Sunday, October 31, 2010

Die By The Sword: Akuza Dhinga Leaves No Living Thingz

April 17, 1994: 14 Miles South of Kigali, Rwanda.

"Kill them! Kill them now or we kill you!!" Barked the teenage Hutu commander of the rebel alliance.

The woman on her knees was Dhinga's aunt and the four month old infant girl was his cousin, both were relatives on his mother's side. His aunt was born Hutu but since she married a Tutsi her and the baby were now considered Tutsi. Her husband lay dead, dismembered and chopped up into multiple pieces. Dhinga's auntee Umado was on the floor pleading, begging, frantically screaming for her life, attempting to appeal to Dhinga's conscience. She pleaded for her life and the life of her child. Her cries were deep and guttural, rhythmic-almost musical. She held her newborn infant daughter against her bosom tightly, crying sorrowfully in an attempt to awaken her nephew's lost humanity. Maybe he could still be reached?

"Dhinga no! Please Dhinga noooo! Please!!!" She screamed crazily with wet eyes. Dhinga was high-hyped up like most child soldiers in Africa; drunk off alcohol; high from potent marijuana; and he and the other child soldiers had been injected with methamphetamin two days prior. Ultra hyped up off of drugs he'd been slaughtering Tutsis for nearly 48 hours straight, freely indulging in an orgy of blood.

His aunt had fed him and cared for him as a child during times when his mother worked menial jobs in Barundi. Sad thing was, he was still a child. How did Akuza Dhinga pay his aunt back? He lifted his AK-47 and aimed at the woman who looked like his mother-his mother's sister: his aunt.

His commander pushed the barrel of the assault rifle to the floor.

"Don't waste a bullet on this piece of shit Tutsi bitch. Use your machete!" His commander gave the order in a terrifying harsh African accent. Dhinga's commander was only fourteen years old, just two years older than Dhinga, but though he was twelve years old he was no stranger to murder. Following orders, Dhinga unsheethed his machete and skewered his machete through the back of his four month old infant cousin and into the chest of his aunt.

"How could you Dhinga?" They were the last words of his aunt. She stared into her nephew's bloodshot eyes before her eyes rolled to the back of her head and took her last breath. When he pulled the machete out the infant girl's back the machete simultaneously came out of his aunt's chest. The blood gushed like a fountain, painting the dirt floor of the shabby tin hut red. Falling from her knees to the floor still holding her dead daughter in her arms, Dhinga stood over the dead bodies in silence with blood on his hands and in shock. He had just killed his aunt and his first cousin. His commander put his arm around a despondent Dhinga and laughed an evil laugh.

"Dhinga! Dhinga! Pick up!" Mel's voice squawked over the cab's radio, waking Dhinga out of the same nightmare he'd been having for the last sixteen years. He'd been driving a cab in New York City for five years. Forged and fraudulent documents allowed him to get into America and flee the unimaginable horrors of the Rwandan atrocity. Though he wasn't physically in Rwanda-every night in his slumber he'd travel back to that bloody war torn country in Central Africa-revisiting the war crimes he had committed; murdering; pillaging; raping and untold other atrocities against the voiceless and faceless Tutsis. Sixteen years later the faceless souls still haunted him in his sleep.

"This is Dhinga." He said, snapping out of his mid-day nap, grabbing the steering wheel and clutching the cab's radio.

"Where the hell have you been? Get down to Grand Central-Tommy says that there are fares everywhere. What da hell are you doing? I've been calling you for ten minutes. Are you sleeping on the job again?"

"No! I'm awake boss. I'll get right over there." Mel was a prick and Dhinga hated his job. He was a killer-he had killed so many people in Rwanda that one time he literally fell asleep while slaughtering Tutsis. He wanted to kill his dispatcher. Dhinga wiped the crust out of his eyes, pulled out of his parking space and started toward Grand Central Station.

Dhinga pulled up to the cab stand and his first fare opened the cab door, wildly pushing a woman in the cab. "Get in the car bitch!" The man yelled. The dark skinned man spoke with an African accent. It was a familiar voice. Dhinga squinted in the rear view mirror, he recognized him. Where from? It couldn't be-not here in New York. As the African man sat in the back of the car with the crying woman, he told Dhinga his destination: "2235 Frederick Douglas Boulevard." The voice was unmistakable-it was his commander from the war. It was Rwabugiri from Kigali. The boy who watched as he murdered his aunt and infant cousin 16 years ago.

"Bugiri?" Dhinga asked in a questioning tone of voice.

The man's eyes got big, he hadn't heard that name in years-he immigrated to America under an assumed name. He stared at the cabby-recognized him from the war. They looked at each other for a second and recognized one another instantly.

"Dhinga!" He smiled. What chu doing here nigga? They both got out of the cab and embraced each other with brotherly affection. Bugiri looked wealthy-Dhinga looked poor. But they were both alive after living through hell.

"How'd you get here?" Bugiri asked.

"After the ambush when everybody got separated I stayed back. Starved for months in the bush, hiding. A white lady from the UNAMIR mission took care of me, fed me, gave me medicine and got me to a hospital in Europe. I don't know why she did it-but she took care of me, adopted me. And here I am. What about you-how'd you get here?" Dhinga asked with a smile.

"I hid in a cargo plane one night, next morning the plane took off and I ended up in Nigeria. A few years after living in Nigeria I got hooked up with a Heroin cartel. Now, I get that raw shit straight from Afghanistan nigga. I Make bitches swallow it in Africa and they fly it over here. The next time that bitch in the cab takes a shit it's gonna be worth fifty thousand dollars. Finally, a bitch that shits out money!" Bugiri laughed. "You still a killa nigga?" Bugiri asked with full blown American swag.

"Leave no living things!" Dhinga answered. That was the Hutu's motto when they raided Tutsi villages. They killed everything, from the elders to the newborns, from the live stock to the trees. They burned the crops and slaughtered the women after raping them. 'Leave no living things.'

"Well look man-I got a little something for you. 10 grand if you pull it off and every family member you kill is worth an additional one grand."

"Who's the target?" Dhinga asked.

"That nigga right there!"

Bugiri pointed to Greatest Praise's picture on the cover of the New York Times. The newspaper was on Dhinga's passenger seat. 'America's Asiatic Hero' with a picture of Greatest Praise under the headline.

"Why kill him-He's a hero?!?"

"Fuck that! Do you want the contract or not?"


Masoud's shell company wired a million dollars from Switzerland to Amsterdam and from Amsterdam to America. The money was in street escrow and the contract on Praise was open. The Yakuza; the Russian Mob; The Italian mafia, henchmen from the Juarez drug cartel and any other freelance shooter was welcome to take a shot at Praise. Everybody who was anybody in the underworld was slowly learning about the bounty on Praise's head. Masoud wanted him dead and he would stop at nothing and spare no expense. After all Praise was responsible for the death of Abdur Rahman: Masoud's son.

What Bugiri failed to mention was that the contract really paid a million dollars cash for the head of Praise and a hundred grand for each relative. Bugiri offered Dhinga 10 grand which is a pittance of the value of the initial contract. If Bugiri could get Dhinga to kill Praise and then pay Dhinga the least amount it would be ideal for Bugiri. Bugiri could potentially walk away with nine hundred and ninety thousand dollars and not fire a shot. Bugiri and Dhinga's arrangement was a long shot because in the next 24 hours, shooters would be coming out of the wood-works to murder Praise. Praise's head was now worth more than any amount of heroin the African bitch sitting in the back seat of Dhinga's cab could ever shit out.

To be continued...

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Die By The Sword: White Chocolate Got Jokez

The muzim climbed the spiral staircase of Masjid Al-Nur to call the adhan. Al-Nur means 'The Light' and the peeking sun-light glimmered off the three gold plated domes of the famed mosque. Al-Nur was the most lavish mosque in Sana'a and the pride of Yemen. The Muzim called the adhan beautifully and from high above the city-his musical cry of 'Allah U Akbar' emitted from several loud speakers and the city of Sana'a was reminded that it was time to pray. The Muzim's morning call to prayer struck the city with the force of a tsunami.

Imam Abdul Ibn Masoud was making wudu(Ablution before prayer). The only time he had ever missed fajr salat was in the late 80's in Afghanistan when a mortar shell exploded, killing ten other Mujahidin fighters and knocking him unconscious for two days. With only that exception, prayer was always better than sleep for the Imam and wudu was like taking a deep spiritual breath. While washing his feet in the Imam quarters of the masjid his trusted assistant Ali brought him a satellite phone in a suit case. Ali opened the suitcase and handed the Imam the secure phone line. The Imam spoke in codes and was brief in case his words were intercepted by the ears of satellites listening high above the Earth.

"As-Salam Alaikum.

"Wa alaikum salam."

"I haven't received my gift yet. Do they have my gift?" Imam Masoud said in a nonchalant tone of voice into the phone.

"Bad news Imam. Your son is dead." The person on the other end of the phone spoke in a somber tone.

"What?!?" He abruptly stopped wudu.

His 'gift' was supposed to be the head of Greatest Praise. Instead his son's head was taken by Praise. The Imam crumbled inside, collapsing to his knees in grief instead of prayer.

A can of Pepsi was on the table, along with a pack of cigarettes, a coffee pot, an ash tray and a tape recorder. NSA Special Agent Philip Durant had his underlings set up the video camera on the other side of the two-way mirror. Greatest Praise didn't like the set-up, he felt more like a suspect than someone who had just fought like a madman to stay alive. Agent Durant and one of his cronies walked in the room-he flashed his NSA badge and began to talk.

"Agent Durant-NSA. The National Security Agency intercepted an overseas call this morning. Apparently you've pissed off a powerful Imam in Yemen Mr. Praise. He slid an envelope with and 8 by 11 photo of Imam Abdul Ibn Masoud. You ever seen or heard of him?"

"Now cipher. I mean no sir!"

"Don't worry 'bout it Gaud I'm White Chocolate. I ain't study from 35 to 50 years for nothing. I know what 'Now Cipher' means.

Praise thought that the middle aged, grey haired white man was being sarcastic by coming out of the born degree in the knowledge to knowledge culture.

