Somewhere in every city there rests a pedestal atop a certain parapet within the darker corners of the slums. Upon this pedestal rests a withered hand, coated in a deep brown and crevaces of black amongst tortured-looking flesh and fingernails that resemble claws more than they should.
In its immutable grasp is a parchment, upon which is written, depending on the person who finds it, the fate of the Earthling species.
When I picked it up, it read, as far as I could tell:
Now this is a story, all about how my life got-
flipped - turned upside down,
And I'd like to take a minute,
just sit right there,
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel-Air
In West Philadelphia,
born an' raised,
on the playground is where I spent mosta my days,
Chillin out, maxin', relaxin' all cool,
An' all shootin some B-ball outside of the school,
When a couple o' guys who were up to no good,
Started makin' trouble in my neighbourhood,
I got in one little fight and my mom got scared,
She said 'You're movin with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air!'
I whistled for a cab and when it came near,
The license plate said 'Fresh',
And had dice in the mirror,
If anything I could say that this cab was rare,
But I thought 'Nah, forget it - Yo, homes to Bel-Air!'
I pulled up to the house at bout seven or eight,
I yelled to the cabbie 'Yo homes, smell ya later!'
I looked at my kingdom,
I was finally there!
To sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air!