The studio was hot. And I'm not talking about temperature. I'm talking about the anger of 50 Cent.

The music producer had experienced a great amount of indecision while gazing at his wardrobe this morning. His usual baby seal fur coat had been sent to OG's Dry Cleaning to remove some bloodstains, and his red panda boa didn't go very well with his many gold chains. He had eventually decided on the classic purple coat with leopard-print lining. He had also felt it prudent to bring along his diamond-encrusted cane, complete with the face of Tupac Shakur resting atop the staff. He was regretting this particular decision around the time that an angry rapper decided to use it as a bludgeoning device.

"Ow! Damn, Fiddy! Put that shit away, hommie!" he squealed, shielding his face from 50's wrath.

"Shut up, hoe!" replied 50 Cent in an unquenchable rage.

During this short intermission in which 50 Cent is most likely crippling the music producer, we may take a step back and observe this rapper. In contrast to the aforementioned music producer, Fiddy was wearing no luxurious or flashy clothes, but was, in fact, wearing a bulletproof vest with the inscription "50 Cent" manifest in bright gold. He was also wearing a baseball hat with a straight brim. After brooding for several hours, Fiddy had been unable to find a baseball team worthy of his endorsement, and had decided to emblazon the same lettering as the vest upon his hat. His two Glocks rested in holsters at both sides of his waist. They seemed to be polished and in excellent condition aside from a word scratched into the weapons - one "Tick" and the other "Tock". His AK-47 was slung across his back and in much worse condition, a testament to its heavy use. The sand still hadn't been entirely cleaned off since his adventures in an unnamed Middle Eastern country. An unorganized assortment of knives and grenades were hooked to his utility belt, which undoubtedly held more secrets. His dirty sweatpants were only covering the very bottom part of his "Guns and Ammo" boxers, as the pants had been pulled halfway down his thighs. Usually an oversized shirt would close the distance, but after the shooting incident, 50 Cent had vowed that he would never wear a shirt again, with the reasoning that nobody would try to shoot a man with bigger biceps than their head.

For the entirety of the last paragraph, the unfortunate music producer was being beaten around the studio, trying not to harbor dislike for the diamond face that was hurting him so. Finally, the violence ceased. The producer remained on the ground, but felt safe enough to look at 50 Cent.

The rapper was currently searching his utility belt for the correct pocket. After a few seconds, he discovered what he was looking for, and pulled out his taser, brandishing it at the distressed producer.

"Oh shit!"

"Now you gonna answer my question right the fuck now," asserted Fiddy casually, examining his weapon. The word "Balltaser" was scrawled on the handle, which would prove to be a very apt identification. "Why is it that when I come down to the motha fuckin' studio, ready to lay down some hot-ass rhymes, you tell me I gotta sit my black ass down and wait hella days for some 'technical difficulty' bullshit?"

"Th-there was a power outage, Mr. 50-"

"Don't sit there and blame this 'power outage' for what is obviously yo dumb-hoe brain!" 50 Cent paced the room for a couple seconds, still looking infuriated as ever. "Stand up."

"Thank you -" began the producer, getting to his feet, only to experience 50,000 volts of electricity coupled with a stabbing pain in his testicles. Balltaser had struck.

"Sit down, hoe!" demanded 50 Cent, a slight smile forming on his face as the screams of the producer brought a simple joy to his heart. Obediently, the stunned producer fell back down to the ground once more.

"Now," continued the rapper, "It seems to me like you havin' a problem showin' respect to your betters. And do you know what happens to fools that don't show me respect?"

"Someone… help me…"

"Shut up, hoe!" cried 50 Cent again, and unleashed the wrath of Balltaser once more, leaving the producer no alternative to helplessly flop about on the floor. Satisfied, Fiddy returned Balltaser to its respective pocket. "You gonna fix this shit. And I'm gonna lay down my new rhymes. And you betta have some bomb-ass beats, or else Imma light yo dick up like Christmas!"

