2pac: greatest rapper Alive

27th January 1990

Two weeks had passed since the incident that left Tupac bruised, both physically and mentally. Though the news coverage of the beating had fizzled out, the fire inside him burned brighter than ever. The anger, the humiliation, and the resolve to fight back against the system fueled his every waking moment.

The studio had become his sanctuary. Tupac spent every hour he could there, pouring his emotions into his next album, Poetic Justice. The title reflected his state of mind—a blend of raw pain and an unyielding desire for retribution through his art. Every beat, every lyric he crafted came from a place of truth, aiming to shake the world that had momentarily ignored him.

"Yo, Pac, you need to get some sleep, man," one of the engineers said, rubbing his own tired eyes as Tupac paced the studio floor.

"I'll sleep when the album's done," Tupac shot back, his voice sharp but not angry. "Right now, I got too much to say."

He turned back to the mic, gripping his notebook filled with scribbled lyrics. He spat verses with an intensity that left everyone in the room speechless. His delivery wasn't just about rhyming words; it was a battle cry, a declaration of war against the forces that had tried to break him.

Even during breaks, Tupac was restless. He'd sit in the corner, jotting down new ideas, nodding to beats, or debating with his producer about track arrangements. The studio crew was exhausted, but Tupac's energy was infectious. They couldn't help but stay, drawn by the magnetism of his vision.

It was just past midnight. The studio was quiet except for the faint hum of equipment and the rustle of papers as Tupac adjusted his notes. Then, the phone on the wall began to ring.

One of the assistants looked up, surprised. "Who's calling at this hour?"

Tupac waved him off and walked over to the phone. He picked up the receiver, his voice low and gruff from hours of recording. "Yo, this is Tupac."

On the other end, a smooth, familiar voice replied, "Hey, it's Michael."

Tupac froze for a moment, his brow furrowing. "Michael?"

"Yeah, Michael Jackson," the voice clarified.

Tupac blinked, his mouth slightly open in shock. He wasn't easily starstruck, but this was different. This was Michael Jackson.

"What's up, cuz?" Tupac finally said, regaining his composure, though his heart was racing.

Michael chuckled softly. "I've been following your work, Tupac. I like what you're doing. You've got a message, and it's powerful. I respect that."

Tupac leaned against the wall, trying to process what he was hearing. "Man, coming from you, that's... I don't even know what to say. That means a lot."

"I was wondering," Michael continued, "if you'd be interested in collaborating on a song or two. I think we could create something unforgettable."

Tupac straightened up, his mind racing. Collaborating with Michael Jackson wasn't just an opportunity—it was a game-changer. "You serious?"

"Absolutely," Michael said. "I know you're working on your album. How about we meet at your studio? I want to hear what you've been working on."

Tupac didn't hesitate. "Say less, Michael. Anytime. Just let me know when, and we'll make it happen."

Michael's voice carried a smile. "How about tomorrow night?"

"Done," Tupac said without missing a beat.

They exchanged details, and Tupac hung up the phone, standing in silence for a moment. Then, a slow grin spread across his face.

"Who was that?" one of the producers asked, noticing the change in Tupac's expression.

"Michael Jackson," Tupac said, still grinning.

The room went dead silent.

"Michael Jackson? Like... the Michael Jackson?"

Tupac nodded, his grin turning into a smirk. "Yeah. He wants to work with me. Said he's pulling up tomorrow night."

The crew erupted into chaos, everyone talking at once.

"No way."

"This is insane!"

"Pac, you're about to blow up for real."

Tupac raised his hands to calm them down. "Relax, y'all. We still got work to do. But yeah... this is big."

Next day

The studio was buzzing with anticipation. Word had spread fast—Michael Jackson was supposed to be here. Everyone from the engineers to the assistants had shown up early, making sure everything was perfect. The room was spotless, the sound system was double-checked, and the anticipation hung thick in the air.

Tupac, however, wasn't one to sit around and wait. He kept himself busy, running through tracks for Poetic Justice, tweaking verses, and making sure every beat hit the way he wanted. But as the hours passed and Michael was still nowhere to be seen, his patience started to wear thin.

By noon, the excitement had turned into confusion. By 5 PM, people started exchanging glances, silently wondering if this was even happening. By 9 PM, it was clear—Michael wasn't coming.

It wasn't until almost midnight that the studio door opened. A man in a suit walked in, carrying a cassette tape in his hand.

"Tupac?" the man asked.

Tupac turned from the mixing board, his jaw tightening. "Yeah, that's me. Who the f**k are you?"

The man adjusted his tie, his expression calm but distant. "I work with Michael. He couldn't make it tonight, but he sent this over." He held up the tape like it was some kind of peace offering.

For a long moment, the room was dead silent. Everyone stared at the guy, then at Tupac.

Tupac stepped forward, snatching the tape from the man's hand without even looking at it. "That's it?" he asked, his voice low and sharp.

The man nodded. "Michael's schedule—"

Tupac didn't let him finish. He turned away, muttering, "Man, f**k this." He stormed toward the studio phone, his frustration boiling over.

Everyone in the room watched as he dialed a number with a force that made the buttons click loudly. After a few rings, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Put Michael on the f**king phone," Tupac demanded, his voice like steel.

There was a pause, then the voice hesitated. "This is his manager. Michael isn't available right now."

"I don't give a f**k," Tupac snapped. "Put him on the phone."

More silence. Then, after a long sigh, the voice on the other end finally relented. "Hold on."

A few seconds later, another voice came on the line—soft, familiar. "Pac?"

Tupac didn't even hesitate. "You motherfker. You wasn't man enough to show up? You send some dude with a fking tape like I'm some backup dancer or some sh*t? Man, f**k your feature. I don't need that."

Everyone in the studio froze. They couldn't believe what they were hearing—Tupac cussing out Michael Jackson.

On the other end, Michael let out a slow breath. "Pac, I'm really sorry," he said, his voice calm. "I had a family emergency. I wanted to be there, I really did."

Tupac was still heated. "Man, I don't wanna hear that bullsh*t. If you didn't wanna work, just say that."

"I swear it wasn't about that," Michael said quickly. "It was family. I wouldn't just not show up for no reason."

Tupac fell silent for a moment, his anger still lingering but now mixed with something else—hesitation.

Michael continued, "Look, I know you're mad. I would be too. But I still want to do this, Pac. I respect you. I wouldn't waste your time if I didn't."

Tupac exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. "You sure?"

"Absolutely," Michael said. "Tomorrow night. I'll be there. No excuses."

Another pause. Then, finally, Tupac nodded to himself. "Aight. Tomorrow. Don't make me look stupid again, Mike."

"You have my word," Michael said.

Tupac hung up, tossing the phone onto the table. He looked around the studio. Everyone was still staring at him, wide-eyed.

"What?" he said.

One of the engineers shook his head. "Bruh... you just told Michael Jackson to go f**k himself."

Tupac smirked, shaking his head. "He'll be here tomorrow."

To Be Continued...

Author notes

by the way it is real situation. Support the story with comments. By the way comments you're song from the fan made of PAC x Michael from YouTube .

By the way from here story is getting juicer and juicer for me to write.

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