glorious than rum-runner. Something to brag about when he returned to Texas—a quarter of the way closer to millionaire status.

But for now he had to focus on the path ahead, racing forward to earn his full keep. With each passing hour he was losing patience, wondering how much further he had to go. By four o’clock the sun had begun its descent. By five o’clock it had disappeared behind the horizon, so the western skyline glowed of fuchsia and gold.
By six o’clock, there was only darkness, and still no end in sight. For a moment he feared that he had been swindled. He dove his hand into the bag beside him to ensure all his money was still there.

It was well after nine o’clock when Malone finally spotted a shape in the distance. He couldn’t make out what he was looking at, but in the glare of his high beams its silhouette was clear. As he thrust his foot on the pedal, the engine roared in pure delight, sending two-tons of motorized muscle bounding through the night.

Eventually, he recognized the outline of a small wooden cabin, not much bigger than a garden shed. There were no vehicles parked outside the property, nor any smoke wafting from the chimney, but Malone could hear a faint murmur echoing in the distance.
Thirty yards from the cabin, the truck rolled to a stop.

Any hopes his journey had ended were immediately put to rest. Something must have clawed its way through the front door of the shelter. The top of the door panel was still clinging to its hinge, screeching as the wind repeatedly knocked it against the door frame, while the bottom half lay in shards amongst the snow.
“Hello?” he called out toward the cabin. “Anybody in there?”
Malone pressed his ear through the open window, but couldn’t hear anything over the door’s incessant banging. Back-and-forth it swung like a pendulum, until suddenly the winds died down. There was a long silence. Everything went still. Then the rickety door tore away from its hinge, and came crashing to the ground.
A white hare bounded out of the cabin. It was the first sign of life Malone had seen since he left. It darted away from the crumbling wreckage, and hopped straight into the path of the high beams of his truck.

Malone sighed. He was tired. Clearly this wasn’t his final destination, and whatever else lurked inside the abandoned building certainly didn’t have his money. He reached into his jacket pocket, needing another spliff to stifle his frustration. But when he looked inside the tin, he realized it was empty.

“Fuck,” he shouted, chucking the tin against the windshield.

That’s when Malone noticed the white hare perched up on its hind legs. Its long, pointy ears were like two furry antennas, and its tiny pink nose was sniffing curiously in his direction. For a moment it locked eyes with him, before turning the other way and bounding ahead. Several times it paused and looked back at Malone, as if expecting him to follow.

Malone shifted into gear and followed after the hare. He eased his foot off the brake, and began rolling toward it. The hare picked up its pace. He followed it up a gentle incline, not unlike the hundreds of other slopes he’d crossed to this point. As he rounded its summit however, his jewel-encrusted jaw dropped open in wonder.

Malone was seated atop a massive gorge that descended into a forest as deep as the ocean floor. He couldn’t make out much except for the shadows of trees, but there was no denying the immensity of the wooded valley rooted below. It looked like something he might find in National Geographic—a fjord of trees winding through a snowy canyon. Even from atop the vale, he could smell the fresh pine.

He looked over his shoulder at the old, ravaged shelter, and the endless expanse of barren terrain he’d been trailing for the last twelve hours. The forest was different. It bursted with life and was at least a welcome change in scenery. For a time Malone sat there twisting his beard, ruminating over the rest of his money and the dwindling hours until midnight. He grabbed the instructions from the dash.

Follow the compass due south until you reach the gate.
He decided to keep going, though he knew he’d have to race for the money. He lifted his foot off the brake and slammed it on the gas. The pickup tore down the slope of the ridge, forcing the small white hare to hurdle out of his way.

A single passage had been cleared through the forest valley, just wide enough to fit his hulking pickup. To avoid the endless stream of pines whirring past him on either side, Malone had to keep both hands on the wheel. It was onerous work, and required considerable focus. It also forced him to slow to a tortoise-like pace. With less than three hours to claim his bonus, and no apparent endpoint, Malone didn’t have time to waste.

It was two hours until midnight, and he still hadn’t reached his destination. He was hoping to be out the forest by now, but the brush was only getting thicker. His back ached from sitting, his legs were sore and stiff, and his brain was so fatigued he feared he’d fall asleep at the wheel. He rolled down the window to feel the air on his face.

To make matters worse, the dashboard had lit up. Malone had to stop to refuel. He parked the truck, pulled his toque over his braids, and hopped into the snow. He hobbled to the back of the vehicle, and grabbed one of the red gas cans from the bed. Malone looked around at his surroundings. Because of all the trees, he couldn’t see far, but heard something rustling amongst the branches.

A wolf howled, spooking Malone. The gas can slipped right out his hands. Several more howls joined the chorus, and sent the forest into a panicked frenzy. Creatures all around began hissing and squeaking, stirring through the brush as they scurried away. Malone hurried back to the truck. Once inside, he locked the door, and grabbed the handgun out from his bag of money. He peered through the pines for any signs of wildlife, but never expected the giant white beast that stepped into the clearing and parked itself in front of the truck.

