Rick Ross and DJ Khaled's Memorial Day 2013: Suffering From Success Party at Mansion Miami
Photo by Jacob Katel Gettin money
DJ Khaled stands atop a platform on Mansion's stage, fist in the air, microphone in hand, heavy gold around his neck.
Thousands of dollar bills explode in a hurricane of currency, fat purple thunder clouds of Himalayan kush blow around his camouflage pant legs, oceans of Luc Belaire Rosé flow into "Wale"-emblazoned styrofoams below him, and Rick Ross smiles in triumph to his right.
A thousand VIPs pack the stage and Paris Hilton's billion-dollar ass drops to the beat of "No New Friends." The whole room smells like money. Is this what it's like to suffer from success?
The nights starts like any other, with a line spreading from the front door of Mansion to some distant point miles down Washington Avenue. Joey Buddafucco says, "Forty dollars, get your money out!" And his voice is a hadouken, blasting down the sidewalk.
An army of red shirt enforcers (and giant dukes in suits and boots) surround the entrance to the Mansion. Inside, executive ladies collect the many giant stacks of cash and load them into registers.
There is smoke, and liquor; colored light, and bass. The DJ plays everybody's favorite song, and the staccato rhythm of high heel shoes clicking to the beat rings out wild like the steamy heart of this make-it-rain forest. Of course, this triple canopy is climate optimized.
Fun, fun, wherefore art thou, fun? "Right here motherfucker" says the dancefloor. And a million tits and asses bounce in unison.