"Imam Masoud is an Osama wanna be-he's been looking to pull off a major attack on U.S. soil since Osama pulled off 9/11, but all of his attempts have failed. And your heroics have caused his recent attempts to fail. Bravo Mr. Praise."

This white devil was an asshole, Praise thought. "Glad I could be of service. Can I go now? And again: 'no' to your question-I've never heard of this fake ass Bin Laden movafucka." Praise slid the photo back to the white man.

"Well he's heard of you. This morning we intercepted a call from London to Yemen. Apparently one of the desert niggers you killed was Masoud's son." Durant used the word 'nigger' with no shame. How does a guy who owns a bootlegged, moving company manage to take out six Al-Qaeda operatives in the back of a Halal meat market? Who the fuck are you-the Black Jason Borne? At the NSA we've given you a nick name: 'Pookie' Borne. Thanx to you Pookie we found a stash of detonators, weapons, several pounds of syntex explosives, two ready-made bomb vest, a satellite phone and the building schematics of both a Wal-mart in Queens and the Guggenheim. Before you get your 'rich slave maker' on and sell your story to Miramax to cash in on the million dollar book deals soon to be offered and then go cry on Oprah: And before the medal of honor is being pinned on you by the President-we here at the NSA want to know how you did it."

Praise hadn't smoked since prison, but he took a cigarette from the pack and Durant's cronie gave him a lite. He coolly took a drag from the cancer stick, starred coldly at Agent Durant and settled into the hard chair.

"First of all my name is not Pookie. And to answer your question regarding 'how I did it'-about wisdom weeks ago I'm building with a young God-God just finished his one to ten. You know what one to ten is?" Greatest Praise asked in a kinda rhetorical manner knowing that the white man didn't know. But the white NSA agent shocked the hell out of Praise-he did know.

"The U.S. Government has learned everything about the Nation of Gods and Earths-especially in the last couple of years-you guys have single handedly managed to send up red flags in the FBI's National Internet surveillance monitoring room every 30 seconds since 9/11. The last name 'Allah' that you guys use alerts Homeland Security's Servers everytime the word 'Allah' is typed anywhere on the internet. 'Allah this' and 'Allah that' chatter day in and day out-you fucking guys almost crashed the system in 'O4 when Myspace was hot. We studied you guys for years before we realized that when you guys say 'bomb' it just means hollering at another God. The FBI and Homeland security spent a fortune on surveillance looking for a goddamn bomb in Allah School because one of your members said he was going to "bomb' some shit up". In final reports, all government security agencies have concluded that none of you guys pose any sort of threat to National Security. You guys are harmless, mainly just unemployed, under employed, under-achieving Negros that mostly still live with your mamas. And to answer your question Mr. Praise, 'one to ten' is also known as student enrollment or knowledge to knowledge the cipher in which the second degree refers to me as Yacob's grafted devil. One to ten is one of eight-excuse me-six black muslim lessons given by an ex-con named Wally Fard to another ex-con Elijah Poole in the early 1930's. The other two bodies of lessons that compose your eight pointed star are your Supreme Math and Alphabet that was given to you by your founder-the late Clarence Smith-who by the way was a mental patient-who you guys affectionately call Allah or the 'Father'. Mr. Praise I work for the NSA not the NYPD-we don't have our heads up our asses-we know everything."

Praise was shocked that the middle-aged white man knew such intimate details about the Gods and Earths. But he didn't let the agent know he was surprised. Instead he came back with a slick come-back of his own.
"My Father was never 'late'. Praise said, taking another pull of the cigarette.

"Father Allah was supposed to be here for this meeting" The NSA agent looked at his watch and mockingly said, "Clarence is late again-he must be on 'colored' people time, or shooting dice in the Asiatic World Projects. Oh! That's right-he's dead as shit-shot to hell in an elevator shaft in 1969. Ooops! My bad." Agent Durant's grin broke out into a hardy chuckle as he slapped the table in jest at Praise and the circumstances of the Father's death, boldly making offensive jokes about NGE's deceased patriarch. Agent Durant was a sarcastic son of a bitch and there was no shame in his game. He didn't give a fuck. The fact that Durant used the phrase 'Asiatic World' threw Praise for another loop. Did this white man know 120? Praise thought. This Devil used NGE terminology with the cynicism and sarcasm of a first born.

"So tell me Greatest Praise Allah-how did you kill the six camel jockeys and save thousands of American lives? Feel free to use all the five percent street slang you want because I've knowledged the cipher and I'm sure I can keep up 'Gaud'." The NSA agent grinned again, mocking how many Gods pronounce the word 'God' as 'Gaud'. He nonchalantly poured himself a cup of coffee, added sugar and cream and clanged the spoon against the cup as he stirred.

"Well, I get a cee Allah love lord on my power he one. Dude made an interpretation that I would receive more gold for my labor which was more than I was earning by buildin with the young God in front of Allah School. The guy on the power he offered me power add two and I fell victim to the promised ciphers. The ciphers sounded good because I needed the cream to fix my cee Allah rule." Praise stopped, grinned, knowing for a fact that the white boy ain't catch all that-but Praise once again underestimated the devil. Agent Durant took a sip of the coffee and had a calm look on his white face.

"Did they receive more gold?" Special Agent Durant asked Praise nonchalantly. Praise was shocked at how the NSA agent smoothly came out of 120. Agent Durant smiled the smile of an asshole and continued, "So you're telling me that the Arab trader made an interpretation and didn't give you the five hundred dollars he promised you for the moving justice cipher born? And instead of receiving more gold you got knocked unconscious with a tire iron when you walked in the back room of the halal meat market-am I right so far? And now that hunk of junk you call a cee Allah rule is still in need of a muffler. Don't you just hate it when traders make interpretations 'Gaud'!"

It was so weird to see a white man coming out of 120 with ease. With his mouth dropped in shock Praise nodded at Agent Durant's translation and summary of events. And how the hell did he know about Praise's muffler?

"Don't your degrees warn you that lying and stealing master the Original Man? Them desert niggers almost mastered you Gaud. You Original people are so damn naïve and gullible. I'm so glad to be a grafted Devil in the Wilderness of North America. As a devil I've mastered the science of the filthy affair and it makes me feel so 'George Bushy'. I must tell you Mr. Praise it's great to be republican and white; the best schools, the best homes in gated communities that keep the niggers out. In the words of Tony The Tiger, being a 10 percenter 'is great'" The NSA agent laughed real loud at his own jokes. He laughed so hard that his laughter was echoing off of the walls of the interrogation room.

To Be Continued...

Monday, October 25, 2010

Live By The Sword: Brooklyn Man Kills Six Al-Qaeda Terrorist

CNN Commercial:

"Don't you hate it when hemorrhoids flare up?"

"Oh my God it itches something terrible."

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"I'm an administrative assistant and boy sometimes my hemorrhoids are sweaty, hot, painful and itchy. I sit at my desk and wiggle my tush around in my chair just to scratch 'em to get some temporary relief. My co-worker Ed noticed I was kinda antsy at my desk and Ed gave me Super New, and improved Preparation H-it stopped burning, painful itch and it soothed my hemorrhoids on contact. Thank you Ed. And thanks Preparation H."

He hadn't called for knowledge culture days. She thought the worst; maybe he left her; maybe he was in jail; or maybe somebody returned DaGod back. Greatest Praise's Earth Priceless was ironing her clothes for work, watching CNN when she got the answer to where her God had been for the past wisdom weeks.

"Good Morning. Breaking story at this hour: A Brooklyn man was abducted 14 days ago by an Al-Qaeda terror cell right here in the United States. The man was taken to the back of an Islamic butcher shop in Brooklyn New York where six Al- Qaeda men threatened to decapitate him. Let's go to field correspondence Lester Zimmerman. Les what's going on."

Details are still sketchy but what we do know is that the man on the tape being escorted by Federal Investigators is 51 year old Greatest Praise Allah. From what we know he's a member of a black supremacist cult known as The Five Percenters-in which black men call themselves Allah. Apparently their ideology is so radical it sparked a response by Al-Qaeda operatives right here in the U.S. A fatwa was issued-a fatwa is an Islamic ruling or in this case an open contract on Greatest Praise's life. Authorities are telling us that the fatwa was initially issued from somewhere in the Middle East. The man was abducted, and somehow managed to kill all six of his captors, escape and alert police. Federal investigators have taken Greatest Praise Allah in to get a statement. We'll keep you posted as we get information. Back to you Robin."

"Thank you Les. A man in Iowa ran his pick up truck into a river while...."

To Be Continued...

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Live By The Sword: Learning To Shut Da Fuck Up!

After Praise's comment Abdur Rahman had a very unpleasant look on his face, it was obvious that Praise's conversion to 'true Islam' was going to be more difficult than Abdur Rahman had initially anticipated. Sayeed looked at Abdur Rahman with an 'I told you so' look on his face. Praise read the eyes and body language of all the muslim extremist in the room and intuitively figured out that this was neither the time nor the place to be building like some debate driven God standing in front of Allah School arguing over if 'refinement' is a part of the math or not.

Praise needed to refine his approach to deal with these Al-Qaeda niggaz. He knew the blackman was God and to attempt to convince Islamic fundamentalist of such a fact would be counter productive to him being released. When Praise read the body language of the four muslims guarding him and peeped the other two he noticed Abdur Rahman's look of disenchantment, and the look of irritation that Sayeed gave Abdur Rahman. Praise at that moment decided to immediately travel on the path of the least resistance, a decision that came a bit late. His comments had already lit someone's fuse in the room. After his diatribe on how the 5 pillars of Islam correlates to the lessons and philosophies of 'I God' culture the body language of the muslims in the room quickly began to sour. The dead silence in the room said, "Let's cut this kafir's head off!"

Praise understood that religion was a drug and that these guys were snorting raw un-cut Islam with no twists or tweaks and also that this brand of Islam was what nightly newscasters truly meant as 'Islamic fundamentalist'.

Upon reading the cold current of air in the room, he attempted to quickly adapt, deciding to down-play his intelligence and completely dumb-down his intellectual prowess for tactical reasons. His 'understanding' had to come across as a lack of 'understanding'.

