Once Upon A Emanny

Intro: Big Apple Traffic

Chapter 1: Call From Joe

Chapter 2: Finally Late, On Time…                       

Chapter 3: You Ready?!

Interlude: Last Choices

Chapter 4: Amazonia

Chapter 5: Closer To Life

Outer: Sleep By Birth

The honking was relentless, a discordant soundtrack to Queenzflip's growing frustration. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the bass from the custom speakers thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs.

The West Side Highway was a parking lot, a shimmering expanse of brake lights stretching as far as the eye could see. He was already running late.

Emanny had specifically said, "Don't be on Flip time, Flip. Writers block is a real demon, and I need the vibes right from jump street." (Flip playing it back in his head, waiting in traffic)

Flip grunted, pulling his phone from its magnetic mount. He scrolled through his contacts, stopping on Emanny's name. He knew calling would just add to the stress, but he had to say something. He tapped the "FaceTime" button and held his breath.

After a few agonizing rings, Emanny's slightly blurry face filled the screen. He was sprawled on a plush velvet couch, overlooking the city skyline. Smoke curled lazily from a sage stick burning in the foreground.

"Yo, Flip, what up?" Emanny’s voice, usually smooth as silk,had a faint edge to it.

"Yo, Manny, my bad, man. I'm stuck in this bull crap traffic on the West Side. Looks like they paved paradise and put in a parking lot, Man?" (Flip’s nervous laughter felt forced, even to his own ears.)

Emanny sighed, the sound heavy with impatience.

Emanny: Traffic, Flip? You knew I needed you here. This deadline is stressing me out, man. I need your energy."

Flip: "I know, Manny, I know. Trust me, I'm moving as fast as I can. I swear, I'm bout to start doing the Dukes of Hazzard across these hoods." (Flip chuckled again, hoping to lighten the mood, Emanny didn't crack a smile.)

Emanny: Just get here, Flip. ASAP. I got the beat cooking, the good stuff flowing, and the vibes... well, the vibes are starting to stale.

(Emanny said with taking a final sip of the ONCE-UPON-A-COCONUT, before releasing a burp into Flip’s car!

Emanny hung up, leaving Flip staring at his own reflection in the phone screen.

Flip sighed, running a hand over his close-cropped beard, the pressure was on.

Emanny was a perfectionist, especially when it came to his music. Flip knew his role was more than just a hype man. He was the additional afro creative spark, the unfiltered voice, the guy who could cut through the BS and get to the heart of the song that others would relate too.

Suddenly in the mix of all the taxi’s, a gap opened up in the lane to Flip’s left, Up ahead a man stood on the top of what dividing lanes, looking off without hesitation Flip swerved into the left lane earning a chorus of angry horns. He ignored them, focused solely on inching forward to Emanny’s Pennhouse, weaving through the gridlock like a seasoned hustler navigating the city streets.

Flip switched on a classic Nas track, the familiar flow washing over him. Flip started to tap his foot, the beat slowly calming his nerves.

He was almost there. He could practically smell the creative energy radiating from Emanny's penthouse.

As he crept forward, he caught a glimpse of Central Park beginning to bloom in the distance, a splash of vibrant green against the gray cityscape.

Flip took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the traffic and the pressure of the deadline begin to lift as he enters what is now called Central Green.

Queenzflip, the hype man, the wordsmith, the energy source. (All that made him great, flip played back in his head)

Flip was about to bring that energy to Emanny's penthouse and help him cook up some fire. He just had to get there first.

Right Now!

That meant conquering this concrete jungle one excruciating inch at a time.(that Eric Adams left New York City before his last day)

...Queenzflip, in light traffic passing Central Green Prospect Park, felt a rare moment of peace settle over him.

The usual cacophony of car horns, booming bass, and hustlers vying for attention was muted.

The late afternoon sun, dipping below the treeline, painted the park a warm, inviting gold.

He cracked the window, letting in a gentle breeze laced with the scent of freshly cut grass and something faintly floral.

Normally, this drive was a mental battlefield. Every stoplight was a potential interruption, every slow car a personal affront.

He was always strategizing, calculating the fastest route, the best angles for a quick escape if needed. But not today. Today, the city seemed to be breathing easier, mirroring the exhale he was unconsciously holding back.

He was thinking of Lil Cyclone while heading to a small studio session at Emanny place.

(A young kid, called himself "Lil' Cyclone," had reached out on Instagram, begging Flip to listen to his music. Flip usually ignored these requests.)