The Texan had been to enough rodeos to know horses couldn’t survive in the Arctic—and yet standing before him was the most impressive stallion he’d ever seen. It was the equine equivalent of his monstrous truck, bigger and stronger than even the largest of Clydesdales. Its mane and tail were long and silvery, and it had a thick white coat that blended seamlessly with the snow. Malone rubbed his eyes in disbelief, yet the animal was no figment of his imagination.

The wolves’ echoes were nearing. Either the stallion was deaf or just unafraid. It held a firm stance in the middle of the path, so that Malone couldn’t go forward. Together they waited for the howling to soften, until it eventually faded altogether. As if signifying that he was safe to proceed, the horse trotted out from the path. Malone watched the beast disappear into the pines, still struggling to grasp its existence. Once he was certain the horse was gone, Malone put the gun back inside his bag. He fired up the engine—which he now feared was making too much noise—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 small buildings, and formed a canopy between Malone and the sky.
Eleven-twenty. Eleven-thirty. Eleven-forty.
Time was slipping through his fingers. He was never going to make it. As the minutes wore on he drove more reckless, scrapping against pine branches and narrowly dodging a few trunks. Then, at exactly eleven forty-seven, Malone spotted the gate. Relief washed over him like holy water. Salvation, he thought. At last.
The gate retracted as he pulled up before it. A security camera swivelled as it followed him inside. A thick chain-link fence, interspersed with concrete columns every few meters, enclosed the property. Barbed wire ran the entire length of the perimeter, coiling along the top like a thorny, metal serpent. Malone had hardly cleared the entrance when he heard the screech of it closing behind him.

Erected before him was an ancient castle, with stonewalls, round towers and a pair of large wooden doors. It appeared solid and impenetrable, but also had the weathered look of a garrison once under siege. A single turret emerged from the centre of the stronghold. The highest lookout over the territory.

As he pulled up to the double doors, four men emerged from the confines of the fortress. Malone stepped out the vehicle to meet them. It didn’t take long for him to pick the leader out from the bunch—he was the only one dressed in a suit and tie.

“Ah, Mr. Malone” the man said, shuffling down the entrance steps. “Impeccable timing.”
Though he’d made it in time for his fifty thousand dollar bonus, Malone felt worn and defeated. He was only starting to realizing how truly tired he was.
“Clarence Norton,”said the man, reaching out to shake his 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 couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or disparaging. Showing off his golden ivories was usually a point of pride for the smuggler, but here in the rugged wilderness, they didn’t seem so impressive. Whatever was happening inside that castle was far removed from his world of glitz and money. Why should Clarence Norton give a shit about his gaudy grin?

The other men, all dressed like guards, had marched straight to the back of the truck bed. They were unloading the cargo one piece at a time and checking the contents inside. When they got to the luggage bag that Malone had tampered with, a couple of the men gave their driver suspicious glances. They unzipped the suitcase—still packed to the brim with scented candles—and had one of the men carry it inside.

“Clarence…” Malone began, feeling the sudden urge to leave.
“Your money,” he said, a jovial smile on his face.
“Yes,” said Malone. “I better get going.”
“Why don’t you come in and stay for the night? We have plenty of beds.”
Malone looked up at the massive fortress. He had no interest going inside. In fact, he wanted to create as much distance as possible.
“I think I’ll have to pass,” he said. “We Texans weren’t built for snow.”
“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 slightly disappointed. “Let me run inside and grab your money.”

As Clarence headed back to the entrance, Malone couldn’t help but hide his smile—a mixture of excitement and relief. He envisioned all the ways he’d spend his bounty. A gold chain, or two, maybe one with a stallion. New grills for sure, even flashier than these. Maybe a pair of Gucci flip-flops, because why the hell not? It didn’t really matter what he spent it on—as long as it fizzled and banged.

A blast rifled through the air, hitting Malone in the head. It felt like a harpoon had launched into the side of his skull. Malone clutched at his left ear, which was warm and wet with his blood. The rest of his body went rigid, except for his pupils which darted wildly in their sockets. They were searching for the man who just put a bullet through his head. Meanwhile, Clarence was halfway to the castle, impervious to the fact that a gun had been fired. Malone’s gaze shifted to the crow’s nest atop the turret, where the outline of a man was watching him through a scope.

“Found her,” said one of Clarence’s guards, who was crouching beside the final suitcase.

Curled up inside was the body of woman—small, with olive skin, and no older than thirty. Though her face was pale and rash-like from the cold, she was bound up tight in woolly blankets. Malone couldn’t tell whether she was dead or alive—he didn’t know which one was worse. He watched blankly as one guard reached into the suitcase, pulling out a thin black wallet.

“Nasim Hossein,” he read aloud, rifling through her IDs. “Well fuck me—and a Harvard grad. I would’ve guessed Seven Eleven.”
He closed the wallet and slipped it into his pocket, before zipping the woman back up. The three guards headed toward to the front entrance, lugging her lifeless body behind them.

Malone tried calling out after the men—fuck you, you bastards. You’ll all rot in hell—but all that came out were huffs of empty air. Face first he fell into the snow, and P.S Malone was never heard from again.