fight

Eazy unfolded the letter, his hands steady but his expression wary. The room was dead silent, all eyes locked on him as he began to read aloud:

> Dear Mr. Tupac Shakur and Mr. Eric "Eazy-E" Wright,

On behalf of the White House, we cordially invite you to an exclusive meeting with the President of the United States. The purpose of this meeting is to discuss the influence of gangsta rap on American culture and its impact on youth across the nation.

We believe your voices and experiences are integral to understanding this cultural shift. The meeting is scheduled to take place on April 20th, 1989, at 2:00 PM. We hope you accept this invitation and join us for an open and constructive dialogue.

Sincerely,

Office of Public Engagement

Eazy looked up after finishing, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Yo, they want us to meet the President!"

Dre leaned back in his chair, laughing in disbelief. "Man, this is wild. N.W.A in the White House? Who would've thought?"

Jerry Heller looked ecstatic. "This is huge! This will put us on a whole new level. You guys are about to make history!"

The studio erupted in chatter and celebration, but I stayed quiet, staring at the floor.

While everyone else was busy celebrating, I couldn't shake the knot in my stomach. The idea of stepping foot in the White House, especially with Reagan's legacy still fresh in my mind, made my blood boil. That man turned a blind eye to the struggles of the people I grew up with. His policies did nothing but fuel poverty and crime in our communities. Meeting a president like him, or anyone from his administration, felt like betrayal.

Jerry noticed I wasn't joining in. "Pac, why the long face? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"

I shook my head. "Nah, Jerry. I'm not going."

The room fell silent, all eyes now on me.

"What do you mean you're not going?" Jerry asked, his voice rising.

"I mean I'm not going, Jerry," I snapped back. "I don't need to sit in a room with a president who doesn't give a damn about my people. What's he gonna tell me? That he understands the hood? That he's gonna change something? Miss me with that fake talk."

Jerry's face turned red. "Pac, you can't be serious. This is about the bigger picture. This is about showing people that you're more than just a rapper. Don't ruin this for everyone."

I stood up, my chest tightening. "Don't try to guilt me into this, Jerry. I've seen what Reagan's America did to my people. Families torn apart, drugs flooding the streets, jobs disappearing. You think I'm gonna go shake hands with the man who let that happen? Hell no."

Eazy tried to intervene. "Pac, chill. It ain't that deep. It's just a meeting. You don't gotta agree with the man, but showing up could mean something."

I looked at him, my tone softer. "Eazy, I respect you, man. You know I do. But this? This ain't for me. I'll support you if you go, but don't expect me to sit there smiling for the cameras like everything's cool."

Jerry wasn't backing down. "Tupac, you're part of this group. You don't get to pick and choose when to show up. This is a team effort, and we need you there."

I stepped closer, my voice low and firm. "Don't you ever tell me what I need to do. I've been standing on my own since I was a kid. I don't need some politician's approval to validate my art, and I sure as hell don't need you to lecture me about loyalty."

Dre stepped in, trying to defuse the situation. "Alright, calm down, both of you. This ain't the time to be tearing each other apart. We've got bigger things to focus on."

Jerry threw up his hands. "Fine! Do whatever you want, Tupac. But don't come crying to me when people start calling you ungrateful."

I smirked, shaking my head. "Ungrateful? Nah, Jerry. I'm just real. And that's something you'll never understand."

As Jerry stormed out, the room fell silent again. Dre and Eazy exchanged glances, and I leaned against the wall, feeling the tension in my chest. I knew my decision wasn't going to be popular, but I didn't care. I wasn't about to compromise my beliefs for anyone—not Jerry, not the President, not anyone.

What was in that meeting for me anyway? Lies, empty promises, and a photo op? Nah, I was built different. And I'd rather die standing than live on my knees

Jerry sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Fine, Pac. If you're not going, I won't waste any more time trying to convince you." He shot me a glare before turning to Eazy. "Eric, we need to make sure you're ready for this. This meeting isn't just about you or N.W.A—it's about representing hip-hop on a national stage."

Eazy shrugged, his usual laid-back demeanor on full display. "Alright, Jerry. Do your thing. Let's make sure I'm lookin' sharp."

Jerry clapped his hands together, relief washing over his face. "Good. We've got a lot to do. Come on."

Jerry led Eazy to his personal trailer, a mobile wardrobe stuffed with tailored suits, expensive ties, and polished shoes. It was a different world from the streets of Compton.

"Alright," Jerry said, scanning the racks. "We need something classy but not too flashy. You're meeting the President, not hitting a club."

Eazy chuckled. "Man, you really go all out, don't you?"

Jerry ignored the comment, pulling out a sleek, navy blue suit. "Try this on. It's tailored to perfection, and it'll make you look respectable, like someone the President can take seriously."

Eazy grabbed the suit and disappeared into the fitting room. When he came out, Jerry's face lit up. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Now, let's find you some shoes."

They headed to a high-end shoe store, where Jerry insisted on a pair of polished black leather Oxfords. Eazy raised an eyebrow at the price tag but didn't say a word. Jerry handed over his credit card without hesitation.

"You're gonna look like a million bucks," Jerry said as they left the store.

Eazy smirked. "I better, with how much you're spendin'."

Back in the studio, Jerry sat Eazy down for what he called "presidential etiquette training."

"Alright, Eric, listen up," Jerry began, pacing the room like a drill sergeant. "When you meet the President, you address him as 'Mr. President.' Not 'yo,' not 'man,' not 'dude.' Got it?"

Eazy leaned back in his chair, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah, Mr. President. Got it."

Jerry shot him a look. "I'm serious. This isn't a joke. You don't talk about drugs, gang violence, or anything controversial unless he brings it up first. Keep your answers short, respectful, and to the point."

Eazy nodded, the grin never leaving his face. "Alright, Jerry. I'll play nice."

Jerry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Eric, this is important. You're not just representing yourself; you're representing Ruthless Records, N.W.A, and the entire hip-hop community. You need to show them that we're more than the stereotypes."

Eazy's expression softened. "I hear you, Jerry. Don't worry—I'll handle it."

As Eazy practiced his "presidential" demeanor, I stayed in the corner, watching the whole thing unfold. Part of me was amused, but another part couldn't help but feel frustrated.

"Yo, Eazy," I called out. "You really gonna let them shape you like this? Change who you are just to impress some politician?"

Eazy looked at me, his tone calm but firm. "Pac, this ain't about me. It's about the message. If I gotta play by their rules to get them to listen, then so be it."

I shook my head. "Just don't lose yourself in the process, man."

Jerry interrupted. "Alright, that's enough. We've got work to do. Pac, if you're not gonna help, at least don't distract him."

I rolled my eyes and left the room, leaving Jerry to his preparations.

Eazy's transformation into a "presidential guest" was almost complete. The suit, the shoes, the etiquette—it was all falling into place. But as the day of the meeting approached, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just about gangsta rap or hip-hop. It was about power, perception, and control.

And I couldn't help but wonder—what would Eazy say when he was finally face-to-face with the most powerful man in the world?

Author notes

By the way Tupac in real life really hate Ronald Reagan for all of his suped