Gucci's Day Out

Prologue: So Iced

By: Stillmatic


It was another night of partying, drinking, toking, and just plain living it up for Gucci and his gang of cohorts. None stood in their way as the night crept on, as not a single being dared to rile up his anger. Of course, there was just one creature, one so indescribably hateful and distrusting of Gucci. This creature was Young Jeezy. Jeezy exhibited his tenacity to protect his assets with the only way he knew how, to provide a healthy dose of murder to his adversary.

It goes without saying that these two men of the Southern United States were once close friends who occasionally collaborated together to make music. That was long in the past for both of them at this point, with each of them battling court cases over rights and other trivialities. Anyone caught in the crossfire was most likely left bleeding to death or horrifically damaged, as they had done to their relationship.

Not all was about conflict between each other, however, and when the weekend came, the fighting ceased. Gucci's group of close friends and Jeezy's gang of trusted individuals would temporarily stop getting at each other's throats for a short time before they returned to their indefinitely long feud. But it was on this particular day, it was far different than what was left mutually agreed and unspoken. Tonight, in Decatur, Georgia on May 10th, 2005, was the last day one man would live.


Humming to himself, Gucci stuck his tongue out into the air. It met the blunt he recently rolled, a fine piece of art, and gave it a good amount of fluid in order to stick together. The rapper was currently chilling in his fine friend's bachelor pad, having a good time with his friends. There was nothing quite like being together in a group and just spending time constantly high throughout the night. He despised it when he was alone, mostly because that was one of the worst times to get messed up on something and company always made everything better. Except sex. That was something between him and some bitch he liked.

"'Ey yo nigga, you done wit' that shit ye'?"

Gucci smirked casually and met the eyes of the man looking down at him as he finished, "Chyeah, why? You think you getting' som' dis shit? Dis shhhiiiiitttt, right her'?"

His friend smacked the air with his hand and stepped in place to show his frustration, "Man, ya stay playin' like dat shits funny or some shit!"

The rapper chortled to himself, amused by his friend, "Ight, ight, chill. Got that shit right her' for ya," he said, passing the blunt to his companion.

Nearby, someone kicked in the front door with more force than necessary, forcing the house to shake slightly and Gucci to flinch. The blunt slipped from his dark fingers and took the most horror-inducing plunge straight to the floor. Time seemed to slow down for that brief frame of a few seconds as his hands vainly reached out to grab the paraphernalia.

"Noooooo!" Gucci cried out.

It dropped to the floor, bouncing several times before settling on the blue carpet. They both stared at it for a good moment before a person rushed in. They didn't give him any attention as he leaned onto the couch, gasping for breath, with hands splayed out and moving wildly. Gucci grabbed the blunt to look it over, narrowing his eyes down to small slits.

"Hmm… Ight! It's alive, mothafuckas! Let's smoke this shit!"

The man who ran in shouted, trying to get their attention, "YO! JEEZY'S BOYS ARE ON THEY WAY HERE, DAWG!"

Both original occupiers of the large living room immediately snapped their heads to the taller man. They then both shared looks and jumped to their feet, reaching behind their backs. From between their waists and belts, they procured handguns they had specifically for such an occasion. Without much hesitation, Gucci lit the blunt, took a pull, and passed it to the guy opposite him.

He gritted his teeth, "Ight, let's do this shit!"

As if on cue, a bullet shattered a nearby window, sending glass to the floor.

The man with the blunt pulled it away from his face and scowled deeply, "MOTHERFUCKERS! MY MOMS IS GONNA KILL ME FOR THAT SHIT!" Multiple bullets whizzed by, breaking random vases, electronics, and other valuables, "… Mothafuckas…"

Not willing to take their time, each of them blind-fired from behind cover, which was mostly the couch they were just sitting on toppled over onto its back. It wasn't much a shield, as evidenced when a bullet went straight through it and barely missed Gucci's head. He ducked further and rolled out of cover to fire.

Taking aim, he fired continuously while screaming out, "CHYEAH! SPECIAL AGENT GUCCI!"

