#MNR: EVERYBODY DIES

#MNR: EVERYBODY DIES
 
“One day everybody gotta die, one day everybody gotta die, my nigga.’
Jermaine Cole
 
Yeah. We back. Back at G mama crib, nigga, the front porch. The only traffic coming up the old country gravel road is Scott or one of his folk. His house is just out of sight to the left. It’s a blazing August day in South Boston, Virginia, about 97 degrees. 100% humidity. G and I ain’t got shit to do, other than this quarter sack of izm we copped from the first nigga who answered the phone. It’s been more than a quarter century since those days, but it’s just like I remember. I don’t miss the milestones. It’s these times I miss. It’s all good. I’ll see G in short time. I promise it will be soon before long. That’s the vibe for this blog. Leggo.
 
Sike, I lied. Pass me the Raid, CEO. I’m finna bomb on these MF.
 
Some of y’all must really got me fucked up. I’m more than certain that more than a few of you don’t know exactly who the fuck I am, so I’m finna break it all down. I’m the only surviving child of Tyrone and Shareon. Both are reunited with Tamika Latoya in heaven. I’m a native New Yorker. I’m that Brainy Smurf, eight days a week church attendee, all-star in every sport I played, honor roll/accelerated classes/honors classes/Advanced Placement student. I’m a full academic scholarship university attendee and graduate. Yeah MF, I never owed Fannie Mae a dime. As for my street exploits? Ask Mr. Ten and Cuervo about how I used to get to the money. I don’t want you thinking I’m embellishing my statistics. What else? I’m a consummate thinker and reader. I’m Black on both sides. I’m God-fearing. I fear no mammal. If you by chance happen to encounter a bear and me in the woods, help the bear if you feel the need to wear a cape. I’m humble. I’m thorough. I pay my tax. I mind my business. I’m a goodfella.
 
I ain’t no bitch. I ain’t no hoe. I ain’t no snitch. I ain’t no sucker.
 
If you think any different, you definitely got me fucked up.
 
Go visit the Frank stand.
 
The irony of everything I just wrote is that the two MF currently in my scope don’t even read my blogs. I’m certain one can’t read at a high school level. I’m not sure about the other MF. He too is fucking stupid. Him, them, whoever. Everybody dies.
 
Nothing I just wrote was directed at anyone I love. It doesn’t matter if we don’t even fuck with each other like that anymore. Love will always be love. Love is indelible. But things change. I fall out with my folk from time to time, blood and otherwise. C’est la vie. We’re at odds until we’re even, I suppose. Some people enter your life for seasons, and everything that happens is for a reason.
 
Back to the fuckery. Oh yeah. It’s one of those.
 
You code-switching niggas are dangerous to our culture. I kind of feel like y’all are low key the number one threat. My thing is this: I don’t mind if you’re regular. I respect you for being you, whomever you are – if you’re worthy of respect. You earn my respect by being you. Who the fuck am I to try and impress? You ain’t got to lie my nigga. A lot of you niggas are prolific liars. I could 0.5% understand lying to the ladies to try and dip your stick in some sugar. You probably have 0.2% natural game and have to lie to experience a nightcap. But you niggas are more concerned with lying and switching up to catch the attention of...other niggas. It’s nasty work. You sucker ass MF create/embellish street and jail stories to gain the favor of other MF. Nigga, we don’t give a fuck about how you held it down up north. The object is to avoid the prison system, good brother. I have plenty of mine who’ve done their fair share of state time, from NY to NJ to PA to VA. I’m talking numbers. Not nay one of them bragged about their time. They told the stories they wished to share and that was that. I think you niggas are the type that like to throw parties with no DJ. My old heads know the reference/inference. Y’all remember the old Keith Murray song. The bar before the DJ bar. It rhymes with gay. My bad. It doesn’t rhyme with gay. It is gay. I think you niggas are gay.
 
I remember when I first moved to 170th St & Jesup Avenue in Highbridge, #BXNYC. Even though I was very familiar with the block because I used to go see some of my folk who lived up the street, I still paid attention more than I spoke when I first started to hang on the block. Jesup is (was?) strictly JTO Bloody. My nigga Chocolate was the OG and conducted affairs with an iron fist. Anyway, I remember this one young damu kid who had just come home from the Island (Rikers). He was a damu who didn’t live on the block but banged the set. Translation: that bastard was always around. He was all types of extra about everything. Y’all know the type: loud, ignorant, and ignorant. We were standing by 1419 and this duck goes “Yo, I need a 99, son!” Before y’all try to play me, I didn’t think he meant a 9mm strap. I’m not a gun slinger, but I’ve never heard of any damn 99. But being that he was more animated than the X-Men series on Fox in the ‘90s, I was curious as to WTF he was talking about. I asked my manz. Fam was like, “That nigga just want a cigarette. He’s always doing the most” (I could be embellishing the second sentence in that quote). I was like wow. What a sucker ass nigga. An “I’m out here trying to impress other niggas ass nigga.” Sure enough, a couple of weeks later I saw him on the block with a shiner that made Red’s black eye in Friday look almost passable (I’m faking, Red’s shit was fucked up). Somebody popped off on that frail young boy. Word was that he was running his mouth and caught a quick attitude adjustment. Eye jammie. I was more surprised that there wasn’t any dog shit on either side of the block that day.
 
After the negotiation period is over and we sign the ink on our production deal, I’m letting CEO do most of the talking to those suits. Y’all will have given us what we came to an agreement on. I’m already working on the re-up. Leave me the fuck alone. Y’all should have signed us a decade ago. Fuckers.
 
You’ve been quiet lately, Mr. Carter. Shawn Corey. Jiggaman. I watch the blogs. Word is that the Feds are on your ass. I’m not going to speak on any alleged family drama. That’s off limits to me. But both seem to be fruit from the poisonous tree. I’ve been talking my shit since Summer Jam ’02. If anyone knows, it's CEO. He still jokes about my disdain. But it was never hate. I merely sat back and peeped game. Your moves showed me the type of person you are. And I heard a few stories. I could never verify those, but my spirit did the discernment for me. I’m not praying for your downfall, Black man. But if what they’re alleging is true, vaya con...
 
I’ve still got rounds in the clip. Blue tips. Who else wants shots? Strictly dead eye. No strays.
 
Insecurities are highly visible. Don’t ever forget that. You may think you’ve been able to conceal them, but you haven’t. They become ever the more visible over time. If it ain’t authentic, some of us see right through you. But that doesn’t even matter. It all boils down to staring down that MF in the mirror. That’s who you have to reason with. You can’t fool that MF.
 
If you’re not rocking with UnB, kick rocks.
 
I’m out the back do(e) before the po-po get the lo-lo.
 
Oh yeah. One more thing. Aubrey...all the money and number one songs can’t erase all the footage of you being a lame ass nigga in real life. We always knew who you were – who you really were. But you’ve grown into a caricature of yourself. It’s ok. Kenny is walking you down. You can’t even go to sleep without worrying about the next diss record. Leave those little girls alone nigga. I saw the receipts. You’re weird.