Wisely, he made the decision to open his ears and listen intently, and 'game' the muslims by appearing genuinely eager to learn about raw un-cut Islam. The goal of his strategy was to ultimately appeal to Sayeed and Abdur Rahman, listen to them and make them feel as if they were the wisest men in the world. Praise now understood that his earlier verbal discourse regarding the five pillars of Islam was ill-timed, out of place and that freely voicing his supreme mathematical cee at that time was indeed a blunder. In Grand Master level chess one blunder can mean checkmate-fortunately his single blunder wasn't enough to get himself checkmated, but it was enough to get da God checked-checked hard.

"I know Prophet Muhammad lived in Arabia but who was Prophet Muhammad for real-for real?" Praise asked in an attempt to clean shit up-knowing that he had offended the muslims. Consciously removing the intellectual arrogance out of his tone of voice, he squinted his eyes and contorted his face to form an expression that read, 'I'm dumb, black and ignorant. Please help me!' It was obvious to the muslims that Praise was running 'game'. Ordinarily his question about Muhammad would have put the muslims in the room at ease, but since his question about Muhammd came on the heals of his comments that cheapened the five pillars of Islam it made the muslims in the room suspicious. What Praise was doing was exactly what Sayeed had initially suspected: Praise would say anything to protect his neck and now the other muslims could see Sayeed's point. Praise was transparent and his acting poor. The muslims saw right through him and even though they saw through his agenda when the name 'Muhammad' came off of Praise's lips all six muslims in the room said, "Salalahu alayhi wa Salam!" simultaneously.

"What is 'Salalahu a lay-a lay'... how yall say it?" Praise uttered clumsily. Though the back room he was held hostage in was kinda hot with radiators hissing the eyes of all the men in the room were cold and their silence was frosty. The humor from the misunderstanding of 'Jordan' the basketball player and 'Jordan' the country was long gone.

"'Salalahu alayhi wa salam'-means 'May the peace and blessings of Allah be upon Muhammad'." Saleek answered, taking Praise's question as mockery.

"So who was he?" Praise asked. He thought asking questions about Muhammad would bare more fruit than if he continued to speak. A God named Knowledge once told him "Gods love to hear themselves build-so let them movafuckuz build while you do the knowledge!" So Praise took the best part of Da God Knowledge's understanding for himself and finally at that moment he shut da fuck up and quietly declared he would ear hustle from then forward before them Al Qaeda niggaz decided to cut his fuckin head off.

"Brother Sayeed may I speak to him about our beloved Prophet."
Saleek asked humbly. Saleek had been quiet during the whole ordeal. He was the largest of all six muslims, big for an arab but not bigger than Praise. His physique reminded one of an English Bulldog, his eyes were quiet and soft, not that he was soft, but his eyes had the sleepiness of a thousand and one Arabian nights about them. He took his time and circled Praise slowly as Praise sat on the floor nearly in panic-mode. Saleek was a deeply devoted muslim, born poor in Saudi Arabia he was raised in Yemen and now found himself living in America on a student visa like the others in the small Al-Qaeda sleeper cell. He was the first amongst the men to volunteer to blow himself up at either the Guggenheim or Wal-mart, preferably Wal-mart because he had visions of walking around in the electronic section of Wal-Mart and all of a sudden yelling at the top of his lungs "La ila ha ila La-Muhammad dur rasululah" and press the button to kill as many Americans shopping for big screens as possible. At 26 years of age he was anxious to give his life in the way of Allah. Not an intellectual scholar of Islam like Sayeed, instead Saleek distinguished himself by his passion for the stories of the sahaba's(Companions of the Prophet) devotion to the Rasul(Messenger/Muhammad). For as long as he could remember he possessed a deep desire to die in the name of Allah. The life of the dunya(sinful world) did not mean anything to him and his life and his death was solely for the pleasure of Allah Subhannu Watallah.

"The Prophet Muhammad Salalahu a layhi wa Salam was the best of all creation. He is the seal of all the Prophets. No other Prophet shall come after him. The Angel Jibril came to him and said, "Iqra! Iqra! Iqra!" Meaning 'Read', and recite and from that moment forward the angel Jibril began to reveal to him the Holy Quran." Saleek's voice contained anger and his anger became more pronounced as he continued. His accent was noticeably sharper as he became more and more blinded by rage.

"So that kafir shit you talk about a new Quran every 25 hundred years or 25 thousand years of history or whatever it is-is a Shaitanic lie and if you ever utter-" he dramatically paused, and bit his lip because his fury choked him up so much that, a tear drop fell from his right eye, swiftly catching a ride down his right cheek. It was obvious that Saleek's elevator didn't go all the way to the top floor. Saleek was a fanatic. He put down the machine gun he was holding and took out a 9 millimeter Beretta from his jacket and wildly swung the pistol, striking the lips of Praise-Praise quickly went from sitting on the floor to laying on the floor. Saleek stood over Praise, striking Praise repeatedly. Praise's mouth was filled with blood, after hitting da God approximately ten times with the god u now Praise was sprawled out on the floor barely conscious.

"If I hear those dumb ass lessons come out of your face again while Sayeed or any other muslim is talking I won't hesitate to shoot your black ass in each limb, then cut off both arms, both legs and I will see to it that you stay alive for hours before I cut your head off. You'll be begging me to cut off your head. I will truly show you the meaning of Arm, Leg, Leg, Arm, Head my friend. I'll cut your Kafir head off, put it on a prayer rug facing east and make you make salat the hard way. Try me! Keep playing with Islam like it's a joke." Saleek whispered in a cold voice of a killer, desperately wanting to make all of his threats 'word is bond'.

His ferocious temperament made the room quiet, it was obvious to Abdur Rahman that Saleek had a cannibal like hunger to behead Praise. Saleek had actually taken part in a few beheadings of kafirs in Yemen, and was now home-sick and desperately wanted to perform a beheading on U.S. soil. He hated the fact that Abdur Rahman spared Praise.

DaGod finally got it, he now understood the depth of their zealotry for Islam, their love for Muhammad and the love they held for their Mystery God. Praise had a headache but he finally got it: and needed to respect these movafuckuz even though they were hardcore mystery God worshipers.

Saleek was scheduled to blow himself up next week wearing a bomb vest made of syntex explosives. Life meant nothing to him and his death would be for the pleasure of Allah subhannu watallah. At that moment Praise understood that a man who wants to live is no match for a man who can't wait to die.

Praise's mentally grabbed at the phrase in the culture cipher degree in the one to forties: "I will give all I have and all within my power to see the day..." That one phrase in knowledge wisdom cipher got Da God through.

To be continued...

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Live By The Sword: Power Pillars

The rope was tied so tight Praise felt as though he was holding a handful of pins and needles. He could barely feel his feet because of how tightly his ankles were bound. Sayeed and Abdur Rahman returned to the back room-this time Abdur Rahman was holding a knife. A moment of brief terror had struck Praise, making his heart skip a beat and sink with fear. However, the knife Abdur Rahman held was a knife of freedom, not a knife intended for Praise's slaughter.

"Today, you will live Mr. Praise." The history of the Middle East was distinct in his accent and the delivery of his words. Abdur Rahman cut the ropes that bound both his hands and feet. Sayeed pulled his 9 millimeter Taurus from his waist, and the other captors followed suit, each pulling their personal weapon of choice. Praise's hands and feet were no longer in bondage but he was still not free. Praise looked at the bright side: it was a start. Sayeed threw him a pair of clean muslim clothes, a wash cloth, a towel and a bag in which to put his soiled clothes. Half of the room was partitioned off with cheap paneling, making it half meat storage area-half living quarters.

"Soap is in the shower."

Praise stood to his feet slowly, squeezed his hands to get the blood circulating again and proceeded to limp to the bathroom on feet that felt like they had walked a mile on needles. The hoods of his captors were off, and now he could see their faces and eyes. None were older than him and all were physically smaller. He felt that he could beat the shit out of one or two of 'em if an escape opportunity presented itself but he knew he could not win against the guns they were holding. Saleek held a small semi automatic machine gun with a silencer screwed onto the barrel; outside of the movies or a TV show it was the only time Praise had ever saw a silencer. The only person who didn't carry a weapon was Abdur Rahman. The guns trained on Praise felt more dangerous than the sword that was held above his head just a few minutes prior. Maybe because death from a gun is immediate, more clinical and less passionate than decapitation from Islamic extremists. Praise felt that passion keeps fear company and death from a bullet seemed lonely and somehow more cold-not that he desired to have his head cut off or to be shot.

Both the shower and the bathroom were disgusting, but not more disgusting than how Praise felt. He was relieved to take off his shitty boxers and jeans and get under the old, rusty shower head that spewed weak water pressure. 'At least it's hot.', he thought. He was still alive so the weak water pressure and the disgusting tub were welcomed with open arms. The fact that he was still alive was all that mattered to Praise: being alive always presented the possibility of a chance.

"Why did they give him a chance to clean himself up?" he asked himself, mumbling under the cascading water. While standing under the shower with weak water pressure he searched for the answers to 'unknowns' (x)s and 'why's (y)s. He used 120 to surmise that for one reason or another they wanted him to come amongst them. For Praise 120 worked both on a conscious level and an unconscious level in terms that they both manifested and described the nature of the human dynamic. His thoughts at that moment came out of the born degree in the knowledge to knowledge the culture: 'they weren't going to kill him as quick as they would other Americans-'so what did they want?', Praise thought to himself.

Mumbling to himself under the shower with his eyes closed he began a strategic conversation with his own self; a dialogue of sorts. Praise was having a 'by myself meeting' to discuss what he should do and say to his captors.

"Run it through the math God. What do these Al-Qaeda movafuckuz want? They gave you a chance to wash yo ass and they didn't kill you as quick-". He abruptly stopped mumbling out loud because the answer to his question hit him in mid-sentence and then he started thinking loud-his thoughts were very clear: 'they want to do trading'. 'Trade' what? I want freedom from these Al-Qaeda movafuckuz but what do they want from me? For all practical purposes they could have easily cut my head off, but these camel jockeys, desert niggaz let me live. Why? I made them laugh with the Jordan joke and called their leader a white devil Arab. Hmmm!'