-Later, when the producer's testicles had returned to serviceable condition…-

50 Cent was happily recording songs for his new album. Well, as happily as a gangsta rapper could be whilst describing shooting people from a rival gang. The unsettled music producer was standing outside of the booth, attempting to perfect his new beat. However, other thoughts occupied his mind. He hadn't been making an excuse when he'd said that there had been a power outage-it had been the truth. He'd had to rush the process of getting everything back online to appease the rapper, and as a result, the studio's power was a little unstable. If the system was taxed to the limit, there would most likely be an electrical overload, killing 50 Cent.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" the producer thought aloud. He immediately shook such dangerous thoughts from his head and returned to the task at hand. He was quite unnerved by the sight of 50 glaring at him, "Tick" in hand. Fiddy began rapping angrily.

Well I was recording my shit, but the beat wasn't phat,

So I got out of the booth an' I busted my gat.

An' that bitch-ass producer lay dead at my feet.

So I called Dr. Dre, and he made a new beat!

The producer squealed in fear, and resumed his duties. He was so intent on not angering 50 Cent further, that he didn't notice the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Yo yo, is this where 50 is?" asked a low, calm voice.

The man startled the producer so much that he pushed the slider too far up on the bass. Luckily, Fiddy didn't notice, but the lights in the studio dimmed, then brightened to a painful intensity before returning to normal.

"What do you want?" asked the producer, returning the bass to the standard level, wary of the fluctuating power.

"I'm sorry, I was just trying to see how my… friend… 50 Cent is doing. I'm Kanye West, dawg." Kaye stepped into the light of the studio.

And lo, the only man with a bigger ego than 50 Cent had arrived. The producer was glad; 50 Cent hated Kanye much more than him. Back in the day, Kanye's album "Graduation" was pitted against 50's "Curtis". Fiddy had sworn that if his album didn't come out on top, he would quit rapping forever. 50 Cent's album flopped, but he didn't make good on his promise, to the amusement of Kanye. If he was here in the studio to see Fiddy, it would not end well.

"What's wrong with the lights, yo?" asked Kanye, noting the electrical problems.

"We had an electrical malfunction. I had to get the power on quickly for Mr. 50, but it's still unstable."

"Yo dawg, why you bowing to 50 Cent's will? It's your motha fuckin' studio!"

"I know, but… but…" the producer looked away.

Kanye put an arm around his shoulder. "A lot of people have been hurt by Balltaser. You ain't the first. But if you work with me, I can ensure you'll be the last, yo."

The producer looked back up at West, confusion registering on his face. "But… how?"

Kanye smiled. "All we gots to do is make sure the studio has an 'electrical malfunction', if you know what I'm sayin'. You could blame Fiddy for the problem; he was the one who didn't have patience."

The producer started to shake his head to decline, but then gave the idea some thought. A life without 50 Cent… now that would be something. Sure, he would experience a loss of income, but at least he wouldn't feel the need to check his closet before he went to sleep. And he wouldn't have to wear an insulating cup from now on. A life without 50 Cent…

"Alright. Let's do it."

He reached for the bass and slid it all the way to maximum. Suddenly, the booth door opened and a gunshot rang out. The producer clutched his last remaining testicle and fell to the ground, moaning. 50 Cent was looking straight at him, "Tick smoking in his hand, and launched into another freestyle:

I see my producer, with a shitty-ass rapper,

So I come out an' cap him, like his name was 'Pac Shakur.

I got another for Kanye, 'cause he bein' naughty-

Imma shoot off yo dick, then I'll T-bag yo body.

Kanye was unimpressed. "Yo yo, your game hasn't improved since the last time we met."

50 Cent turned his gun sideways before retorting. "Hoe, what'chu tryin' to say? I got bitches, money, bitches… fuck, man! I even got video games-what do you have? Learn yo self some respect."

