What if Ja Rule ran Kentucky Derby like Fyre Festival?
This is a work of fiction. Don’t worry, I am okay.
I send this message in the hopes that someone will read this and hear our story. I am not confident I will last another night. The camp has sustained serious damages and the last flight off this island has now left. This is the first time I have had cell phone reception since arriving here, and my battery is about to die. Just know this: I do not recommend “Ja Rule’s Kentucky Derby.”
It was billed as a once-in-a-lifetime horse racing experience. An opportunity to network with influencers and cultivate a personal brand. We were promised some of the biggest names in entertainment and business would be in attendance — but they never came.
When we called for help, nobody came.
I’ve attached an image of the flier I was sent prior to leaving for the island.
I arrived four days into the festival and it was an immediate disaster. There was no transportation to the campsite from the airport. Instead, what I thought was a chauffeur handed me a map. Taxis could not drive to the location, so I walked five miles through the forest.
The campsite I arrived at was nothing like it was promised. There was little-to-no evidence anything has been organized for a crowd of people, except a few small things.
A “Make your own Mint Julep” stand was set up in the corner of camp, but there was no mint. There was no bourbon. We were supposed to muddle poison ivy with crushed up cough drops and mix with grain alcohol. Some people tried it and immediately collapsed, the rest just took shots of the alcohol in the hopes of forgetting their surroundings. Dehydration would come for them soon.
Brochures made it sound like the grounds would be full or vendors selling artisanal wares. Instead, there was just one stall selling grim variants of Kentucky Derby hats. They were made out of molted bird feathers and animal sinew. The stall reeked and only a few brave souls dared to buy to show off their fashion.
When we first arrived, we were asked to exchange all the money we had on us, for what can only be described as arcade tokens. They were made of thin metal and had Ja Rule’s face on them. We were told they would be our currency for the weekend.
Crowds teemed around the betting stand, but none of the horses listed had fun names. It was just No.1-No. 78, which made no sense. There was no way 78 horses were fitting on the track they’d set up, but still I felt confident and spent 20 of my Ja Rule bucks on No.9.
The camp was bad, the tents were made of stitched together Jordache jeans, but somehow it felt like things were going to be okay on the day the racing was set to begin. I awoke in my jean tent to find a small army of workers unloading dozens of small cages, like cat-carriers onto the track which looked too small for horses. One man held his phone up to a loudspeaker and played a pre-recorded message from Ja Rule.
“Welcome to Ja Rule’s Kentucky Derby. Let the race begin!”
There wasn’t a bugle fanfare, per se — it was just Ja Rule screaming “MENAAGE!” from The Fast and the Furious.
Suddenly, and without warning, the cages were opened. Out ran scores of angry, dehydrated, disoriented raccoons. They ran one lap and I’ll admit, it was pretty exciting — but then they leaped out of the confines of the track and went on the attack. They enveloped tents, tearing through the hastily fashioned jeans looking for food and water. I climbed into a tree and hid, feeling a mix of despair and self-loathing. I should have been on the ground helping, but I was too scared — screams echoing in my head. I don’t know how many we lost that day.
When I finally climbed down, it was a war zone. All my possessions were gone, the map I used to walk to the campsite was missing. People huddled together, trying to patch their raccoon bites before they festered — but without any clean water they couldn’t be cleansed.
There was no sign of the animals, and the survivors assumed they had left. Dusk began to fall when the buffeting of helicopter blades was heard above our heads. We signaled for help, but instead a crate of food was pushed out of the bay, crashing to the middle of the campsite.
Before we had time to react and grab nourishment, there was a rustling in the leaves and a chittering sound. The raccoons never left — they were just hiding, and now the sound and smell of food brought them back into the open. They attacked again. Food, human — it was all the same to them. An investment banker named Serge got engulfed by a horde of the animals when he tried to keep them away from the food. They picked his bones clean, leaving only his Rolex dangling on a skeletal arm.
I kept thinking this was a nightmare. At some point it would all be over — but that was a fool’s indulgence. Raccoon attacks became a part of our life over the next 24 hours. Our numbers were dwindling. At one point we had 300 strong, now we numbered 32. The rest had either succumbed to their wounds or tried to find help -- never to return.
The next morning, the helicopter was back. Again we assumed to drop off food, but this time it landed briefly before pushing a blindfolded, bound man out. He collapsed to the ground and we ran to assist. It was Dave Coulier, perhaps best known as “Uncle Joey” from Full House. He didn’t know where he was, claimed he never agreed to be a part of any Kentucky Derby organized by Ja Rule, held on a deserted island, and said he was drugged while having his car washed in Beverly Hills.
He’d barely finished telling us his story when the raccoons were back. They heard the helicopter and quickly killed Dave Coulier without a second thought. He told us he could reason with them using a funny voice, but instead they went for the jugular. That isn’t a metaphor — three raccoons attacked his throat and left him for dead.
I’ll never forget the final words he spat at me while trying to cling to life: “Cut it out,” a comedian to the end. In my haste to save him, I didn’t notice that there was a gash on my arm. I Immediately knew it came from a raccoon. It wouldn’t be long now before I was lost for good.
Now I hastily document the horrors I’ve witnessed. Sum 41 never came. The Insane Clown Posse didn’t rescue us. I never got to watch City Slickers II: The Legend of Curly’s Gold. Instead, my forehead is becoming hotter and I fear my raccoon scratch is deeply infected. I’ve sent this message to explain what it was like and if someone, anyone, could help avenge us. There’s but one thought in my head as my vision begins to blur: I should have gone to Fyre Festival instead.