Greatest Praise's thought process was clicking on all cylinders. DaGod was in survival mode and hadn't at that point drawn up the full extent of their intentions, so he decided to do the knowledge harder than he'd ever had. Greatest Praise Allah concluded that this was a chess game of enormous proportions. It was a game where checkmate meant life or death.

A knock came to the thin door. "Hurry up!" Hamza yelled.

The knock at the cheap wooden door snapped Praise out of his internal mathematical meditation. He turned off the shower, stepped out, dried off and put on some small ass traditional muslim clothes that seemed more like pajamas for a child than clothing for an adult. Being a six foot, three inch, two hundred and fifty pound black man and wearing clothes that were made for an Arab who was five feet three inches made him feel stupid: 'better to feel stupid than to feel dead', he thought. His pants were high-waters, higher than Steve Urkel's. The moment he walked out of the bathroom wearing tight ass, light blue muslim pajamas and a small ass kuffi that didn't fit his head he felt stupid and once again the Al Qaeda niggaz had managed to make him a source of their amusement and laughed at his tight clothes.

"Yall don't have an extra-large?" Praise asked like someone coming out of a fitting room, after trying on clothes at a department store.

"Sit!" Sayeed asked in a gentle and calm voice.

Sayeed sat down across from Greatest Praise and began to speak. "Have you ever read the Holy Quran."

"Bits and pieces; here and there but I've never really did the knowledge on the whole thing. So to be honest with you: now cipher. No I haven't."

"Prophet Muhammad Salalahu alayhi wa salam was commanded by Allah Subhannu Watallah by way of the Angel Jibril to 'read', 'recite' and 'proclaim' to the world the message of Islam in the Holy Quran."

"I'm feeling what you're saying indeed. We gave the Quran to the Arab to clean himself up." Praise stated.

"Who is 'we'?" Sayeed asked

"The Holy Quran or Bible is made by the Original Man who is Allah; the supreme being; the blackman from Asia. The Quran will expire in the year 25,000: 9980 years from the date of this writing. The Nation of Islam is all wise and does everything right and exact. The Planet Earth which is the Home of Islam is approximately 25,000 miles in circumference, so the wise man from the East; blackman makes his history or Quran to equal his home circumference: a year to every mile. Thus everytime his history last 25,000 years-he renews it for another 25,000 years."

"Brother what kind of gibberish, nonsense are you talking about?" Sayeed asked with a stupified look written on his face.

" Everybody has a personal Quran. Every day is an ayat, every month you live a surah and eventually your whole life becomes your own personal history and personal Quran. The human family as a whole lives a collective Quran. The Quran is history that equals are home circumference of the Original Man and is the cipher in which He dwells."

"No brother. No-no-no! That is not Islam. The word 'Quran' means recitation. The Prophet Muhammad Salalahu alayhi wa salam brought one Quran for the whole of mankind. It is the last revelation to mankind from Allah Subhannu watallah. "

"Peace, I'm feeling all that and whatnot, but I don't deal with a mysterious God. I believe the Quran is a mathematical revelation. God is not a mystery, but instead God is inextricably bound to my consciousness. What I'm saying is that I'm one with Allah and Allah is one with me: Making me Allah 'world manifest'. Like DaGod Jesus said, "when you see me-you see the Father" and he also said "That I and my 'Father' are One." and that's the reality of Islam or I Self Lord and Master that I deal wit fam."

"Brother you have been taught wrong. None of what you say is real Islam. What you speak is 'bida'(haram innovation) teaching from the Shaitan. Your knowledge of Islam is haram(forbidden). The gravest sin in Islam is to associate gods and partners with Allah subhannu Watallah. You are not God. Clarence 13X Smith is not Allah! Islam is not 'I' 'Self' 'Lord' and 'Master' as you say. Islam means submission. To submit your will to the will of Allah Subhannu Watallah is the nature of real Islam. True Islam has five pillars; Shahada-which is to bare witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is his last messenger; secondly: salat or prayer. Salat is to a muslim what the head is to the body. Thirdly: prescribed fasting during the month of Ramadan. Fourth: is zakat or charity which means to spend out of what Allah has provided for you. The last principle is Hajj which is the pilgrimage to the Holy City of Mecca." Sayeed spoke softly to Praise. He smiled, as if he was placing a blanket over a child.

"I feel all of those principles or Pillars as you call them and each one of em can be found in knowledge wisdom cipher-it's what da Gods and Earths deal with: "I bare witness to the Father Allah in that he came to teach in the bowels of the black Ghettos of the Wilderness of North America and he indeed taught us the righteous way. I also bare witness to The Honorable Elijah Muhammad and Master Fard Muhammd as well as the first Muhammad who lived in Arabia-he is indeed one of my righteous brothers who was a Prophet also. When I do my duty as a civilized person to teach the uncivilized civilization that's my charity. I just gave a God one to fourteens today-that'z charity. Everytime I build that's prayer. I fast from time to time when I want to detox from the wrong foods that ain't right and exact. And when I murder the four devils of jealousy, envy, lust and hatred inside of me I get free transpo and make my Hajj to my internal Mecca within which is my point of origin in this world. Feel me son?!"

To Be Continued...

Friday, October 15, 2010

Live By The Sword: Next Wednesday At Wal-mart

After realizing Praise didn't immediately discern the difference between Michael Jordan and the country of 'Jordan', Abdur Rahman became concerned-concerned that slaughtering Praise may be wrong. Abdur Rahman was inclined to believe that Greatest Praise had never been properly introduced to raw authentic Islam and felt that the ways of the Dunya (worldly sins) in America has thoroughly diluted, mixed and tampered with the proper process of how people should receive true Islam. Abdur Rahman pondered that Praise and possibly many other Five Percenters lacked true Islamic knowledge as the result of being born poor and black in America. He had read books, watched documentaries regarding the historical suffering of Negros and the deplorable conditions of African Americans throughout American history and was shocked to learn that Black people were once slaves in America. He once did a 35 page extra-credit research paper on the diaspora and turned it in at the last minute so he wouldn't fail a Black History course offered as a college elective. He'd only taken the course because 'Chemical Engineering 301' was full for the fall semester.

And even with all of his vast Islamic intelligence and one black history class under his belt, he himself still didn't understand the reality of Allah's love nor did he understand black people-he incorrectly held on to the false notion that Martin Luther King Jr. freed the slaves. The 25 year old, hip hop loving, extremist muslim from Jordan was for all practical purposes disinterested in black people and the history of black people. At sometime during his initial orientation into the American experience he had clumsily confused his love for hip hop as an expertise on African American culture. He was short sighted in regard to his perceptions of minorities in America, they were faceless and overshadowed by his own intense hatred and obsession with destroying the enemies of Islam: his hate blinded him. All he saw was the depravity of U.S. driven 'anti-Islam' foreign policy in the Middle East by the Shaitanic American puppet Government sodomized daily by Jew debt. Essentially, in the international political scheme of things so-called minorities were of no real consequence to him:just black; brown; and yellow Americanized pawns on a geo-political chess board. Greatest Praise was 'nobody' to Abdur Rahman-just a blackman who was a part of a misled, rag-tag social organization who's definition of 'Islam' was as simple as a High School Cheerleader's idea for a clever cheer acronymically spelling team names or motivational words: 'I Self Lord And Master'. He pitied Da God Greatest Praise but Praise didn't need Abdur Rahman's pity because Praise felt he had all he needed: Supreme Mathematics.

The laughter from the Jordan joke had ceased and wisely Praise was quiet, hopeful that the laughter of the men had some how got him off the hook. He was reading Abdur Rahman's body language, watching as he pensively paced back and forth, hands behind his back, lost deep in thought. Praise could sense that the vibe of murder had left the room: at least temporarily.

When Greatest Praise called Abdur Rahman 'white' he subconsciously put him on the defensive. Not only did Abdur Rahman become defensive but Praise's words struck a nerve because Abdur Rahman knew that 'oppression' was shaitanic devilishment, plain and simple. Such a point appealed to the cerebral nature of Abdur Rahman. Abdur Rahman realized that Greatest Praise was a black man who had been oppressed in America and he couldn't in good conscience murder Greatest Praise in Praise's state of ignorance-it wasn't the 'muslim thing' to do. Perhaps if the person kneeling before him was a C.I.A. operative, a U.S. soldier, a Wall Street banker or a Jew lawyer he could take their heads without blinking, but here was this poor man on his knees with shit in his pants claiming to be Allah. Abdur Rahman concluded that Praise was majnun(crazy). He felt that it was the duty of each muslim on Earth including himself and those in the back of his Halal butcher shop to invite Greatest Praise to true Islam by giving him Da'wah(An invitation to worship Allah).

"Sayeed, come here!" Sayeed was one of the men that stood behind Greatest Praise. Abdur Rahman and Sayeed stepped out from the back storage area into the front of the store for privacy. The metal security door that covered the front of the outside of the store was pulled down, so no passersbies could come in, or peer into the window of the Atlantic Avenue storefront Halal Butcher shop.

Abdur Rahman was the Amir of their particular Al Qaeda cell however Sayeed was the most gifted Islamic scholar of the cell: he knew the entire Quran by heart and had a great deal of Hadiths committed to memory.

With a serious look of concern on his face Abdur Rahman created an uncomfortable silence as Sayeed waited for him to speak. "I think we need to give him da'wah. This man is obviously ignorant or majnun. Would Prophet Muhammad Salalahu alayhi Wa salam murder a fool?" Abdur Rahman asked.

"Why do you think he's a fool? He's intelligent enough to have started his own moving business; intelligent enough to have engaged you in an odd but nevertheless intelligent argument as it pertains to Allah Subhannu Watallah. I personally think we should cut his intelligent head off. The more heads we take the more that it counts as a barakah (blessing) and the angel of our good deeds notes such an act of jihad as a good deed."

"Wouldn't it also be a good deed if we gave him da'wah?"

"AllahulAlam(Only Allah knows). Brother I say we get it over with: kill 'em. Me and Daud spent three hours in South Jersey digging a hole for his body. Please tell me that we didn't dig the hole for nothing."

