The air was crisp. The semester was fresh. Rowan, the sexiest girl with bangs I’ve ever seen, had just asked me to go to Phoenix Books with her. We hadn’t spoken since December, and I knew she had something marvelous to divulge.
“Wanna know something I found out recently?” she asked. I nodded, a mixture of fear and anticipation building in my gut.
“Picture this: the FNAF player to Barbz pipeline,” she exclaimed. The fear in my stomach subsided, making way for my newfound conclusion.
“Rowan, what the fuck are you talking about?”
The ball began to roll. As she spilled this theory to me,
the intricacy, the simplicity, and most importantly, the way it made the rodent in my brain start running. I knew it was my new mission to investigate this phenomenon and to uncover exactly how Markiplier simps were turning into Super Freaky Girlz in plain sight.
At first, I looked for visual similarities. What about Nicki made her enticing to chronically-online children? As I cross-examined fanart of Chica, FNAF’s first female animatronic, a key similarity caught my eye. In many artists’ iterations of Chica, she has an abnormally large ass. Like, an unusually large dumpy. Something that Ms. Minaj is known well for, perhaps even known the most for. Chica’s new look in FNAF: Security Breach even looks like something Nicki would fuck up on a red carpet. I even found a fanart of Chica posing exactly like Nicki on the cover of “Anaconda.” I kept searching because there was no way it was that surface level. Right?
I moved on to the music because, arguably, that’s the most essential part. Some of the most influential musicians of the 21st century, The Living Tombstone, immediately came to mind. Their masterpiece “Five Nights at Freddy’s 1 Song” is sitting pretty at 281 million views on YouTube. Upon relistening, the combination of booming bass and synths caused a new synapse connection to form in my brain. Booming bass… wait! Nicki Minaj is the queen of bass herself, with some even referring to her as having “Super Bass.” Aesthetically and sonically, Nicki is checking all the boxes. But there has to be more.
Twitter is a hellscape. It harbors the worst people in every interest group and actively pits them against each other to sell advertisements. This makes it a perfect avenue for Barbz and FNAF fans alike, even giving the two cesspools a way to cross paths. Barbz are notorious for harassing people to death via tweet, and by my logic that seems like the next step towards Twitter degeneracy for a susceptible middle schooler. I mean, come on guys. You say Markiplier doesn’t have the juiciest tits on this side of the prime meridian and you’re guaranteed to be banned within 24 hours. Why would these people NOT move from report spamming to homicidal threats?
I’ve built my case.
As I sit in front of Director Wray, palms sweating, he motions me to begin. I start with the photo of Chica primed and ready to twerk. Immediately, the room looked away in disgust.
“What?” I questioned. “Are you afraid of seeing the truth? The real truth?”
“Is this some type of joke?” Director Wray exclaimed, his palms cradling his face in dismay.
“Sir I can guarantee you I-”
Both my arms were grabbed by security guards as the floor fell out below me, revealing a vat of bubbling pink liquid. The steam seared my cheeks as I gasped, unable to fight my way out of the guards’ arms.
“You fucking idiot!” Wray exclaimed, slamming his hands on the comically long table between us. “You don’t think I’m aware of this? And to think that you’d call it a threat to our nation. I should have you boiled for perjury!”
“No no no no oh god please don’t!” I screamed in protest. “Please Director Wray, I’ll do anything! Please don’t boil me!”
An evil smirk appeared on his face.
“Bring her out.”
A rumble echoed through the room as another hole in the floor opened up. What the fuck is up with the feds and secret compartments??? Another mystery for another day, focus bemmy. As the rumble ceased, Mrs. Nicki Minaj herself rose from the ashes.
“We don’t play about Nicki here, bitch,” Wray declared. “Apologize immediately, or she’ll have to send you to the boil.”
I thrashed myself forward, landing on my knees at Nicki’s feet.
“Mrs. Nicki Lewinski, please let me live! I’ll never attempt to expose your grip on the federal government again! I cried, my hands crossed together and shaking.
She nodded, and the vat closed. I live to tell another story, just not one about our one and only queen Mrs. Minaj.