He was a gatekeeper to a lot in New York, a legend in the streets of Queenz, but not a demo-reader. (But something about Lil' Cyclone's persistence, the sheer desperation in his DMs, had gotten to him.)

Maybe it was the nostalgia, the echo of his own hungry ambition from years ago.

He glanced at the park stretching out on his left. He remembered sneaking into Prospect Park as a kid, dodging sprinklers, climbing trees, and dreaming of a life beyond the concrete jungle.

Back then, Central Green was just a patch of green he'd run across, oblivious to its name or significance. Now, it was a reminder of simpler times, a fleeting escape from the complexities of his current life.

He flipped pass the radio stations, landing on a smooth jazz station. (Another unusual choice for him)

He typically blasted hardcore hip-hop, the kind that vibrated your teeth and shook the rearview mirror. (But the mellow saxophone felt right, It softened the edges of the city, blurring the lines between reality and memory.)

As he cruised along, a memory surfaced. He pictured himself, younger, angrier, standing in front of the same stretch of park, yelling into a brick wall, practicing his come up, his voice raw with passion and frustration.

Flip was a nobody then, just another kid with a dream and a microphone as a stick from off a tree.

Now, his name was known from Queens to the Bronx, from Brooklyn to Staten Island. He'd carved out a space for himself, a legacy built on hustle, talent, and a healthy dose of reckless abandon.

A smile, small and almost imperceptible, touched his lips. He was still here. Still in the game. Still breathing. And maybe, just maybe, he could help another kid find his way, too. He reached to touch the phone.

He would message Lil' Cyclone and tell him to bring his A-game to Emanny small studio session, before the seeing if it was okay.

The old Queenzflip was about to walk through that studio door. And he felt it was time he brought a little city with him.

Queenzflip hummed along to Foxy Brown that was playing, the bass vibrating his chest as he maneuvered his customized Cadillac Escalade through the light traffic.

Central Green blurred past on his right, a vibrant splash of green against the Brooklyn brownstones. Prospect Park, usually a bustling hub, was surprisingly calm for a busy afternoon.

He appreciated the ease of the drive, a rare moment of tranquility before diving headfirst into the chaos that awaited him at E-Manny's Manhattan penthouse.

He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist?

E-Manny was notoriously impatient… Punctuality wasn't just good manners; it was survival! (Especially when dealing with a guy who considered tardiness a sign of disrespect, punishable by… well, Queenzflip didn't want to dwell on the possibilities.)

The Escalade ate up the miles, the skyline of Manhattan growing larger on the horizon. He passed the Brooklyn Museum, a silent sentinel watching over the borough, and then the Grand Army Plaza roundabout, its arch a regal gateway to the island. As he approached the Manhattan Bridge he merged in behind buses and cars with a familiar anxiety began to bubble in his gut.

He’d known E-Manny for years, but the man was still a walking, talking enigma. One minute he was your brother, the next, you were walking on eggshells.

He took a deep breath and focused on the road. He needed to be sharp, present.

Today's meeting was about more than just pleasantries! E-Manny had been hinting at a major deal, something that could catapult Queenzflip's brand to a whole new level. The potential rewards were immense, but so were the risks of all that could go wrong with this session that Flip wanted to only keep positive.

He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a pack of gum, unwrapping a piece and popping it into his mouth.

The minty flavor helped clear his head. He needed to play his cards right, listen carefully, and keep his emotions in check.

E-Manny respected strength and shrewdness, but he despised weakness and sentimentality.

As he crossed the Manhattan Bridge, the city spread out before him in all its glory. The skyscrapers pierced the sky, monuments to ambition and success. He could almost taste the possibilities, the power that awaited him.

But he knew that to seize it, he had to navigate the treacherous currents of E-Manny's world with precision and GRACE.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. (He was ready!)

Or at least, he hoped he was… As he exited the bridge and merged onto the FDR Drive, heading towards the Upper East Side, Queenzflip braced himself for whatever E-Manny had in store.

The penthouse awaited, and with it, the chance to either make his wildest dreams come true or watch them crumble into dust. The only thing certain was that nothing would ever be the same again after this meeting with them both under pressure to come up with more ideas for the JBP.

( While trying to mix the time into doing, all the things they hardly had any time for anymore.)

Chapter 1: Call From Joe

First a ring echoed around the Wale song playing before the familiar beep-boop sound of the car's Bluetooth being connected.

Flip gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles growning dry & white against the worn leather. Wishing rain would hammered against the windshield, to mirror the agitated rhythm in his chest.

Joe: “Yo, Flip” He said, his voice a low rumble.