More pieces of metal flew overhead, forcing Gucci to hug the carpet. He reloaded his weapon and realized he was on his second, and last, clip. Things were not looking good, not at all. Taking initiative, the rapper headed into a nearby hallway connecting to the front door, ducking low as to not get shot. Right as he turned a corner, his face met the end of a gun barrel, the dark metal pressed against his forehead.

"…Sheeit…"

He glanced up, finding a man he recognized as Pookie Loc staring down at him. Their eyes met and Loc grinned a wide smile, his dirty teeth flashing something fierce. Gucci swallowed, finding it hard to believe his life was finally over.

"Ya done fucked up Gucc'! Now yo' ass is capped!"

The last thing Gucci Mane saw was the fire in the barrel, right before he ducked his head down and received the bullet to the top of his skull, partially shattering it and dropping the rapper to the floor. Loc froze up for a second, realizing what he just did. Then, he chuckled quietly, letting the laughter build up until it was a massive form of hysteria, echoing through the Georgia night as if it were a moment of celebration.

Pookie Loc left the house sprinting, quickly getting into his car along with his accomplices. Before he left the vicinity, he glanced back at the body from his car window. It was finally over. Now nothing would stop Young Jeezy's reign of tyranny over southern states in the form of rap. The world would never be the same again.


Gucci Mane felt to rub his head only for it to not respond, groaning in agony as the pain set in. Sweat dripped off his face, sliding down his neck and making his smock stick to his chest. It was an absolutely disgusting feeling to have, but he was left incapacitated for the most part. Soreness enraptured his body, forcing him to stay still where he was. Where he was. Where was he?

"Ugh…"

Despite the pounding within his head, the rapper managed to connect the feeling of softness under him to that of a bed. A bed? How did he end up in a bed?

'Shiiiit… I must've got fucked up bad an' ended up in the hospital…'

No body part responded as of yet, silencing him and preventing movement for what felt like hours. After far too long, a sound was heard nearby. It sounded like…

'Da fuck is that shit..?'

The only thing that Gucci could relate the sound to was a Dutch dancer he remembered seeing in a movie once. She wore wooden shoes and some freaky dress he dared not wish on any woman he knew. He mentally shuddered, somewhat scarred from the culture shock that was presented to him back then. So, this was like that then? He was in a hospital, being attended by a Dutch dancer girl and almost dead. It was almost a regular day.

The sound of a door opening nearby informed him that whoever was walking around with noisy shoes decided to step in to either treat or check up on him. What he seriously wanted at the moment was none of that. The craving for some kind of doping drug was becoming too much for him, and the incessant pain within his head gave no reprieve. If this path continued, he felt as though he'd soon be fiending for something.

The person got closer and touched seemingly random objects around him, with him remaining there, unmoving. Then, it hit him. Whatever it was that person gave was damn strong, and he felt himself lull into a lofty state, only to fall into a deep slumber. The throbbing within his skull died down to nothing, letting him relax. He forced his eyes open a crack, just barely enough to make out a blurry image of what seemed to be something white, pink and short. The rapper blamed it on the drug before finally passing out from exhaustion and the chemical in question.


Gucci awoke with a start, flailing wildly and tumbling out of his bed. The floor was a hard fall, eliciting a groan to come from him. He shuddered, feeling nauseous all of a sudden. The rapper crawled forward, letting his legs drop behind him from above. Forcing himself up, Gucci Mane stood shakily on his feet and stumbled towards a nearby sink. With a turn of the handle and splash of ice-cold water on his face, the man began to fully wake up from the drowsiness whatever drug he received earlier gave him.

A quick self-slap to the face alleviated the rest of it. Fully functioning now, he examined himself in the mirror. Same beautiful face, as always. The bandages on top of his head were new, but they looked pretty pimpin', so no taking them off just yet.

'Damn! Imagine when those reporters see this shit! Takin' bullets to the fuckin' head and shit!'

There wasn't much else to inspect about himself other than that he was wearing some hospital smock that looked distorted and irregularly shaped. He put "Getting my threads and bling back" on his list of things to do, along with "Get percs" and "Kill Jeezy." Gucci glanced around the room, finally taking in its appearance. It was… small, really. Not what he expected. There was no other patron residing in a bed nearby either, which also seemed quite odd.

