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MidReal Story
My Billionaire Rap God Brother
Scenario:this is in london england and los angeles and a story about music and love and marriage and adultery and drug use and alcohol use and travels and bdsm and and age difference and explicit nudity and sex content and drama and sexual affair and fame and fans and my name is mohamed abdi and i am from london england and i have a british accent and i am a rich established world famous rich singer and rapper and songwriter and i am 24 years old and i have tattoos on my arms and legs and neck and abdomen and back and hands and i have dark skin and braids and i was born poor and i was raised poor with my parents abdinur abdi he is 49 years old and he has dark skin and my mother layla abdi she is 47 years old and she has dark skin and my sister munira abdi she is 18 years old and she has dark skin and we lived in a run down apartment in brixton london and we almost were homeless countless times and then i got into a studio and released a song and i got a record label and i released hit albums and hit songs and i toured around the world 4 times and i earned millions of pounds and i am the most rich and famous rapper and singer and songwriter on earth and i have a british accent when i talk or sing or rap
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Mohamed Abdi
He is a 24yearold British rapper and singer from a poor background. He is determined, talented, and impulsive. Born in London to Abdinur Abdi and Layla Abdi, he grew up facing poverty with his family but found fame at a young age. His early life was challenging, living in a rundown flat in Brixton with his parents and sister Munira. Mohamed's talent caught the attention of a record label, leading to a successful music career with numerous hit albums and songs worldwide. Despite his success, he struggles with the pressures of fame and personal demons, including a tendency towards selfdestruction through excessive drinking and substance use.
Abdinur Abdi
He is Mohamed's 49yearold father who worked multiple jobs to support his family. He is hardworking, patient, and pragmatic. Born in Somalia, he migrated to England in the late 1970s to provide a better life for his family. Abdinur struggled with the harsh realities of poverty in London but never gave up on his dreams. He was deeply proud when Mohamed found success as a musician. His relationship with Mohamed was strained due to personal financial struggles and the distance created by Mohamed's fastpaced lifestyle.
Julia Knight
She is a 22yearold American model who becomes involved with Mohamed after meeting him at one of his concerts. She is ambitious, flirtatious, and selfcentered. Julia moves to London to pursue a career in fashion modeling, where she crosses paths with Mohamed during one of his soldout tours. Their initial encounter sparks an intense attraction leading to a brief but tumultuous romance filled with public attention and media frenzy. Despite her young age and relative innocence compared to Mohamed’s experienced world, she becomes deeply entangled in his chaotic lifestyle.
My name is Mohamed Abdi, and I am from London, England.
I am 24 years old.
I have dark skin, braids, and tattoos on my arms, legs, neck, abdomen, back, and hands.
I am a rich and well-established world-famous rapper, singer, and songwriter.
I was born poor with my parents in a run-down flat in Brixton, London.
My father Abdinur Abdi is 49 years old.
He has dark skin and works multiple jobs to support our family.
My mother Layla Abdi is 47 years old.
She also has dark skin and manages the household.
I have an 18-year-old sister named Munira Abdi who also has dark skin.
We almost became homeless countless times, but we stuck together as a family until I got lucky and made it big.
When I turned 18, I got into a studio and recorded a song.
Luckily for me, it became a hit and caught the attention of a record label.
They gave me a signing deal, which I accepted, and that’s how my journey to stardom began.
I sit on my expensive couch, sipping tea and eating a sandwich while watching TV.
The screen flickers with images of my latest music video, reminding me of the journey from Brixton to global stardom.
My phone buzzes with notifications—fans, media, and business deals—but I ignore them, lost in thought.
The quiet is broken by the sound of my butler entering with more tea.
I thank him, then return to my sandwich, reflecting on how far I've come.
I finish my sandwich, check my Rolex, and realize the label meeting starts in thirty minutes.
Walking through the marble-floored hallway, I grab my leather jacket and car keys from the hook.
The butler hands me my phone, reminding me about the rock album demos I need to bring.
I step into my garage, slide into my matte black Lamborghini, and turn on the engine.
The sound of the motor purring to life fills the space.
As I drive through London's streets, I rehearse my pitch for "Bare to the Bone" in my head.
The radio plays my latest hip-hop hit, making me more determined to prove I can cross genres.
I pull into the private parking garage beneath the gleaming glass tower of Universal Records.
The sound of my car's engine echoes off the concrete walls.
Through the tinted windows, I see my manager David pacing near the elevator, checking his Rolex every few seconds.
My hands tremble slightly as I gather the demo CD from the passenger seat, along with my worn leather notebook filled with lyrics.
The security guard recognizes me immediately, offering a respectful nod as I swipe my access card.
