Son of Swag
Justin Bieber is going to murder an escort and there’s absolutely nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.
A grisly exposé of Canada’s national treasure, by Kevin DeLury
There is an idea of a Justin Bieber; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there.
– Paraphrased from American Psycho, by Brett Easton Ellis.
Consider Justin Bieber.
What do we know of this young man? Foppish hair, pouty lips, puppy-dog eyes—a look carefully cultivated by a team of stylists and the good graces of God. Talent of the singing and dancing variety, as evidenced by a multi-platinum recording career. Wearer of purple leather harem pants.
Not pictured: Dignity
A stone-cold psychopath in the making.
No one in the history of the world has grown up like Biebs. Sure, there have been plenty of teen pop stars who have experienced lavish wealth, adoration and the occasional mobbed tour bus. But none have done so quite like this demonic wood nymph.
Think about it this way: you were a shithead at 13. Yes, you. Now imagine your shithead self being rocketed into stardom, singing songs like “Baby, I Love Your Braces” and “I Wanna Yolo With You.”
I’m assuming these are songs… I’ve never actually listened to his music.
If, from the age of 13, all you knew of women was uncontrollable sobbing, hysterical screaming and acts of devotion usually reserved for saints…what would you think? How would your mind comprehend these creatures?
“What are you? Are you… my prey?” source
Now jump forward 4 years. You’re still a shithead except this time you are filling the Superdome with the same hordes of screaming girl-things.
At an age when we were going though the Basic American Teen Rites of Passage, he had none of that. No stealing glances at the mall food court, holding hands in the park, reaching 2nd base before the acid reflux of Boone’s Farm sends you rocketing into the woods to vomit. He knows absolutely nothing of the things which he sings about.
So now we have a 19-year old heartthrob surrounded by nothing but vapid entourage yes-men with names like “Swaggy Zee” and “Big Stuntz” (again, assumption on my part), managers who treat him as a business and bodyguards whose sole purpose it is to keep any bad things that come with the act of existing at bay.
But one day, our Biber will have urges of his own. Not those fostered by interacting with society, but rather by viewing it pressed up against the tinted window of his leopard print stretch Hummer, howling incoherently at him. Not by faults and missteps that transpire into learning, but by the sterile absence of badness, therefore never quantifying what is truly good.
And on that day he will select, as my title suggests, a pre-screened, hand-picked woman who will receive negotiated compensation from his management team in exchange for the signing of an NDA. Discretion is key in this industry.
After a night sitting in VIP with this woman, they will be escorted to his Presidential Suite at The Four Seasons. His team will have furnished all the accoutrements needed for a night of lovemaking: thousand thread count egyptian cloth sheets, bottles of Cristal chilling in a nearby bucket and the sounds of our singer’s newest charting single floating through the din, lest he forgets his place in the world.
Our stage is set: two beautiful people, surrounded by opulence and alone.
Now what to do with this mewling girl-thing? Usually, they scream and cry and he does a dance and pouts and sings and they are happy. What about this one?
She seems impressed…yet they all are. He’ll try flexing; the photographers seem to like when he flexes. Nothing. This is vexing.
Is…is she yawning?! Did this plebeian express mild disdain? This is unacceptable. Time to break out the big guns. The power of dance will please her.
As he begins his routine for an audience of one, he is taken to a place where conscious thought is removed and pure muscle memory guides him through a series of pirouettes, moonwalking and twerking. It is why he was put on this earth, he has been told. As he glides over the room he hears the faintest sound. She’s…giggling. And suddenly, an illuminating truth will enter his mind.
“Maybe I should wear her skin as a suit. Surely this is swaggy.”
“Yes, it all makes sense now.” source
The routine stops and Bieber calmly removes his platinum colored genie pants, taking care to fold and place them on the nearby chair. Resting his mink fedora on top of the nightstand, he grabs the diamond-encrusted bottle opener from the Cristal bucket, leaving the champagne. All at once, the air seems to leave the room.
As he approaches his increasingly nervous quarry, her last rational thought will be that of the mom, dad and little sister she left in Lumberport, West Virginia to pursue a career in modeling.
The next morning, his agent, personal chef and Bikram Yoga instructor find a carnival of gore which will haunt them to the grave. They now know what Bieber craves—and he must be satiated. They will remove the strewn about parts, scrub the ceiling, pay off the maids and bring their caravan of the damned into the next town.
The Bieber Business is good, but blood sacrifices must be made.
“…the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”-1 Peter 5:8 Source