Flip: Joey! Wassup, dawg? I’m on your way to Manny's? ( Flip's voice crackled through the speakers, brimming with his usual, infectious energy.)

Flip: Yeah, pulling up now!

Joe: You there already?

Flip: Nah, i was stuck in traffic, man. This damn…. But I'm about thirty minutes out.

Flip ; Yo, Manny said he's got some fire, Joey. Real next-level shit! (We gonna cook up something crazy tonight, trust me.")

Joe grunted, a barely perceptible sound that could have been mistaken for agreement.

Joe: Yeah, that's what's up!

Silence hung heavy in the air Flip knew Joe couldn't see him without visual, but he felt the need to fill the void with something, ANYTHING!?

Flip: Yo, you spoke to Manny lately? (he asked, trying to sound casual)

Joe: Nah, not really. Just the usual texts about tonight. Why? Something up, Flip?"

Joe wrestled with his inner turmoil. He knew it was irrational, childish even, but a knot of jealousy was tightening in his gut. He and Emanny had been locked in, creatively, for years. They had a rhythm, a language only they understood but lately though, Emanny had been talking about "expanding his horizons, collaborating with new voices.

(Hearing Flip – Flip, of all people – hype up this new material, talking like he was the key to unlocking Emanny's potential, rubbed Joe raw.)

Flip: Nah, just haven't seen him in a minute," Flip mumbled, dismissively.

Joe: He been working on that solo project? (Fishing deeper in Emanny’s way of thinking, that not even Flip completely understood yet…with all the time they spent together off & on the JBP)

Flip: Yeah, I think so. He played me a snippet the other day, crazy flows! Joe it was Real… hungry…Different. Flip paused.

Flip: Sounded like he's been listening to a lot of… new stuff without it changing his visual to what we all know he can give.

Joe winced..(New stuff was code for being stuff Joe Budden doesn't make a dime off of!)

Flip pulled up to Emanny's building, as he killed the engine, he heard Joe continue before cutting him off.

Flip: Look Joe, I gotta go. Traffic's starting to move. See you later on, man. Let's make some history tonight!"

Joe: Yeah! (Joe replied with his word flat and lifeless)

Flip disconnected the call and sat for a long moment, the sunlight blurring his vision.

Flip knew joe was being ridiculous, Emanny was his friend, his collaborator, his brother in the game. He should be happy for him, excited about the new direction? But the truth was, the thought of someone else sharing that creative space with Emanny, of someone else inspiring him in ways Joe couldn't, felt like a betrayal. Joe felt…replaced and no boy gave a fuck about joey feelings around this time of hustling for MORE.

Joe back home pictured Flip, brimming with confidence, walking into Emanny's studio, throwing out ideas, connecting with him on a level Joe had taken for granted. The image fueled the fire of insecurity burning within him.

Taking a deep breath, Flip forced himself out of the car. He trudged toward the building entrance, the sunrays plastering his hat on his forehead.

Telling himself Joe was being paranoid. He and Emanny were solid & this was just a temporary thing!…Right? (Pressing the elevator button)

The elevator doors hissed open with a reluctant groan, and Marc Hill practically exploded onto the 1st floor landing.

Marc face, normally a landscape of easy smiles and thoughtful creases, was a storm, Marc jammed his hands into the pockets of his designer jeans, the expensive denim rumpling around his clenched fists.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, the sound muffled but venomous. "Absolutely unbelievable."

(Emmany, his supposed friend, his 'brother from another mother,' had just pulled the rug out from under him in the most spectacular, bone-headed way.)

Ten years of loyalty, of late-night brainstorming sessions, of shared victories and consoling shoulders, all reduced to a single, callous business decision.

He looked down exiting the into the hallway leading to the lobby. (Standing before him, bathed in the muted light of the hallway, was Queenzflip)

Marc was a walking, talking explosion of vibrant color and unapologetic style. From the start Emanny was a visual assault on the feelings of others, and usually, Marc would have appreciated it. Tonight, though, he just wanted to disappear so he left early.

Marc Hill practically exploded out of the cramped space, his face a thundercloud. He released a stream of frustrated syllables punctuated by the occasional “bullshit!” and “hypocrisy!” Whatever meeting he’d just had with Emanny clearly gone disastrously wrong.

He barely registered the Queenzflip standing near the elevator, scrolling through his phone. A low, familiar chuckle cut through his internal monologue.

Flip: Yo, Marc, what's got your boxers in a bunch? You look like you're about to declare war on all in the lobby.