"You didn't dig in vane Sayeed. The headless body of a kafir is going into that hole-I just don't know if he should be the one."

"What about your Father? Your father wants his head?"

"My father is not Allah. If we kill this man and the day of Yawmal kiyama(Day of Judgement) comes and Allah rules that he was not a kafir this could affect our position in jennat(Paradise/heaven). Let him shower, give him a change of clothes and teach him true Islam. If he doesn't take shahada(To officially become a muslim) within 48 hours-cut his head off!"

"This is not smart. He is a man desperate to save his life; he'll do or say anything to save his neck and tell us what we want to hear. If he does accept Islam-are we suppose to let him just walk out of here?"

"We're not going to let him go! I've been thinking. We need someone to wear a bomb vest in Wal-Mart next Wednesday. If he accepts Islam we give him the honor of dying Mujahidin as a suicide bomber in Wal-Mart and if he doesn't accept Islam we'll cut his head off."

To Be Continued...

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Live By The Sword: 'Not Michael Jordan'

Calm took over Greatest Praise and silently he told himself he would not die. The 'magnetic' that Gods sometimes brag about having at that moment became more than just a mere point of bragadocia, instead 'magnetic' became his reality. With warm, sludgey shit in his pants, giving off the aroma of death and fear he somehow managed to take control of the situation mentally, declaring in his mind that he would make it through this cipher and live. His declaration wasn't a prayer, but a deep harmonious affirmation and communion with the knowledge behind the Sun; the knowledge behind reality; and ultimately the knowledge that was the very essence of himself.

Persperation on his face caused the duct tape over his face to slide off, he then blew a desperate, powerful breath of air from his mouth and the last bit of adhessive on the duct tape fell. The lose grey flap of duct tape was hanging at the bottom left corner of his chin-just enough to allow him to get a word out. Actually it was two words-two words that none of his captors ever heard,

"Now Cipher!" Came off his lips calmly in a firm tone of voice.

Greatest Praise's words caused Daud to pause the sword in mid-air and Abdul Rahman turned around and asked, "Now who?". '

The words 'Now Cipher' froze the domes of the men holding Praise captive . The strange phrase caused just enough momentary curiosity to delay DaGod's decapitation.

"Now Cipher-'Now' is the 'cipher' but we can't allow the cipher of my death to manifest 'now': not like this! He purposefully used the word 'we' because subconsciously the word 'we' enlisted his 'would be' decapitators into the reality of his struggle to live. Though his breathing was heavy and frantic, he managed to articulate his cee on 'now cipher' with brevity and precision.

"The 'Now' degree in the knowledge to understand the equality states that 'his ownself is a righteous muslim'"

Greatest Praise kept his thought process firmly rooted in the math and knowledge wisdom cipher for strategic reasons. He believed that the uniqueness and originality of Supreme Math, Supreme Alphabet and 120 would manifest his Saving Grace. He knew full well that Supreme Mathematics and the language of the Gods and Earths was magnetic: it's eight pointz became his only protection against the sword above his head.

"What do you mean by 'cipher'? Those, are the Shaitanic words which you speak on Youtube. If you claim you're a muslim: prove it! When listening to your words it seems that you are far from a 'righteous muslim'. Imams from muslim countries believe you to be of the kafirun, poisonous in what you spew over the world wide web and today me and my muslim brothers are here to remove your head from your body on their behalf. Insha Allah!" Abdur Rahman's accent was distinct, his words were somehow gentle but at the same time cold and deadly. He then held a smartphone to Praise's face, replaying Greatest Praise's video-the one in which he proclaimed himself to be Allah. The video made Praise bare witness to his own words.

Kneeling and physically helpless, hands and feet tightly bound; DaGod's mind wasn't helpless but instead working at a terrific speed. Praise didn't panic but he did accept that this would literally be the most important build of his life.

"I'm God, you are God, 'We are God" Praise yelled his words dramaticaly, unable to prevent his spit from fusing with his furious words. He called Abdur Rahman 'God' to strategically appeal to his ego and hopefully the egos of the other hooded men.

"Did You call me God?"Abdur Rahman asked, immediately taking great offence to being called 'God'. "I've Googled the 'Five Percenters' and I have read about your Shaitanic verses, declaring that the Blackman is God and that a nigger who was shot dead in 1969 is Allah. I challenge you: If you are Allah-blackout the sun; make the moon change direction; give life to the dead. If you are Allah save your own life!" Abdur Rahman's eyes were angry, deeply intense, and piercing. He possesed cold black eyes that stood in striking contrast to his traditional Middle Eastern features. With an absolute ruthless disdain in his voice Abdur Rahman coldly said, "Daud cut this Kafir's head off!"

"Wait!!! Wait!!! You're percieving Allah all wrong brother! Allah U Akbar is indeed the truth brother. We only differ in the perception of Allah." Praise mentally scrambled, and grabbed the first words he could think of. He could feel Daud's sword on the side of his neck, it felt as lite as a feather though he understood it as a true instrument of death.

Greatest Praise's words made Daud hesitate and look at Abdur Rahman. Daud had a look on his face-a look that asked, "Do you still want me to cut his head off or are you going to keep talking to him?" Praise's words were interesting enough to compel Abdur Rahman to give Daud a 'hold' signal with his hand in order that they may continue their philosophical and religious debate. Daud's sword paused, still hanging above Greatest Praise's head like a Cobra poised to strike.

"What do you mean 'I percieve God wrong?" Abdur Rahman asked with intellectual contempt resonating in his voice.

"You are not a terrorist right-but that is how the world defines you. You're just a man striving to change your reality, right? Suppose you waited for Allah in the sky to change your political reality: would it ever get changed?"

Wearing an all black Jalabiya, and a white Kuffi he sadistically stooped down to look Praise in his eyes. Abdur Rahman stroked his beard like a man possessing a thousand years of wisdom and then began to speak,

"Allahsubhanna watallah causes the salt in your tears , and has designed your every strand of hair as he desired it to be. And you're right: I am not a terrorist. I wage jihad against all infidels and all enemies of Islam and with the help of Allah subhannuwatallah I strike terror in the hearts of the enemies of Islam. Terror is in your heart now my kafir friend: I can smell the shit in your pants. Don't be ashamed. Animals defecate when they are about to be be preyed upon-biologically it warns the other animals in the heard. So you see my friend-the fact that I've scared the shit out of you has invoked an act of compassion. It is a comapssionate deed to warn another animal. Interesting how shit is the smell of terror but also the smell of your admonition to your fellow man."

"That's Peace-" Before Greatest Praise could continue with his point he was interrupted by Abdur Rahman.

"What do you mean: 'That's Peace'" Abdur Rahman asked.

"When I say, 'That's Peace' I'm acknowledging that what you said is 'Salam'. 'That's 'Peace' means 'cool'. What you said is cool. 'Peace' is 'cool."

Abdur Rahman was a Hip Hop head as a cover, so he studied the slang in rap, but Praise's slang wasn't quite like anything he'd ever heard. As he listened to Praise breakdown the guts of 5percent phrases it drew Abdur Rahman up into an amusing fine mist. Even with shit in his pants Greatest Praise managed to captivate his captors by freezing them with a phrase.

"It's Peace and it's cool that you wage Jihad to change the political climate of your reality but do the knowledge-" Greatest Praise was in the midst of making another point when he was again cut off again by Abdur Rahman's question.

"What is 'do the knowledge'?" Abdur Rahman asked.

"It means to pay attention." Praise answered.

'Do The Knowledge', was a phrase that he to found amusing, causing Abdur Rahman to chuckle. When Greatest Praise Allah saw the Jordainian native smile he knew he had a chance to live. Praise had him drawn up, he simply had to keep building.

"Do the knowledge!" The words tickled coming off of the tongue of Abdur Rahman. The other hooded terrorist standing behind Praise began to also lightly chuckle under their faceless hoods.

"Do the knowledge to the fact that you are changing your own political reality. A mystery God ain't gonna change your political reality: you are!

"This is where you're wrong my friend. We can do nothing without the permission of Allah Subhannu Watallah. Our every breath is taken by Allah's permission and His permission alone. You say 'do the knowledge': In Islam this is 'Hikma' or Wisdom. Paying attention to the creation is 'Hikma'" Abdur Rahman coldly delivered his point.

"I agree! I agree! Hikma or Wisdom represents 'Two' and also woman. Wisdom is wise words, ways, and actions and in order to be wise one must pay attention and do the knowledge to Allah's creation Indeed! You're correct, but you're dealing with a detachment principle-detaching yourself from the reality of creator and creation. Don't sunnis deal with something in regard to the Oneness of God called 'Taw-taw something'?" Praise studdered because the Arabic word was on the tip of his tongue.

"What you make reference to is 'Tawheed'. Yes,'Tawheed' is the Oneness of Allah-so what? The oneness Of Allah doesn't make you Allah. You don't believe in the Prophet salalahu alayhi wa salam nor the 'Oneness' of Allah. If You did-you wouldn't believe that Allah was some project street nigger who got shot and killed in an elevator in 1969. This is not Allah. You Five Percenters mock Allah Subhannu Watallah!!!Cut this fuckin' cock suckin', Kafir's head off! I'm tired of listening to his bullshit."

"Well then cut my fuckin head off den!!! Return me back! Return me back! Do it movafucka! Do it! The Blackman is God and I'm gonna say it to my movafuckin' last breath!!! Fuck you-you fucking white devil. You grafted Arab devil. You fuckin' white devil." Greatest Praise screamed from his knees and after his tirade of reckless words Praise spit in the face of Abdur Rahman.

Slowly and calmly Abdur Rahman wiped the spit off of his face. He smiled and said "I'm not white. My skin is not white! I'm not Arab I'm from Jordan."

"Michael Jordan black as fuck! You ain't from no Goddamn Jordan!" Praise yelled back.

For a split second silence took over the room. It took a second for what Praise said to register and when the misunderstanding of 'Jordan' registered, Daud dropped the sword on the floor and started holding his stomach laughing. The other four hooded Al Qaeda members behind Praise took off their hoods and they too started laughing.

