1988.

The hotel suite had long since gone quiet.

Outside, somewhere beyond the thick curtains, thousands of fans filled the streets of West Germany hoping for a glimpse of Michael Jackson. Inside, however, the thirty year old King of Pop was sprawled diagonally across an enormous bed, one sock half-off his foot, television muttering softly in the background while a room-service tray sat abandoned nearby.

He had finished rehearsals hours ago and, as usual, had retreated from everybody. The dancers were elsewhere. The band was elsewhere. Security had been instructed not to disturb him unless the building was actively on fire.

A telephone receiver was tucked between his shoulder and ear as he lazily stared up at the ceiling.

His friend asked what he wanted to talk about.

There was a brief pause.

Then, with complete sincerity, as though confessing a lifelong dream he'd been carrying around for years, Michael said, "I'd like to be a pimp."

Silence.

He waited.

The baffled response that came through the line made his mouth twitch.

"A pimp on the street. I always wanted to do that."

The reaction on the other end only deepened. Michael could practically hear the confusion radiating through the phone.

Another question followed.

Michael managed to hold the act together for another second before a soft laugh escaped him.

"I'm just joking."