Marc stopped dead, momentarily forgetting his simmering rage. (Marc looked up and saw Flip with a smirk playing on his lips.

Marc: Flip? Marc acknowledged with his voice growing tight.

Marc: You wouldn't believe the garbage I just had to sit through!

A bunch of corporate suits patting themselves on the back for 'diversity initiatives' while completely ignoring the structural problems that created the lack of diversity in the first place." He ran a hand through his no hair bald head, leaving it even more disheveled to Flip’s angry bird eyes.

Marc: It's performative, Flip! Performance! You know?"

Flip nodded slowly, his smirk softening into a look of genuine understanding.

Flip: Preach, brother I've been there!

Flip: You gotta navigate that corporate tap dance sometimes, but yeah, it can be soul-crushing."

(Marc let out a frustrated exhale)

Marc: Tell me about it. (I'm about ready to walk out on this project and start my own damn thing.)

Flip: Now, now! (Flip chuckled, tapping Marc on the shoulder)

Flip; Don't go burning any bridges you might need later, remember how far we all have come by working together.

Flip: Just channel that anger into something productive and Use it.

The elevator pinged again, announcing its return. Flip turned towards the opening doors. "Alright, I gotta head up.

I'm going to see whats really up with Emanny's!

Marc raised an eyebrow as the elevator doors slid shut, leaving Marc standing alone in the hallway. The knot in his stomach hadn’t completely disappeared, but it had loosened slightly. Flip was right about dwelling on the infuriating meeting wouldn’t solve anything. A good distraction, some good conversation, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of Henny might be exactly what he needed when he got him to his wife and kids. He pulled out his phone, thumbs poised over the keyboard, a sliver of optimism flickering in his chest. He had a feeling Manny's impromptu gathering was about to be a whole lot more interesting with Flip being the one to talk about it all tonight with him having to say anything.

At home Joe is cuddled up with Shadee when he got a text from Marc, that made his day!

Joe grinned. That's what I'm talking about. Catch you later, Marc.

The elevator shut and moving up, leaving Flip wondering if leaving Marc standing alone in the hallway was right in the middle of all he expressed, But as he rode the elevator up, the lyrics of a half-finished track Emanny been working on for weeks echoed in his mind: “The king is dead, long live the king…”

Flip swallowed hard, the taste of fear bitter on his tongue. Tonight wasn't just about creating new content; it was about proving he still mattered, proving that he was still the king, and Flip was tired of feeling like just an interloper trying to snatch his own crown.

The challenge, he knew, was to keep that competitive fire from consuming him, from turning what should be a collaboration into a desperate, insecure power struggle. He just wasn't sure if he was capable of it after what marc said about the men in suits and ties waiting in Emanny’s apartment.

Chapter 2: Finally Late, On Time… 

The scent of money and weed hit Queenzflip the moment the elevator doors hissed open on the top floor of Emanny's Manhattan penthouse.

Before Flip stepped out the elevator doors to silence and polished as a tomb, the doors glided open on the penthouse floor.

Leo clutched the thermal bag, its contents radiating the irresistible aroma of pepperoni, mushroom, and extra cheese, a beacon in the otherwise sterile, hushed hallway.

This was it – the fabled Emanny Pennhouse with a incoming delivery.

Rumor had it Emanny was a R&B mogul so reclusive, even his shadows kept secrets. (And he only ordered pizza before midnight)

Tonight was special!

Leo adjusted the brim of his “Slice-n-Dice” Pizza cap, his stomach rumbling in sympathy with the pizzas he carried.

Flip stopped him with short conversation and pulling of his Black card for the triple-extra-large order, Flip paid upfront with the credit card that cost more than Leo’s car. The tip was going to be legendary he felt looking at Flip.

Before Leo can reached the imposing, dark wood door – Number 57 and took a breath with a greeting at the raised hand that never got to knock on the door, Leo forgetting the readied lines to the most ate pizza in NewYork City "Slice-n-Dice: Hot and Ready!"

Before his knuckles could connect, the door hummed and slid inward a fraction of an inch.

Then a hand, impossibly smooth and precise, emerged. It wasn't Emanny's.

The hand belonged to Flip. Or something that looked like a man. He was tall, big, impeccably dressed in a charcoal sweatsuit so sharp it looked like it could cut glass.

His eyes, the color of cool steel, were fixed not on Leo, but on the thermal bag.

His face was devoid of expression, a polished mask.

Leo: “Pizza delivery for Emmany,” Leo began, a nervous professionalism creeping into his voice.