"Well, aside from my copious amounts of money and bitches alike, I think you'll find my collection of Grammys is steadily growing. Dawg, you only has one Grammy. And besides, I don't want any of your shitty games! Blood on the Sand was a rip-off of every cover-based shooter ever made. Gears of War, Resident Evil, Mass Effect-"

"Your mom's copious."

The rappers were interrupted by the simultaneous explosion of all the light bulbs in the studio. There was a short pause before the microphone in the booth overloaded with lightning, striking both rappers and silencing all conversation. The bolt disappeared, leaving both Fiddy and Kanye standing in place in comical poses, before they fell to the ground, unconscious. There was a long pause before the producer looked up from under his mixing table. Were he not preoccupied, he might have said something like "What an electrifying beginning!" but, alas, he was, and he resumed his search for his right ball.

Time and space were imploding around 50 Cent, lights and sound swirling around him. He felt his body was traveling forward, faster than anything had ever gone. He was watching the world, seeing dirty buildings razed, forests being rejuvenated, massive skyscrapers erecting-(50 Cent snickered)-themselves, and unidentified crafts flying into space itself. Suddenly, everything shut off. Darkness.

Two white beams of light slowly traveled towards each other, swirling about in a haze of mystery. They connected and formed the makings of a face; a face that 50 Cent seemed to recognize, but could not place completely in his mind.

"Curtis Jackson," it boomed, in a voice that seemed to emanate from every direction at once.

A lesser man might have been scared by such mystery and theatrics, but this is 50 Cent we're talking about.

"The fuck you want?" asked 50 Cent nonchalantly, wondering whether Kanye West was still around to shoot at.

"We require your assistance. I'm sure you have many questions as to where you are and who we are."

"Uh, yeah I have a question. Where the fuck's Kanye? I got a slug with his name on it."

The face seemed to be as taken aback as an all-powerful metaphysical spirit could be. "Your companion walks the same path, but from a different side. It must be apparent that something is occurring here, Jackson. Something that cannot be reversed."

"Well it's apparent that you ain't gonna tell me shit, so how about we just get going with whatever you got planned," replied 50 Cent, rather annoyed that this face didn't give him a straight answer. But 50 Cent had a saying: Don't fight a man if you can't see his balls. And as this thing was only a face, Fiddy wasn't 100% sure that he could beat it.

The face was pissed. "Well fine, asshole! I won't explain anything! Welcome to Mass Effect."

50 Cent could only say "Wait, what the fuck?" before everything dissolved, he felt the pit of his stomach drop, and darkness descended once more.

Fiddy was standing by a window overlooking Earth, which was rotating majestically. He recoiled suddenly, and started looking around. He was in the Normandy. He had no idea how he knew that, but he did. He turned around and started running down the corridor. Memories poured into his head-his poor life on the streets, his excellence in the Alliance military, his induction into the prestigious ranks of the N7s… all these strange memories that he had never experienced. He broke through a door and arrived at the Command Deck of the Normandy. The crew looked up at him and saluted.

"Commander 50."

50 Cent froze. The memories fell into place perfectly. He was an elite solder that had earned recognition through his complete disregard for the lives of bystanders, which had proved to be very effective. There had been a hostage crisis wherein 50 Cent had simply shot a missile into the building where the terrorists were located. He had been asked to join the Normandy by a fellow N7, Captain Anderson, who knew him personally. He was Commander 50 Cent - -badass by day, badass by night.

"You better salute, how. Respect!" replied 50 jubilantly, feeling at peace. The officers nodded and returned to their work, noting Fiddy's usual behavior.

The intercom sounded. "Commander 50, could you come up to the cockpit real fast?" Joker. 50 Cent was pleased to discover that he knew the name, as well as the names of everybody else on the ship. 50 Cent had heard of this game, of Mass Effect, but had never played it himself. He didn't know how the story would end, but his did know that it would henceforth be known as 50 Cent's Pimpin' Effect!