In the elevator, I adjust my designer jacket and practice my opening lines one last time.
The doors slide open, and I step out, ready to redefine my legacy.
I sit at the long mahogany conference table, surrounded by twelve stern-faced executives in suits.
The demo CD sits in front of me while David stands by the projector, clicking through sales projections.
My palms sweat as I explain my vision for "Bare to the Bone," describing the raw guitar riffs and emotional lyrics I've written.
The A&R director, Mr. Thompson, removes his glasses and rubs his temples.
The room falls silent as he studies the track listing.
I grip the edge of my chair, watching him exchange whispers with his colleagues.
I reach for the demo CD with trembling fingers, nearly dropping it before sliding it into the sound system.
The executives lean back in their leather chairs, some taking notes while others close their eyes to focus on the music.
I watch Mr. Thompson's face intently as the heavy guitar riffs fill the room, searching for any reaction in his stern expression.
The first verse kicks in, my British accent carrying over the rock instrumentation in a way that makes several executives exchange glances.
David gives me an encouraging nod from across the table as the chorus approaches.
Mr. Thompson leans forward, a rare smile breaking through his stoic demeanor.
My heart pounds as his slow claps echo through the conference room.
I watch his weathered hands come together deliberately, the gold ring on his pinky catching the fluorescent light.
One by one, the other executives join in, their applause building from scattered taps to enthusiastic approval.
I exhale deeply, unclenching my fists under the table.
David shoots me a triumphant look from across the room while reaching for his phone.
The demo continues playing in the background, but I barely hear it now over the sound of success.
I pace around my home studio, refreshing Spotify on my phone every few seconds.
The clock strikes midnight, and "Bare to the Bone" goes live.
The album artwork appears on my profile - a silhouette of my tattooed back against a stark white background.
My hands tremble as I watch the stream counter tick upward for "Secrets" and the other tracks.
Notifications flood my phone: fans sharing screenshots, music blogs posting reviews, my manager sending excited texts about YouTube views climbing.
Then, the label's payment confirmation arrives - £30 million transferred to my account.
I collapse onto my leather couch, exhausted but proud, and press play.
David's voice crackles through the speakerphone, breaking the silence.
"Mate, you won't believe this," he says, his voice barely containing his excitement.
"The label just called; they want to sign you for a world tour."
I lean back in my studio chair, letting his words sink in.
The leather squeaks as I shift forward again, running my fingers over the fresh "Bare to the Bone" tattoo on my forearm.
David keeps talking about stage dimensions and technical requirements, but my mind drifts elsewhere.
Childhood memories of watching Glastonbury performances on our tiny TV in Brixton flicker through my thoughts.
My sister Munira and I would sit on the floor, mesmerized by the crowds and the music, while our parents worked late shifts.
We'd pretend we were on that famous stage, singing along to the acts.
Now, as I pull up the Glastonbury website on my laptop, seeing my name listed among the headliners makes my hands tremble again.
I sit in my private jet's leather seat, studying the setlist for Glastonbury while my team buzzes around me.
The flight attendant pours champagne into crystal flutes as David reviews last-minute changes to the pyrotechnics.
Through the window, I watch London fade beneath the clouds.
My hands still tremble as I check my phone - the streaming numbers are already massive, with millions tuning in worldwide.
The pilot announces our descent, and I grip my armrest tighter.
While waiting backstage at Glastonbury, I unzip my leather bag, searching for throat lozenges.
My fingers brush against a worn notebook, and I pull it out.
The tattered blue cover is familiar from my Brixton days.
Flipping through the pages, I find lyrics I wrote at sixteen while watching Glastonbury on our tiny TV with Munira.
The raw emotions about poverty, dreams, and family hit differently now.
My hands tremble as I read the unfinished verses, seeing how they perfectly capture what I'm feeling before this milestone performance.
Munira's voice breaks through my thoughts, her tone both teasing and supportive.
"Still got that old notebook, huh? I always knew you'd make it to Glastonbury one day."
I smile, closing the notebook gently. "Couldn't have done it without you, sis."
I sit in my dressing room, staring at my reflection in the mirror while makeup artists touch up my face.
My hands won't stop trembling as I think about the massive crowd waiting outside.
Munira approaches quietly, her dark eyes full of concern.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out something small and silver.
Standing behind me, she gently fastens a delicate bracelet around my wrist.
The metal feels cool against my skin as she explains it belonged to our grandmother.
When she whispers words of encouragement, I touch the intricate patterns on the bracelet, remembering our childhood dreams in that cramped Brixton flat.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of legacy and dreams as I step toward the stage.