"What da fuck is yall Al Qaeda niggaz laughing at?

"Not the basketball player Jordan. 'Jordan' is a country. I'm Jordanian". Abdur Rahman explained.

To Be Continued...

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Live By The Sword: Episode One (Parts one thru four).

Greatest Praise took the front of the stage at Harriet Tubman elementary school. He was an older God, his fire was still hot. He spoke with an alternating quick and slow cadence, usually finishing a statement with 'what?'. The Harlem audience was made up of young, and old from every borough in New York City. Greatest Praise needed no introduction. The Five Percenters in attendance knew him well. He was somewhat abrasive, hard edged but charmingly street slick in the delivery of his words.

"Yall young Gods so quick to skip over the knowledge degree in the one to ten and it's importance. Knowledge is the what? The foundation. You gotta know the ledge of knowledge, so you won't fall over-the what? The edge. You gotta know what 'original' means in order to understand what?: The point of origin. The Original Man Is who? is God! The Black Man is Allah. I'm Allah!" Those were the words that set a dangerous chain of events into motion; words that were video recorded and broadcasted half way around the world on YouTube three weeks later; words that caught the ears of Imam Abdul Ibn Masoud.

He threw his IPhone to the Masjid floor in shock after watching and hearing the YouTube recorded words of Greatest Praise. The 63 year old Jordanian Islamic cleric and Imam was one of the most beloved Imam's in the Middle East, clashing with American soldiers in Iraq, and killing several Israeli soldiers in Palestine with IEDs. The Iman had become a legend in the Islamic world, shooting down two KA-50 Werewolf Russian Attack Helicopters with a surface to air hand held RPG in the Mujahadin's efforts to kick the Russians out of Afganistan during the Soviet War in Afghanistan in the late 80's. Now in exile in Yemen he taught and trained young impressionable Al Qaeda recruits. Masoud was in control of mutiple Al Qaeda terror cells throughout the European Union; the Middle East; Pakistan; and the U.S..

He told his son Abdur Rahman that he could not lead Magrib Salat(evening prayer) because what he saw on YouTube disturbed him.

"Whats wrong father?" Abdur Rahman asked, seeing the evident agitation growing in his Father's face.

"In all my year's on Allah Subhannuwatallah's Earth I have never witnessed such shirk(taking other gods in place of Allah) like what I saw on this phone." His voice and heavy accent were at a shaky, trembling whisper, but he was careful not to disturb other muslims deep in dhikr(devoted remembrance of Allah).
"What did you see Father?" Abdur Rahman said softly, picking up his father's IPhone from the floor. As he touched the IPhone's touch-screen the YouTube prompt came on screen and DaGod Greatest Praise's video continued, "Ain't no mystery God in the damn sky. I'm Allah!" Greatest Praise Allah spoke boldly and passionately in the recording, yelling so that all in the audience could hear his booming voice.

"Turn it off! Ibn Masoud angrily demanded, briefly disturbing others in the masjid that were reading Quran."

"Father you don't have to worry-these are only Five Percenters they are just rappers- like Wu-Tang.". Masoud's son had spent considerable time in New York as a student and though he came from Jordanian heritage and a devoted Islamic family he managed to blend in well with the East Coast Hip Hop scene, frequenting Hip Hop clubs, dressing the part and keeping up with the latest trends, it was all a part of his cover.

"I don't care who they are; rappers; singers; or the MTV stars of the Shaitan. Everything in America is of the Shaitan. I want the head of this one." Imam Masoud was adamant, pointing to Greatest Praise on the frozen IPhone screen.

"Do you want us to postpone our attack on the Guggenheim museum?! We've been planning this for two years, all of our operatives are in place." Abdur Rahman said. He pleaded and explained the logical order of coordinated terrorist attacks to his father. His father was so caught up into the words of Greatest Praise on Youtube that he was literally fuming over the fact that this man called himself Allah. The old Iman was too infuriated to listen to his son.

"If we hit the Guggenheim we make the boldest Islamic statement since 9/11 and finally kafirun blood will run like a red river on American soil once again. But the decapitated head of a Five Percenter makes no statement nor does it further our cause. It makes no sense father? Authorities would think it's just a nigger killing another nigger over crack. That's what black people do in America. Such a murder would bear no political fruit father" Abdur Rahman's words were passionate.

In a sagacious tone of voice Masoud began to speak quietly, "A man once came to The Prophet Salalahu alahi wa Salam(Peace Be Upon Him) and said, "Instruct me as to a deed that is equal to jihad." The Prophet Muhammad Salalahu alahi wa Salam replied, "There is no such deed!" And then added , "While the muslims are on the battle field can you enter your mosques to perform prayers, and fasting without ceasing?
The man then said, ""No one can pray or fast indefinitely? That's impossible!""

"The Prophet Salalahu alahi wa Salam replied," "The Mujahid can!""

"What I am saying my son is that Jihad is greater than both an unceasing fast and an unceasing prayer. We have waited two years to strike the Guggenheim: a few more months won't matter my son. When you take the head of this kafir who calls himself Allah make sure it is on video. Remember, nothing is too hard for a Mujahid my son!"

His father's words were final. Ibn Masoud declared the fatwa, and Abdur Rahman accepted his father's reasoning. After Magrib salat he hugged his father and exited the Masjid to pack for his return flight back to the United States.

Part 2
Abdur Rahman at 25 years of age was an amir(leader) of the Yawmal Kyama Al Qaeda jihadist cell which consisted of six devout muslims, all of whom were fully radicalyzed, all went undetected in day to day American life. At the drop of a hat each member in the terror cell was ready to die mujahidin (martyr) for Islam. When Abdur Rahman told the other members of the cell that his father wanted the head of a Five Percenter named Greatest Praise it wasn't at all what they'd expected to hear. It seemed like a bad move. They were radicalyzed, hardcore Sunnis and considered the Five Percenters harmless, misled kafirs who knew nothing of true Islam. Abdul Khalik, the youngest member of the cell frequently played GhostFace on his I Pod, and loved the 5 Percenter musical flavor but never considered them legitimate scholars of real Islam. It made no sense to the members of the small Al Qaeda terror cell to risk exposure of their elaborate terror network by killing a Five Percenter.

Abdur Rahman in a short bayan (speech) explained his father's fatwa(ruling) and made clear that Jihad is not just against established kafirs such as governments, but against all enemies of Islam; governments; Jews or individual citizens of kafirun countries.

"A kafir is a kafir! And this 5 Percent teaching is 'Bidda' (corrupted Islamic innovation) It's the work of the Shaitan(devil). This Fatwa comes straight from the Imam. During my visit to Yemen he explained that he wants us to take the head of this man!" He said calmly, giving each member of the cell a chance to view the black and white 8' by 11' photo of DaGod Greatest Praise.
Two Days Later:
Parked across the street in a white utility van, two members of the Al Qaeda cell were staked out, watching who went in and who came out of Allah School in Mecca in Harlem. The two muslims waited patiently for nearly a day and a half before they spotted Greatest Praise quickly go in the School by himself and exit the shabby storefront building with a young God who he had been teaching. Greatest Praise and the Young God had arranged to meet at Allah School a day prior in order that the young God could get his next set of lessons.

"Mustafa! Wake up! it's him!" Daud yelled at his muslim brother, clumsily spilling a few drops of hot coffee onto his lap as he looked at the 8 by 11 black and white photo of Greatest Praise to confirm that he was indeed the man in the photo. It was him. "Dammit!" Daud yelled as the hot coffee stained his blue jeans.

Greatest Praise began building with his student outside of Allah's School, talking with hands that seemingly spoke louder than his words. "Ain't no Mystery God young God. The Son of man has been searching for trillions of years and he ain't find not a damn thing. Original people can't afford to sit at home and wait for a damn space cadet Mystery God to bring them food, clothing and shelter Blackman." Greatest Praise's words had a rhythmic flow to them, hypnotizing the teenage boy who was small in stature compared to Greatest Praise. Greatest Praise was a big God, 6 foot 3 inches, two hundred and fifty pounds all of which was solid. He moved furniture for a living and at power cipher years of age, lifting refrigerators, stoves, cabinets and whatnot had become routine. The moving business was his company, it was his own business that he started by himself for his people. Several younger Gods worked part time for him on jobs that required major muscle. Greatest Praise was a convicted felon who did his time and came home, vowing to never go back to prison. Nine years of incarceration taught him what not to do. With the prison gates behind him he declared that he would live Supreme Mathematics out right and exact to it's fullest creed without ever falling victim to the pitfalls of devil civilization ever again.

Part Three:
Daud eye balled him from the driver side window. "How do we grab him? He's a pretty big guy." Mustafa asked. Daud could see the back of Greatest Praise's black jacket with large red lettering from across the street: 'Ninth Jewel Movers: 718 226-3847 and 212-765-4711'.

"Call the number on the back of his jacket." Calmly, Daud ordered Mustafa to make the call. From across the street the two Middle Eastern men, one from Jordan and the other from Najran Saudi Arabia watched Greatest Praise answer his Power He One.

"Peace. Ninth Jewel Movers. Praise speaking. Can I help you?"

When Praise answered the phone Mustafa quickly gave the phone to Daud since he spoke better English. Daud's proper English almost passed for that of an upper crust caucasian.

"Me and my brother need help with a few heavy items. Not a big job, just a few heavy pieces. We have a van, so we don't need a truck. All we need is a helping hand to get a few things in the van." Daud spit the lie in a believable tone of voice in an attempt to rope and bind DaGod Greatest Praise in.

"Where are you located because I have employees all over the city that I can send. We charge $20 dollars per hour for each man but we aren't bonded and can't be held liable for broken or damaged merchandise. But we do a very thorough job." Greatest Praise spoke in a professional tone of voice, briefly turning away from the eager young God he was building with and gave his full attention to the man on the other end of the phone.

"It's a one man job: Five hundred dollars and less than a half hour work." Daud sounded convincing, and power add two sounded good to Praise-Praise bought into Daud's inter-orientation hook line and sinker. Daud's deadly interpretation was put in a mist too fine for Greatest Praise to detect or resist.

"Where are you located?