White walls all over, various medical equipment, a bed, some food on a table were all that made the small room. There were no indications of some form of visitors coming, a shocking surprise to the rapper. He would have expected crowds to come to see what happened to him, if not riots to take place. Gucci chuckled to himself, realizing how stupid that sounded.

However, something next to the food caught his eyes. It was… a glass bottle. Oh no though, not just any ordinary glass bottle. This one was filled to the brim with pills. He closed in on the helpless container and pried it open, examining the pills within. The label on the bottle led to no conclusion as to what it was, what with the eccentric script that was on it.

'… This is one of them Hebrew medicines, right? Them letters look like it. Shit, Moses lived for like, a hundred years! This shit's probably what that nigga was eating before lunch!'

With that, he snatched a pill and swallowed it, washing it down with a piece of bread and cup of water nearby. He blinked slowly, feeling quite relaxed for a few seconds. All the pain subsided and made way for a certain bliss that just rang through his body, making the rapper feel as though he'd never even experiencing such a trivial thing like pain before.

Gucci laughed quietly to himself but quieted once he noticed his clothes sitting on a chair across the room. He quickly disrobed from the smock and got dressed in his regular attire, which consisted of a white thermal, a red and white Letterman jacket, an ostentatiously large watch studded with diamonds, several chains, blue jeans, a belt (which was purely for show and not meant to hold up his sagging pants), a pair of white Nike's. He grinned deviously, feeling everything in his universe become right within just a few minutes.

Gucci took a moment to check what he had on him, finding everything as it was, including his handgun and ammo. A few dimes of piff, some Dutches, his wallet, and all sorts of random odds and ends packed his jacket and pockets, including those pills he found. It was as if nothing had happened at all, despite him knowing full well he'd just barely survived getting shot in the head. He nearly rubbed his head but immediately reeled his hand back in fear of sending waves of pain through his body.

Bored so far, the rapper took his leave and exited through the door nearby. He entered a long hallway lined with possibly dozens of doors both ways. The end was clearly in sight, but it wasn't worth the trouble to think about where it would lead. A sign that showed the designs of the building as well as routes to take in case of a fire indicated that he was on the second floor of the hospital. Gucci spotted a stairwell not even a few yards away, quickly making haste and heading down the stairs.

As he exited the stairwell, Gucci noticed that the hospital was particularly devoid of life and not a single doctor made themselves know. Then again, after taking a quick look out a window, it was probably late in the night. Making the best out of his opportunity, the rapper planned on checking himself out and heading back home. At least he'd be able to get much better medical treatment in Atlanta than wherever this hellhole was.

After walking for a few minutes and following maps, the man was lead to the lobby, where nothing stirred in the least. A front desk was situated to the right of him, where a particularly interesting oddity stood out amongst the mundane architecture and styling of the hospital. Some kind of white thing was slumped over on the desk, snoring lightly. Pink hair was tied in a bun at what seemed to be the head, where the now fallen nurse's hat once resided.

Gucci Mane cocked an eyebrow up, finding the sight before him not only extremely freaky, but beyond strange. It must've been the drugs he took. Using that as a form of reasoning, he quickly signed himself out using a nearby clipboard and pushed his way out the hospital doors. What he saw next was the single most irritating thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.

Outside of the hospital was a fairly rustic village, with little thatched roofs and market stands and many other clichés he didn't hold a very high opinion of. He'd never seen anything quite like this, but he already knew he hated it. It was irrational of him to think so, but when wasn't he irrational?

Gucci looked to the left, finding streets made of stone and dirt. A quick nod to the right gave the same result. His eyes narrowed, with him becoming frustrated quiet quickly. A grimace crossed his face and he scratched the back of his neck in confusion.

"Da fu- Yo! Where the fuck am I?" He yelled out to nobody in particular.

Today was just getting weirder and weirder for the southern rapper. Tomorrow was sure to be the opposite, right?


Yo, this shit is off the hook! Right? Probably maybe not. My version of a crackfic, I guess. Turns out the folks over on FIMFiction despise my fic for some reason, except for like one guy.

This is a more humorous story that I pulled out of my ass to write after losing a bet and shit. It'll be short chapters and I'll work on it when I have writer's block for my other stories. Hope you enjoyed this shit.

As always,

Stay Trilla.