Flip didn't speak. He simply reached out, his movements fluid and efficient.

Flip didn't ask, he demanded with his posture.

Flip took the thermal bag, his fingers brushing Leo’s, a touch that felt oddly… unhuman.

Leo instinctively tightened his grip. “Whoa, hey, I need Mr. Emanny to confirm the order. For payment and… you know, proof of delivery.”

The Flip gaze, which hadn't moved from the thermal bag, finally flickered to Leo’s face.

Flip: Payment is processed, he stated, his voice a low, modulated baritone, utterly devoid of inflection.

Flip: Delivery confirmed.

He began to pull the bag. Leo, caught off guard by the sheer, unyielding confidence of the man, found his grip weakening. It wasn't forceful, but it was inevitable. Flip simply took the pizzas.

Leo: But… I need to see him! Who are you?” Leo blurted, watching in disbelief as Flip effortlessly extracted the three large pizza boxes from the thermal carrier.

Flip didn’t fumble, didn’t hesitate. He held them like precious artifacts.

Flip turned, the pizza boxes held flat, almost reverently, against his sweatsuit.

Flip looked back at Leo, his steel eyes unreadable.

“FLIP,” he said. And then, without another word, he stepped back into the penthouse. The door hummed again, sliding shut with an unnerving finality, leaving Leo standing alone in the silent, expensive hallway, holding an empty thermal bag that still smelled faintly of hot supreme pizza.

Leo stared at the closed door, his mind a jumble of questions.

Leo: FLIP? Was that a name? An acronym? Was he security? A butler? A highly advanced, pizza-retrieving android taker? And where was the tip?

He stood there for a full minute, the silence of the pennhouse floor pressing down on him.

The mystery of Emanny Pennhouse had just gotten a whole lot stranger. (And a whole lot less profitable by Leo’s feelings)

Leo sighed, adjusted his cap, and turned towards the elevator, the lingering scent of pepperoni now mixing with the distinct fragrance of baffled confusion.

Behind the door Flip stood in his Timberlands crunching a little on the pristine white marble flooring before he traveled up the last elevator that lead up into Emanny Pennhouse.

The elevator had been vibrating with bass, playing some obscure underground rapper he vaguely recognized, and the thump-thump-thump followed him as he approached the massive oak door that Flip didn't bother knocking.

He knew the code!

Emanny, bless his heart, wasn’t the most security-conscious guy. Flip punched in the familiar sequence and the door swung inward, revealing a sprawling living room bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, the concrete jungle stretching out below like a glittering carpet.

Emanny was sprawled on a plush, oversized couch, a half-smoked blunt hanging precariously from his fingers. He was surrounded by a chaotic mess – stacks of vinyl records, crumpled takeout containers, and what looked like a disassembled synthesizer.

He was wearing a silk robe that looked like it cost more than Flip's entire wardrobe.

Emanny: Yo, Flip! You made it!" Emanny's voice was thick with sleep and weed.

He didn't even bother to sit up!

Emanny; Come through, man. I just to order some pizza. You hungry?

Flip walked further into the apartment with the pizza boxes, his eyes scanning the scene. He knew Emanny lived lavishly, but it still always took him a minute to adjust to the sheer extravagance.

Flip: What up, Manny? Yeah, I'm good for a slice.

Flip: What kind of mess you got going on in here?

Emanny: Looks like a hurricane hit!

Emanny: Nah, man, I'm working on something," Emanny mumbled, vaguely gesturing to the synthesizer parts scattered across the coffee table.

Emanny: Trying to recapture that early 80s synth-pop vibe. It's harder than it looks, you know?

Flip chuckled, stepping over a pile of graphic novels.

Flip: I bet. You always chasing some new sound.

Flip: That's why you stay on top, though. Always evolving.

He dropped onto the edge of the couch, careful not to crush any stray records.

Flip: So, what's the deal?

Flip: You called me over here sounding all mysterious.

Flip: Said you needed my unvarnished opinion.

Emanny finally sat up, stubbing out the blunt in a crystal ashtray, filled with a oil.

Emanny: Yeah, that's right. I got something I been working on. Something... different.

He reached for a remote and the enormous flat-screen TV on the wall flickered to life.

Flip: Alright, let's hear it, Flip said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

He knew Emanny was talented, no doubt about it.

But he also knew he could be impulsive and sometimes needed someone to pull him back from the edge.

He was hoping this "something different" wasn’t too far gone.

He had a feeling it was going to be a long night…

Next Chapter: You Ready? ( Unlocks on Aug. 1 )