In the airport, after having his body radiated in the name of national security, TSA-sanctioned waves tempting his young smoothie-fed cells to mutate into young smoothie-fed cancer —an x-ray image of his cock added to the database of passenger's cocks and pussies the TSA is hoarding and snickering at—Sillyboi puts in his filthy ear buds to play Future's new album Dirty Sprite 2. Sillyboi only listens to Trap; where masculinity is valued and references to tribal grievances and lethal quarrels are not always symbolic, he imagines. The popular music of the American id. Sillyboi likes to imagine he is Future, beautiful, Black, with long dreads and feline features, living as pure persona. Too great for an ordinary name. Future who calls himself Future: all we hope for, fear, and enumerate soft-voiced in our prayers. Rock-stars are corny dead white guys, thinks Sillyboi, as the opening verse to Blow a Bag plays in his earphones. Sillyboi feels compelled to consider what tragedies may underwrite his fantasy relationship with Future. What does his music endorse if not nihilism, addiction, and misogyny? He feels compelled to think. He doubts his information channels— Spotify, Rap Genius, Wikipedia—grant him access to the truth. Is it wrong to seek refuge from my sterile world of smoothies? Is it wrong to pray at the altar of a popular poet and feel momentarily relieved of myself? Is there something inappropriate about my love for Future?
white In his imagination, Sillyboi is on a couch in a trap house sitting next to Future who sips from a Styrofoam cup as light catches the diamond bezel of his Audemars Piguet wristwatch. On a table is a brick of white wrapped in cellophane, white like Sillyboi, who has never felt whiter than he does from within this fantasy.
white "Hey, Future," he says.
white Future nods. Sillyboi isn't sure how to fantasize about this. Is he surrounded by kingpins with weapons, about to witness weight being moved? Or, are the kingpins actors outfitted to look like big movers? Are the guns toys filled with caps? Sillyboi waits for a director to appear, or the house to be stormed by DEA agents.

white Sold over a million dimes, hangin' in the cut
white sold over a million dimes
white I don't give a fuck

white Future sings. Sillyboi enters the plane, finds his seat and settles down next to a blonde woman in work-out clothing, texting. The sun coming through the window next to her is so bright she must use her hand as a visor to shield her face from the glare. Sillyboi glances at her screen hoping to catch a glimpse of something too personal for public consumption but can only read one mundane text:

white Don't be. It wasn't like that at all.

white Is anything as it presents itself, Sillyboi wonders as he closes his eyes and leans his head on the stiff airline seat equal parts bored and enthralled by life's endless stream of mysteries. Sillyboi gives Future a warm embrace. He wants to leave the trap house before the DEA arrives or the director calls action.
white "I'm really glad we met. I love Dirty Sprite 2. It's my favorite album ever," Sillyboi says, weeping tears of joy.
white "Thanks," Future says, a little uncomfortable.
white "Oh, and I don't mind that maybe you've broken the law in your life. I'm sure you only broke laws I didn't agree with. And, in a way, I feel like you did it for me. So I wouldn't have to."
white Future nods, eager for the conversation to be over.
white Sillyboi is asleep before the plane takes off.