DJ Khaled yelling at his son over mcnuggets and Mac Miller defending it

The air in the studio was thick, a custom blend of expensive cologne, ozone from the humming equipment, and the sacred, greasy perfume of a 20-piece McNuggets. DJ Khaled sat on a white leather couch, his majestic frame a mountain of velour and gold. Before him, on a marble coffee table, lay the box. It was open.

His eyes, usually twinkling with the joy of a man who has successfully identified a major key, were narrowed to slits. He counted, his finger stabbing the air above each golden-brown morsel.

"One... two... three..." The count was low, a rumbling thunder promising a storm. "...seventeen... eighteen... NINETEEN."

He stopped. The silence in the room was absolute, heavier than a Rick Ross bassline.

"Nineteen," he whispered, the word tasting like betrayal. He took a deep, shuddering breath and then bellowed, a sound that could shatter glass and egos.

"ASAHHD! GET YOUR A** IN HERE! NOW!"

Nine-year-old Asahd Khaled, a boy with the weight of a dynasty on his small shoulders, scurried into the room. He was holding a tablet, his face illuminated by the glow of a brightly colored game.

"Yeah, Dad?"

Khaled pointed a trembling, diamond-encrusted finger at the box. "Look at it. Look at this f***ing tragedy."

Asahd peered into the box. "What's wrong?"

"WHAT'S WRONG?" Khaled roared, leaping to his feet. The couch cushions sighed in relief. "What's WRONG is that this is a box of LIES! This is a monument to INCOMPLETENESS! This ain't 'We The Best!' This is 'We The Almost Best!' This is 'We The Nineteenth!'"

Asahd’s eyes widened. "I don't understand."

"THE TWENTIETH NUGGET, ASAHD!" Khaled’s voice cracked with emotion. "Where is the f***ing twentieth nugget?! The cornerstone! The victory lap! The final blessing from the golden arches! Did you eat it? DID YOU EAT THE SYMBOL OF OUR PERFECTION?!"

Tears welled in the boy's eyes. His lower lip began to tremble. "I... I was hungry, Dad. It was just one."

"JUST ONE?!" Khaled clutched his head, pacing like a caged lion. "They don't want you to have twenty nuggets! They want you to settle for nineteen! They want you to think, 'Oh, nineteen is good enough!' It's NOT good enough! You take one, then someone else takes one, and next thing you know you're standing there with an empty box of shattered dreams! You think this is a game?! This is life! You start by compromising on the nugget, you end by compromising on your GREATNESS! This is a MAJOR F***ING KEY!"

Asahd began to sob, small, hiccuping cries that were no match for his father's booming sermon. He buried his face in his hands, ashamed of his hunger, confused by the theology of fast food.

And then, a change in the room's atmosphere.

A gentle shimmer appeared near the soundboard, like heat haze off summer asphalt. The air suddenly smelled of palo santo and fresh-cut grass. A figure coalesced from the studio haze—a young man in a worn hoodie and a beanie, a kind, tired smile on his face. It was Mac Miller.

He floated, not in a spooky way, but in a relaxed, just-vibing kind of way, over to the sobbing boy. Khaled, lost in his tirade about the structural integrity of the 10-piece versus the 20-piece, didn't seem to notice.

Mac knelt, his form translucent. He put a gentle, ghostly hand on Asahd's shoulder. The boy looked up, his tears stopping instantly.

"Hey, little man," Mac said, his voice as smooth and comforting as a warm Rhodes piano. "Don't cry. It's okay."

Asahd wiped his nose on his sleeve. "But... the nugget..."

Mac smiled. "Listen. Your father isn't mad about the nugget. Not really."

He glanced over at Khaled, who was now passionately explaining to a gold-plated microphone that the sweet 'n' sour sauce is the only true path to enlightenment.

"See," Mac continued, turning back to Asahd. "For a guy like your dad, the world is loud and chaotic. He’s always fighting to be heard, to be the best. For him, a 20-piece McNuggets... that's one of the few things in the world that's perfect. It's complete. It's exactly what it promises to be. Twenty pieces. No more, no less. A perfect circle of fried chicken."

Asahd listened, his head cocked.

"When he sees one is missing," Mac explained softly, "he doesn't see that you were hungry. He sees that the world has already taken a piece of perfection away from you. He sees a flaw in the system. He's not yelling at you for eating a nugget. He's yelling at the entire universe for daring to present his son with an incomplete blessing. He wants your life to be a full 20-piece, man. Never a 19."

Mac Miller’s form began to flicker. "His heart is so full, his love for you is so big, that it just comes out as a roar. It’s just… his volume is always on ten. He did it because he loves you."

Asahd stared, a slow wave of understanding washing over his face. He looked from the gentle spirit to his father, who had finally exhausted himself and was now slumped on the couch, sadly poking at the remaining nuggets.

"Just keep swimming, kid," Mac whispered, and with a final, kind smile, he dissolved back into the studio air.

Asahd walked slowly over to the couch. He looked at his father. DJ Khaled looked back, his rage gone, replaced by a deep, nugget-related melancholy.

Without a word, Khaled picked up the box, selected the most perfectly shaped nugget from the remaining nineteen, and held it out to his son.

Asahd took it.

"Another one," Khaled said, his voice quiet now, almost a prayer. But it wasn't a boast. It was a promise.