Sunday Fan Fiction: Drake Hangs Out With Rob Ford at 3 a.m. in Toronto

Sunday Fan Fiction: Drake Hangs Out With Rob Ford at 3 a.m. in Toronto

Drake wakes up at noon with a horrible taste in his mouth. He kicks the sheets off his legs, gets out of bed and staggers to the bathroom.

“Oh my god,” he thinks to himself and he washes his face in the sink next to the Experience Shower. “If we’re really gonna drink every time I accomplish something, I need to stop accomplishing so much… What even happened last night?”

Raising his head from the faucet, he sees himself in the mirror and stops. There, on his right cheek, pointing toward the corner of his mouth, is a penis, with testicles at the far end of the shaft, drawn quite neatly in black magic marker.

“What the…?” He says this aloud. “Oh, come on!”

---

Twelve hours earlier, Drake was in an elevator.

“Dunh dunh dunh dunh, dunh dunh dunh dunh..." he hummed the melody he always hummed to himself when he was on his way up the elevator in one of Toronto's many tall, faceless skyscrapers. "I might be too strung out on confidence," he thought. After all, here he was accepting an invitation to hang out with a politician instead of his OVO clique. It was an exciting night.

"But you know what?" He continued his internal monologue. "I need to not give a fuck and stop fearing the consequences."

The elevator slowed to a stop, the doors slid open, Drake stepped out.

He looked down at the slip of paper where he had written down the room number: 6900. Subtle. Real subtle. He walked down the hallway, but before he got to the room, the door swung open.

"Whoa!" Drake said, jumping back in surprise.

"I'm the government," his host said. "I knew exactly where you were."

"Hahaha.” Drake laughed nervously.

"Come on in! Come on in!” Ruddy-faced and sweating, Toronto mayor Rob Ford waved a bottle holding the metric system equivalent of 40 ounces of Labatt Blue up in the air. "Let’s get this party started! YOLO, right?" He jumped in the air and tried to do a karate kick.

"Um, yeah, definitely man," Drake said. He began reaching into his pocket for his phone.

"Hey now, don't be so glum, eh," Rob Ford said. "This night is about to get crazy. For reals." He was wearing a Toronto Argonauts jersey, and he turned around to show Drake the custom embroidery.

"Worst behaviour," Drake read aloud in a monotone.

He quickly slapped himself a couple times on each cheek, and shook his head like a horse. He looked bulbous, like a cartoon tomato.

"That's what we're gonna be on tonight, eh?" Rob Ford said. "Motherfuckers never loved us, right?"

"Well, they elected you mayor..."

Rob Ford wasn't listening. "Let me get you a drink," he said. "What'll it be? Crown Royal? Canadian Club? Molson?"

"Dude, how Canadian are you?" Drake asked. He smiled his most charming smile. "Can't I just get, like, a white wine spritzer? I'm trying to chill."

“A wine spritzer?” Rob Ford's face dropped for a second, then he turned to the kitchen island behind him, where an array of beverages was laid out. "Yeah, I guess I can do that.”

Walking over to the drinks table. He motioned for Drake to close the door. "Did you have dinner before you came?"

"Yeah,” Drake said. “Lobster and shrimp.”

"Nice." Rob Ford handed the drink to Drake.

"There you go," he said. "One white wine spritzer. And now, if you don't mind—" he held up a small baggie of white powder. "I think I'll have a little white line spritzer myself. If you know what I mean."

"Uhh, okay." Drake looked around the room. “Do you, man.”

"You don't want any?"

"Nah, I'm good," Drake said in his most chill voice. "I'm good."

"Suit yourself."

Drake surveyed the apartment. The furniture looked brand new. In fact, the whole place looked like a showroom, or a hotel. The carpets were freshly vacuumed, which Drake did appreciate. He was always telling Oliver to vacuum more at the house back in L.A. Drake was fanatical about freshly vacuumed floors. But there was also something oddly off-putting, weirdly sterile about the whole place. It was so... beige.

"Is there anyone else here?" he asked. Rob Ford brought his face up from the kitchen counter, sniffing and sputtering. He quickly slapped himself a couple times on each cheek, and shook his head like a horse. He looked bulbous, like a cartoon tomato.

"Just us," he said.

"Cool," Drake said. But he didn't think that was really cool.

"But not for long! I got some strippers stopping by a little later to liven things up."