"Abdul Rahman's Halal Meat Market, 249 Atlantic Avenue. Brooklyn."

Greatest Praise seemingly pulled an ink pen from thin air-a pen he kept nestled between his right ear and his 'Brooklyn' skully. He repeated back the address while writing it down on a pocket size memo pad.

"I can be there in an hour and a half. Who should I ask for?"

"When you get there ask to see Hamza in the back. See you soon." Daud pressed the end button on the phone, immediately throwing the cheap untraceable cell phone out the driver's side window of the white utility van. He then turned on the engine of the van and drove away.

"You gotta know how to make it rain in the desert young God. Draw that Cee Allah Savior He' to yourself and make a way out of no way. I needed five hundred dollars to fix my muffler on the truck and just like that: boom! I get a call to do work. That's what you have to do young God; you got to set up a trading post in the jungles of this continent and make it rain cream. Travel into the unknown with a sense of purpose and direction. This is how we invoke the power of causation in ourselves. I gotta travel young God. This is a copy of the one to fourteens. I want it knowledged in fourteen days: A degree a day." While Greatest Praise was giving orders he took out a xeroxed copy of the one to fourteen which were piss poor in terms of print quality and handed them to the young God as if they were the most valuable nuclear secrets of a foreign government.

No quicker than he could tell the Young God 'Peace', Praise was spending in his mind the five hundred dollars he had yet to earn or hold in his hand. The Ford flat bed truck needed a muffler bad and was quickly becoming the loudest truck in New York and the cash would help him get the truck up and running to do more jobs.

Part Four:
An hour and a half later Greatest Praise arrived at Abdul Rahman's Halal Meat Market on 249 Atlantic Avenue.

"I'm looking for Hamza." Praise asked Sayeed behind the counter.

"He's in the back. Let me buzz you in." Daud pressed the buzzer to open up the door to the room in the back of the butcher shop.

Greatest Praise walked into the room eager to do work but after closing the door behind him Praise was clocked in the back of the head with a pipe by Abdur Rahman. Praise immediately fell to his knees, and was unconscious.

Approximately an hour later he woke up, Hog tied, he had duck tape over his mouth with a black hood over his head. Hamza, Mustafa, Abdul Khalik, Daud, and Sayeed stood behind Praise. They were all clad in black executioner's hoods. Greatest Praise knelt before the video camera set on a tri-pod with his hands and legs tightly bound behind him.

All he could hear was Abdur Rahman's voice reading a letter in Arabic. Daud held the sword over Greatest Praise's head as Abdur Rahman finished reading the letter to the video camera. Daud then pulled the hood off of Greatest Praise's head.

Greatest Praise's eye's wildly began to look around the room, he saw the hooded men, the Arabic sign that read Ash hadu Allah illa ha ill Allah and Ash hadu Anna Muhammad dur rasulula( I bear witness that there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his apostle). It was surreal. Greatest Praise saw the sword that Daud held and his eyes opened bug wide with terror. He grunted through the duck tape around his mouth incoherently. The intense fear caused him to lose his bowels. 'This was all a mistake!' 'Why do these people want to kill me?' Praise frantically thought it may all be a nightmare. Daud began to recite the Fatiha while holding a sword over Greatest Praise's head.

"Bismi Allāhi Ar-Raĥmāni Ar-Rahim Al-Ĥamdu Lillāhi Rabbi alamin Ar-Raĥmāni Ar-Raĥīm Māliki Yawmi Ad-Dīni'Īyāka Na`budu Wa 'Īyāka Nasta`īn Ahdinā Aş-Şirāţa Al-Mustaqīm Şirāţa Al-Ladhīna 'An`amta `Alayhim Ghayril-Maghđūbi `Alayhim Wa Lā Ađ-Đāllīna!


'Will DaGod Greatest Praise live or die?' Tune into the next episode of 'Live By The Sword'

To Be Continued...

Thursday, October 7, 2010

I Cee Today's Mathematicz As God... : Urban Kabbalistic Impressionz

Knowledge Wisdom Cipher, Supreme Math and Supreme Alphabet are one of the most powerful forms of urban Kabbala on the Planet. "Eu means Hillsides and R-O-P-E means the rope to bind in." That definition opens up an esoteric door, allowing the user of knowledge wisdom cipher to view reality in introspective terms. R-O-P-E could signify depression, maybe an unhealthy relationship that impedes growth or something unique that the owner/user of knowledge wisdom cipher may themselves see. Usually your first impression of what a degree may mean holds merit, however the user should be patient for additional stimuli from the environment to confirm initial findings as time passes. Such patience may expand ones point of view. One could feel that he or she may be bound to a situation in R-O-P-E terms and later find that the situational dynamic was indeed necessary to further manifest 'freedom'. How the user of 120 interprets stimuli from the external reality is a manifestation of his or her own definition of what is right(Yo Cee Yo Cee My Cee My Cee). My right angle is my right angle: No two people have the same right angle. "...And Knowing every square inch, has chosen for himself the best part..." my 'best part' is not your 'best part'.

Original Young people in this nation were taught to take this urban Kabbalistic system of 120 undercap in the equality ciphers via memorization by way of repetition and thus the identities/titles of 'God' and 'Earth' were then bestowed upon male and female users of knowledge wisdom cipher, marking the initiates never ending journey into Self discovery-a journey known as knowledge of Self (KOS). This unique system(120) is set in what is described as the 'Wilderness of North America'. The system(120) possesses mental tools, mental weapons, and living equations used for psychological defense and overall well being in the midst of the Jungle way of Life found in the Wilderness of North America. The knowledge knowledge degree in the knowledge to culture the cipher indirectly teaches one to focus on Self sufficiency and not to rely upon a Mystery God for the God, Build and Born Jewelz. The Mystery God mentioned in the knowledge cipher degree can only be described as a mental handicap for the uninitiated-the knowledge culture degree in the knowledge to culture the cipher describes this handicap further as a "mental death and power...." This urbanized kabbalistic system frees the user from the handicap of believing in that which does not exist-not that we teach an atheistic system b.u.t. in that we realize that the Creator(intelligence of Energy matter/Black Mind) dwells inside the Universal dimensions of Creation and is fully realized as the Asiatic Black Man and or Mental supremacy on this physical plane. His life's journey is a perpetual navigation of Himself into Higher Realizations of SELF. 'Then Why Did God Make Devil?'-Shows and proves that even a problematic situation is nothing more than an unconscious extension of what He made in order to show forth Higher and Greater expressions of HIS power. Problems or 'Devils' are brought into existence as a form of pressurized force necessary to yield deeper manifestations of God's Infinite power. Knowledge Wisdom Cipher is one Kabbalistic vehicle as a Hummer is one 'make and model' of a motorized vehicle. The vehicle allows you to navigate Earthly Terrain. I tweaked my kabbalah of knowledge wisdom cipher and customized it with some Quran, sorta like upgrading a V8 engine to a V12, adding more Horesepower or God Power to my esoteric Kabbalistic engine. The points on our flag are similar to cylinders and by the fact that knowledge wisdom cipher sets forth the provision that the user of 120 is mandated as a civilized person to study the science of everything in life, understand that such a provision implies you add on to the kabbalistic foundation of knowledge wisdom cipher: Continuous Growth. One must be careful that the Kabbalistic foundation does not grow a religious mold-'mold' as in fungus: a religious fungus. Every similarity to organized religion that 'NGE' exhibits is a fungus-a very organic outgrowth that can cause sickness.

Knowledge Born in the Supreme Alphabet is Self Saviour which is basically synonymous with Knowledge of Self: to know yourself is to save 'yourself'. Use this Kabbalistic system to save yourself.

In our kabbalah the Black Woman is personified as the Planet Earth, and is the Supreme Mathematical Counterpart to God. She facilitates His coming forth from three stages of darkness as the infinitely energetic Creator manifested into the four dimensional reality of what we know as time and space: Universe; 'World Manifest'. Her womb was and is the place to 'Be' in order to Be Born in this glorious day. The Supreme Alphabetical arrangement is indeed Supreme because it allows the User of this Supreme eight point system to track social behavior and open it up in an esoteric light which presents a clearer vision of the dynamic day to day reality in which we all live.

The Original Man and Original woman personalize knowledge wisdom cipher by forming their own understanding of a degree as they practice applying 120 daily. How you approach 120 should be as original and as individualistic as your finger printz. If you're parroting my or your educator's understanding, such an understanding is not at all original. A parroted understanding is not Original.

I deal with the day's degree-b.u.t. I don't 'all being born it'. What? Am I really suppose to practice 'all being born' because the majority of God's and Earth's deal with abbt? I'm not a parrot and Emblem don't want a cracker. I'm not in a cult and 'we' is not in my supreme alphabet-'I' is in my Supreme Alphabet, meaning 'I' do what 'I' do: 'We' don't do shit. Do 'WE' got money on my bills? Now cipher:I DO!

Understanding is a brightly lit star within the universe-universal in nature and personalized on Earth, such is a truth urging us to truly be 'Original'. There were no first borns named 'Emblem', no one to my knowledge has taken on the attribute 'Emblem' and I am The only one who took on the attribute 'Emblem'(So What! What are you saying Emblem?): I'm saying find your 'finger printz'-that which is originally you. Don't be a robot. Be sure to disagree with the status quo as a technique. Why? Because it allows you to find your own originality. Don't be a 'Yes Man' or a 'Yes Woman' in this culture. I fervently disagree with the dude who oriented me into this culture-fervent disagreement allowed me a deeper glimpses into Self and destroyed the prison house of the 'Pecking Order' in my family tree.

