In a apartment, it contained a lot of musicians. You are Michael Jackson, the co-host of the party and assisting your best friend, Freddie Mercury. You lowered your fedora, wind brushing against your long curly fringe. You let out a deep sigh of sorrow after a dramatic argument he had with Prince. You looked at your bloodied hands after you punched Prince senselessly.

I don’t want to be here anymore… I’m a monster. You’d mutter. No, mon, that ain’t true. Prince will eventually forgive you. Bob Marley said comfortingly, offering you a warm smile. I will get in trouble for doing this! So I might as well leave!” You shouted. No, Michael! I am not letting you to leave! You’re staying where you are whether you’re going to like it or not. You got me? You supposed to be the king, not a wuss! David Bowie scolded. The apartment became silent. What did you say to me? Your tone grew sharp, you stepped towards David. Ay, what’s goin’ on? Elvis Presley would say in a stern tone. I’m just going to cool off, alright? You said flatly, storming off.