Over the past couple of days, Lupe Fiasco has started to write a novel on Twitter (@LupeFiasco).
The Chicago rapper’s Twitter novel has been described as an “Afro-Futurist novel” that will “be published in chapters” on the social media site.
Lupe explains his Twitter novel:
“Teriyaki Joe: Neo-Harlem Detective is an Afro-Futurist novel that will be written entirely on Twitter… It will run for the next couple of months with breaks in between for album promotion etc.”
The first chapter of “Teriyaki Joe: Neo-Harlem Detective” is titled “Grits,” the second chapter is called “Coffee,” and the third is “Gravy.”
You can read the first chapter “Grits” of Lu’s Twitter novel below.
Teriyaki Joe: Neo-Harlem Detective (Chapter One – Grits)
Two more smacks should do it. She’s weak. A couple more properly placed palms across the cheeks and she’ll be all his. She’ll make good money for him too. Thick-legged, creole, tall…yeah she’s a real winner. I give her two months. I give him three. Two months before she wises up and figures out she’ll be here forever and three months before she puts a knife in his chest for it. That’s Neo-Harlem for you. That slow burn then that inferno. And you either wood or fire…aint no water just Gin to keep it goin.
Two slick punks gambling they heart out next to the scene. Couple cops shaking down some junky next to that. That’s the view from the office. .45 on the desk. Digital cigar burning. Sun-Ra coming out the speakers. Antique Rick Ross poster on the wall. Man I miss hip-hop. Damn shame. Mental telephone on vibrate. Mostly getting lost dog calls these days. 10 million worth of Units in the wall safe. Nano-Eames couch for now.
Could really use some pussy. Real pussy not that robotic Kevlar jellyfish these ladies walking around with today. Fake pussy fake furniture. ‘CHANEL VAGINAL IMPLANTS: Who Says Sex Can’t Be Luxurious’ ‘Coach Vaginal Implants: The Next Level’ ‘NIKE Sport Implants: Just Do It’. The Sun-Ra reaches its crescendo just as I get a call worth answering. —1 Million Units!!! Respond For Details— Money first. I like that.
POW! POW! The cops shot the junky. Streets gonna be alive tonight. Real alive. I put on my jacket & head for the diner. I need some grits.
Update: Chapters 2,3,4 added.
Chapter 2: Coffee
“You’re Not Real Joe” God Damn hackers! They got into my MindPhone somehow. They keep leaving these messages. Nobody is coming to get this junky. All his body parts are expired probably why he was getting doped up. Two years ago he’d of been stripped clean before he hit the ground. But now designers parts are so easy to come by he’s good as gum wrappers. Don’t know why they shot him though. Cops these days. You never know. Disposal might come in a couple weeks. Might not.
Valentines Day. Hookers working overtime. Flower shop empty. Whole city in love with something or at least pretending to be. I step into the diner and work my way through the crowd waiting on tables to steal a seat at the counter. It’s always a seat there. 5 coffees, 3 grits, 6 eggs, 2 toasts, 9 sausage. She hands over the glasses. I inform her these are dirty. She doesn’t care. I wipe them on my jacket and put them on. 5 blinks equal 25 Units. She slides me the black tray with the pills and sneers out “Bon Appetite”.
Units are stored in the eyes. Blinking releases Units into receiving glasses or goggles or contacts and your purchase is complete. They updated the toast. Coffee is still terrible. I spot Tall Creole at the end of the counter popping back Gin pills raw. A reality freak. I look back down with my eyes half over the top of the glasses & see the black tray in the glasses I see a plate overflowing with breakfast. I like to stay one foot in & one foot out I guess. I can take being lied to. Being a liar comes easy too. Here its an expectation of sorts. The human body still isn’t used to digesting pill food properly. Updating is a constant to combat the side effects. Shakes, vomiting etc. Better than real food though. That shit will kill you. So many additives and molecular advertising in it it’s damn near plastic. Tall Creole shakes violently, damn near falls off stool. She’s almost ready 4 the night to take her. I hope she makes it out the other side. I grab the Shake Handles connected to the stool and prepare for my turn. It comes. I wink a tip. Take off the glasses & head into the night.