A-alike repel and I'm a firm believer in dismantling 'Eldercentricity'. When a Man is God He Is God, Not Less God Than another God Who has so-called had knowledge longer. The legs of the pedestals that elders in this nation stand on must be smashed and immediately dismantled. I was born into the Asiatic World of the N.O.I. 41 years ago and was oriented as a member of the Gods and Earths 21 years ago, however I have no authority over the growth of another God or Earth b.u.t. I do hold authority over myself. If you find that some of my views are peace-take them and improve upon them and uniquely tailor make your own understanding,and those views you don't dig: fuck it!. I piss on pecking orders because they stifle growth and development. Last year I taught culture individuals and the best part about the way I taught them is that I accented my duty to them in that I took myself off the pedestal before a pedestal could form. I learned to listen more than talk and to neutrally suggest more than direct them to what is right. Why? Because their 'right angle' is what they must find to be 'right' for them. About wisdom years ago I called a former student a fag, a bitch, a pussy, Rhianna, and any other name I could think of. Why? Unconsciously and later consciously I knew the formula was to smash my own pedestal. Bomb your own pedestal. Being God is not a fucking popularity contest. It's about pushing yourself and others to greatness not beating them over the head with eldercentric pedestals. I detest the pedestals in this Nation. I don't give a fuck if you had knowledge before the Father. Your duty is the same: teach 120, supreme math, supreme alphabet and snap your studentz out of 'parrot' mode, even if you gotta push 'em away. This culture is not about standing on pedestals b.u.t. standing on your own.

It's the new understanding that every individual uniquely and innately possesses regarding this kabbalistic system that makes this form of ISLAM powerful. When I first taught B-Magnetic the knowledge degree in the knowledge to knowledge cipher he blasted me with an angle that I've never considered. I love learning angles that I've never seen or heard. Why? Because it allows my understanding to continuously expand. When I was a Young God, Universal God Allah was sitting in a lawn chair in front of Allah School in Mecca and he had a very nasty attitude when I asked him to build with me.

"You little movafuckuz get on my nerves! What chu want to build about?" It was the knowledge knowledge day of a summer month, can't recall which one. I rattled off the knowledge knowledge degree in the 40's like I was saying something fly and he turned to look at these two shortiez wit fat asses walking by the school and he responded to me in a disinterested manner "You gotta get your own understanding young God." He ain't say too much else after that, b.u.t. what I found is the truth in his words. We must urge, and push the young to form, forge and fight to acquire their own understanding and not become NGE Parrots with lazy ass cliche builds. White boyz played basketball in the pros before brothers b.u.t. When niggaz got a hold of the rock we started freakin' that shit. Same thing with the math: Freak that shit Nigga!

At my first Rally I witnessed three distinct Gods building in front of the stage that day: a power rule God from Pelan who was blazing through degreez like fire, Popa Wu and My Enlightener. After seeing all three of them I did a Popa Wu impression-screaming loud as I could at any damn body for the next couple of months because I thought that was effective b.u.t. as I got older in this culture I began to see the beauty of my own original manifestation of the Kabballa of knowledge wisdom cipher, Supreme Math and Supreme Alphabet. What I've learned is to be 'ME' when building, not Popa Wu, not the firey Power Rule God, and not my Enlightener B.U.T. 'ME', my own Original manifestation of who I am: A writer. I'm not a Family Day organizer, nor a Nation of Gods and Earthz event planner(More Power To All Gods and Earthz That get down like that) chances are I'll never come to an NGE event, B.U.T. whatever the fuck I do-my manifestation of the Kabbalistic practice of 120 will forever be Original. These written words are my own and my very Unique Understanding. They are an original expression of I God CULTURE and How I Cee and live out Living Mathematics.

Your understanding should be originally your own, similar to how you can't tell someone how to raise their children-you cannot tell someone how to understand something. Your understanding should evolve into a universal vision(or maybe not). Enlighteners or Educators should not define a students understanding, they should encourage said student to get their own understanding. You can warn the wicked to save his life but if the wicked beats your ass with a golf club-shut da fuck up! You gotta go through your own hell to find what's 'right' for you. An elder God once told me I disapointed him. Eventually I learned not to give a fuck about what da fuck anyone thinks or feels about me. I'm not running a fuckin' democracy for the decisions in my life-don't give another movafucka say over your life: That's bad chess! If you disappoint someone in this math that individual is holding you to a prison house standard of development. Use this urbanized kabbalah of knowledge wisdom cipher, Supreme Math and Supreme Alphabet in accordance with your own standard, don't build a prison house to meet someone else's standard. Fuck that!


Saturday, October 2, 2010

EMBLEM a.k.a. The Black Sherlock Holmes: 'The Mystery of Dumb Becky's Tattoo'

After eating a pound of raw garlic, drinking a gallon of apple cider vinegar, lemon juice, and distilled water laced with cayenne pepper my blood pressure was still higher than a giraffe's ass. As physical of a person as I am and as much as I work out I just knew I could knock high blood pressure around like Floyd did Sugar Shane, but despite my best efforts my blood pressure still looks like a solar fact. Fuck that, Emblem ain't stroking out, or going to join the Father in that great Allah School in the Sky anytime soon. I'm a mean movafucka, and I won't give my enemies the satisfaction of dying first. A God once told me he wasn't coming to my funeral. I guess he said it to hurt me. I'm hard to hurt. A movafucka such as myself will take four punches to land one. After he said that shit, I thought to myself 'Who da fuck said the prescribed law of Islam is for me to die first? I'm not da one that gotta stress out, paying child support til I'm 70!' A movafucka ain't gonna out 'live' or out 'evil' me-I'd take a shit in a nigga'z casket to win a spite contest and if da nigga gets cremated I'd piss in the ashes in da movafuckin' urn, and make piss tea to serve at his wake. What the fuck is this blog about again? Oh! 'The Mystery Of Dumb Becky's Tattoo'-I digress: writing about shitting in caskets and shit!

So I went to the emergency room for my hypertension to get a prescription and while I was in the emergency room I start playing Black Sherlock Holmes. It's a game I play in crowds, I refuse to be in crowds looking at my phone. You ever notice everybody twittles their thumbs on their phone in public now-a-day? Don't believe me? Go to a public place and do the knowledge. The new public posture is to look down at a phone and literally twittle your thumbs. Fuck that! Since I got knowledge wisdom cipher on cap I have been doing the knowledge like a movafuckin' hawk and about knowledge born years ago I read all of Sir Author Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes' cases, and from then forward I've considered myself an astute 'Sherlockian'. I dig logic. I credit my love of logic for identifying that 'All Being Born' is inherently flawed and in no way constitutes as a legitimate mathematical system. What the fuck is this blog about again? Oh! 'The Mystery Of Dumb Becky's Tattoo'-I digress: writting about movafuckuz on smart phones and Sherlock Holmes and shit!

So I'm in the Emergency room and a white lady is behind the intake window. She was wearing gold framed glasses, nice earings, chewing gum like a fat ass white ghetto cow and had 'Big D & Lil D' in a heart tattooed on her forearm.

"What's the problem sir!" she asked me.
"My blood pressure high. I need meds!" Was my response. In the intonation of her voice I heard deep nigga origins. Though she was white her disposition, expressions and mannerism told the story: She loves niggaz or at least 'Nigga dick'. In this part of the country this type of white women is classified as a 'Dumb Becky'-she's the type of white bitch that will raise a nigga bail before a black mother can say "My baby ain't done nuffin' officer-not my baby!" Not that black women can't raise bail money, but a dickmatized Dumb Becky will get a gat and stick up a convience store to bail her nigga out of county lock up before the ink dries on his arrest warrant.

My Sherlockian insight was roaming like AT&T 4G coverage and I further inferred that the Dumb Becky behind the emergency room glass had a 'Playstation 3 Nigga' at home, lamping at the crib on a pleather sofa in his boxers, listening to Gucci Mane, smoking the weed from the ounce he has so-called been trying to 'flip'. My guess is-is that him and his playstation 3 buddies will smoke all the treez before the ounce of treez can make one somersault. Or maybe the cops will kick in the door: whatever comes first!

I answered Dumb Becky's intake questions and she typed my address, phone number, social security number and other info into the computer. During the silence between her questions, while she was typing I noticed through the emergency room's glass window a framed picture of her and Tyrese (the nigga that played Jodie in Baby Boy). At second glance-it wasn't Tyrese-just a big headed knowledge seed nigga cheesing with a big ass 'save all the brown babies' smile on his face. The inter-racial couple in the picture was holding a baby boy the same complexion as President Obama. The mixed baby had 'good hair'- maybe that'z why Tyrese was in the pic cheesing wit da shit eatin grin. "Hey Harpo! My son got good hair!" Imagine Tyrese sounding like Ms Sophia in 'The Color Purple'-(You have to be in my warped ass imagination to get it).

Shit! How could I not have logically deduced the half original rug rat before I noticed the framed pic? "You slippin' Em!" I mumbled under my breath. So I look around and saw Dumb Becky's fake ass Louie Vuitton purse off to the side of the framed family picture. I close my eyes and turn my third eye on to 'high beam'. My question to myself was: what are the contents of Dumb Becky's fake LV purse? In my third eye I saw a Drake CD; Pussy deoderant; a pad; a Pack of Newports and some kind of an antibiotic. Her lips and teeth told me three things, first: she's a smoker-I gathered that from her tarter yellow smile. Secondly: I deduced that her cigarette brand of choice wasn't Marlboro or Camels but Newports! Why? Because she's studying from 35 to 50 years to learn and do like an ignorant nigga so I was 99.9 percent sure there was a pack of ports in her purse. Thirdly: from the size and redness of the bump forming on the upper left side of her top lip it was obvious that her and Jodie have been ping ponging some sort of sleezy, stray alley cat STD back and forth and thus I deduced there was probably some type of topical ointment or antibiotic in the fake Louie. Generally, I was calling the dude in the framed picture 'Jodie' because in the pic he looks like Tyrese-but what is his real name? "Do the knowledge Emblem! Think!" I mumbled as my Sherlockian senses started to tingle.

My first and only clue was the fact that her tattoo read 'Big D & Lil-D'.

"What does the 'D' stand for?" I asked myself.

I pick up the dice in the Vegas casino in my mind and I throw them onto the crap table of the unknown . I open my eyes, switch my third eye back to medium from high and I asked her, "Is that my nigga Devante in the picture?"

She smiled, showing her tarter yellow teeth and asked "Where you know D from?"

My guess was-is that the half original baby's name is also 'Devante'-Devante junior hence the nick names in the tattoo on Dumb Becky's forearm: 'Big D and Lil D'.

"Elementary My Dear Watson- Elementary!"