Drake’s heart sank. "Strippers?" he thought. He'd learned the hard way that the strip club wasn't the place to find love. Would he never escape the emotional torment this city's strippers had caused him? Would he be fated to show up at weird condo parties with politicians and revisit the past romances that he'd left this city to forget? He'd erased her number from his phone finally—too many late night phone calls. He took a sip of his white wine spritzer, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. "Why is love so cruel?" he thought. "Why do I come here still?"

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash. Drake had wandered over toward the window to stare out of it contemplatively, and now he turned around. Rob Ford was lying on the splinters of what had just been a coffee table.

"FUCKING BALLS," he said. "I always land my backflips!” He sat up. “ I don't know what happened." He stood and stumbled over to the drink table and took a long pull of Canadian Club. "YEAH!" He shouted. "That's some good shit!" He picked up what, as far as Drake could tell, was a glass crack pipe, and lit whatever was inside. He inhaled, held it, exhaled, and punched himself in the face.

"Umm, I think I'm going to go, man," Drake said, looking over at Rob Ford with a mixture of pity and disgust.

"Whoa! Not so fast," Rob Ford said, gathering his wits and stuffing a handful of pretzels in his mouth. "I brought you here to hang out, and we're going to fucking hang out! Bros!”

“Naah,” Drake backed towards the door.

"Look at this beauty!" Rob Ford said, suddenly brandishing a gun. Drake didn't know where it had come from. He stopped moving.

'Look at this beauty!' Rob Ford said, suddenly brandishing a gun. Drake didn't know where it had come from. He stopped moving.

"It's okay, man. Chill."

"Let's. Hang. Out."

"All right," Drake spoke slowly. "Let's hang."

"YEAH!" said Rob Ford. "THAT'S what I'm talkin' about!"

"Yeah," Drake giggled nervously.

“First thing is,” Rob Ford said. “Chug the rest of that wine spritzer. What are you? Some kind of pussy?”

“No,” Drake said softly. He looked at the immaculately vacuumed floor.

Drake took two big gulps. The carbonation burned his throat a little bit. Rob Ford nodded and tucked the gun into the back of his pants and stomped back to the table. He grabbed the Canadian Club and stomped back.

“Drink this.” He held the bottle out.

Drake took the bottle and sniffed at the lip. Oh! He grimaced. It was so strong!

“HAW HAW HAW!” Rob Ford guffawed. “Come on! It’ll put some hair on your chest!”

Drake took a sip. That really burned his throat.

“Hit it again, hit it again!”

Drake did. It burnt a little less the second time.

“Hey, did you bring any music?”

Drake fished in his pocket for a USB drive, then pulled it out and handed it to Rob Ford, who walked over to the couch plugged it into his laptop. The opening strains of “Too Much" came on through its weak speakers.

"YEAH!!!" Rob Ford shouted, clapping Drake on the back again. "HOOO-WHOOO! That’s good shit! This is pussy-eating music right here!" He took out his crack pipe and lit it again. “I can’t wait til the girls get here,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Soon, Tom Ford had ripped the doors off all the kitchen cupboards and shredded the throw pillows with a bread knife. A trail of vomit led into the bedroom. Drake was forced to take another drink. He looked sad.

"Awww, man," Rob Ford said. "You really FEEL your music, don’t you? That’s because you’re a REAL GODDAMN ARTIST!”

“Yeah,” Drake said. “I guess.”

“Here.” Rob Ford held out the bottle. “This’ll make you feel better.”

Drake held out a hand in protest but Rob Ford said, “Drink it, drink it, DRINK IT!”

Drake took another swig. It didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, he was starting to feel woozy.

“Hey, check this out,” Rob Ford went back to the laptop and pushed some buttons. “Let’s TURN UP!”

Drake’s music cut off and Jay Z’s “Tom Ford” came on.

Rob Ford started dancing, and rapping along with the lyrics while he sliced the air with karate hands. But at the chorus, instead of saying “I don’t pop molly,” he said, “I DO pop molly," winking at Drake. And instead of saying “Tom Ford,” he bellowed, "ROB FORD!"

He played the song five times in a row, dancing and rapping along all the while.

“I think I have to sit down,” Drake said, lowering himself unsteadily onto the couch. His head was swimming. He checked his watch. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. “That’s pretty late,” he thought.

It was the last thing he remembered.


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Tags: sunday-fan-fiction, drake, rob-ford
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