—1 Million Units Respond For Details— glows in the left hand corner of my mind. I’ve been thinking about it this whole time. Sounds like a set up to be honest. 1 Millions Units is the apple but who is the devil on the other side. I guess that makes me Adam. No Eve! “Playback Tall Creole” half my mind rewinds back to my thick-legged tail as she followed me into the diner recording me as I recorded her. Now we have our Eve, Adam & The Apple. Now we just need The Devil. Sometimes the best place to find the devil is in the mirror. Lets see.
—This is Teriyaki Joe…What Are The Details??—
Chapter 3: Gravy
—Download Complete— Hmmm looks like I’ll be heading upstairs.
The cab stinks. The stale intensity of so many burned out digital cigar cores left to decay on the floor. The acid graffiti. It doesn’t fit. Not fit transport for somebody “Going Upstairs” as they say. We all say that. Some champagne and classical music would be nice. Maybe a chauffeur would give the trip up top a fancier sentiment. I mean the best of us should travel with a little more class and dignity. This is like being in a port-o-potty with thrusters. A couple coughs. A well aimed spit. Yeah thats how the “Best Of Us” do it, precisely.
Up through the clouds. Directly into the Moon. We pass through it. It’s only a meter thick. So warm. So fake. Color is still wrong to me. The cab slows to a halt. Border patrol scans the ID tags. All clear. One step down. Disinfection nozzles spray the cab down. Missed a spot. Step three is up next. Blindness. Total sensory disconnect. 3 seconds. 3 weeks. It’s all the same in “non-sense.” Helpless. Out of touch.
“EOJ LAER TON RUOY” ——— *digital sizzle” ———————-—•—————————————————-music———————————————————————-!!!
Awww Nice. Grass. Glass. Nothing else. Central Fucking Park Baby! It’s all tai-chi and vegan techno utopia. Upstairs. NH is Downstairs. Can’t see it from here. Shit I wouldn’t wanna see it either. Most these folks never have. Never will. Where’s my devil? Birthing out of Non-sense mode is always a mellow moment. Has to be or the shock would give you a heart attack. Wish I could smoke here.
Man would you look at that. The real Sun. Son of a bitch. My devil approaches. His name is 11. Mid level manager at a pill manufacturer. I don’t believe him. He’s not my devil. Too many questions. He’s just checking me out. He knows I know. He changes to his real voice. All this espionage. Games. The real voice isn’t really right either. Neither are the eyes. All tests. The “air” is thick with nano-machines. It’s like wading in a pool of thin water. It’s what moves things here. A seamless, all encompassing soup of nano-machines & information. A spoonful of this stuff would sell for millions back Downstairs if we had real sunlight to keep it alive that is. What’d he say???!!!
“That’s right Mr.Teriyaki (-It’s Joe!-) I want you to bring my daughter back.”
Chapter 4: Pie
Slurp..Slurp…Slurp…Sluuuuurp…SlurpSlurpSlurpSlurp…hmmmph!…aaah!…*Gulp* “Happy Valentine’s Day Baby” she says with a wink. I fell for the Mohawk. She fell for the 10,000 Units. The business of love in the streets. Had to relieve some tension before I made my first move. Decisions made while being tense always come back to bite you in the ass. Clarity. “Everybody” just for 1 person. Seems a bit extreme. Even for a “Parker.” You’d think all that Taichi would make them a little more peaceful. A little more humane. Hell even a little more robotic would be nice at least they have a valid point.
This whole thing has funk on it. I know 11 was serious though. Deadly serious. Serious as the 100 Million Units he winked at me when I refused to take the job. Serious when he said in 5 days he’d “update” every food pill in Neo-Harlem so instead of the shakes you got the deads right after dinner.
Get rich and save Neo-Harlem. I like that. Getting lost in the VooDoo and probably end up destroying Neo-Harlem anyway. I don’t like that. Things tend to get real possible when you got a gun to your head or money in your hands. I got both. Mix fear with reward. I’m impressed. Lost dogs are easy. Easy as pie. Find some shabby two-Unit witch doctor have him call some flea bag back from the VooDoo, Exorcise & Upload.
Getting a human soul back from the afterlife is lets say a little more complicated than that. Not pie at all. Devils pie is what it is.
Lupe’s Twitter page is set to private, so follow him @LupeFiasco to keep up with the upcoming chapters of his novel.