The Court Room Testimony Of Zahir 'Zafir' Ibn Mutalib: A 'Philly' Muslim

Docket# 318-64 Case #Phi-36529 a-4

The State of Pennsylvania
vs.
Zahir 'Zafir' Ibn Mutalib

When he was sworn in to testify the Bailiff exchanged the Bible for a Holy Quran for him to put his hand on.

"I, Zahir Ibn Mutalib swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God?" Zahir said repeating after the bailiff.

"You may be seated." The judge stated.

Her conservative, dark blue, pin stripped skirt suit that rode just above the knee was sexy-but lawyerly. However, the skirt wasn't sexy enough to win what seemed an unwinnable case. No jury would let him off. Attorney Alexander told Zahir Ibn Mutalib it would be in his best interest to enter an insanity plea, and let the doctors, lawyers, the jury and the judge decide . Zahir insisted on taking the stand and telling his side of the story-a story that made the jaws of the jurors drop.

"Mr. Mutalib describe for the court, the events that transpired on the night of November 15th 1991."


"Pogo was telling me, you gotta lock the dice in your palm when you throw 'em. Boom said if you throw the dice at an angle and from a certain height you'll hit your point everytime providing you hold the dice on the number opposite of the point you're trying to hit. As I was shooting dice I was fully aware that maisir (gambling) was unlawful. Maisir is forbidden in Islam. We were all in the room getting high, playing a friendly game of dice with the strippers and one stripper rolled a '2', '3', '4','5','6','7','8',9','10','11' and a '12 in numerical sequence. I had never seen anyone do that. That's when I knew for sure that jinn were in the room."

"And Mr. Mutalib what are 'Jinn'?" His defense attorney asked.

"Jinn are beings created by Allah and Allah has created them from smokeless fire. Jinns are kinda like ghost. My father told me that some jinn can manipulate and entice an individual's 'naffs'-"

"Mr. Mutalib can you explain to the court what 'naffs' are."

"Bad habits like drinking, smoking', drugs, gambling and stuff like that. They are my personal sins. These are the problems that can cause a good muslim to become a bad muslim. Naffs cause fitna and 'fitna' is confusion. This whole trial is because of my own internal fitna. Back then in the early 90's I had a lot of naffs and Allah Subhannu Watallah has since helped me overcome these naffs which were at the time leading me to torment in the grave and to the hell fire after I die. I needed to get myself right in the eyes of Allah Subhannu Wattallah. My father's been telling me stories about torment in the grave since I was a baby but I was hard-headed and wanted dunya(worldy pleasures), instead of jannat(paradise in the after life)."

"A few months prior to November 15th 1991 a jinn whispered in my ear and convinced me to stop making salat. So when my prayers stopped I mentally broke down-things went from bad to worse. Allah Subhannu Watallah doesn't need my Salat. The human being needs to make salat to glorify Allah and to maintain his or her spiritual hygiene. When I stopped offering salat I became susceptible to the 'wass wass' which is the 'whispering' of Shaitan."

After the stripper rolled the dice and the jinni made the dice fall in numerical order I freaked out. We all were high when she did it but I was high outta my mind. The fact is-I was so high I could see jinn all around the room. Me, Boom and Pogo had planned to trick an ounce of coke on three strippers from West Philly and have the party back at Boom's crib. The chicks brought a gang of jinn with 'em. The jinn were coming through the walls, and floating through the roof and coming out of the floor. The Jinn told me they were all a family. A big family of jinn-can you believe that?!"

"Mr. Mutalib could anyone else in the room see the 'jinn' besides you?"

"No. But I saw what the jinn were doing to the people at the party. To the best of my knowledge I was the only one who could both see and hear the jinn. By the time I found out that the marijuana was laced, the coke had me stuck in this weird head space. I was somewhere between horny, angry, and paranoid. Strangely, I was hearing my own thoughts in my head crystal clear. It was as if my inner hearing had become super sonic. That night I didn't trust anyone. My mind turned everything into a believable conspiracy. I could see each one of 'the jinn. They looked greasy purple and had blood shot red eyes. They played tricks on my mind and entered into my body like wisping demons made of smoke. While they were in my body-they caused me to freak out and murder the stripper."

"After I killed the girl, Pogo left immediately and Boom was screaming in my face. Boom has always looked like a dog, ever since he was a little boy. He got his name after Mr. Wade's dead dog, 'Boom'. Melvin looked exactly like the dog, so we started callin Melvin 'New Boom' and by the time we were in High School, just 'Boom'."

"Boom was barking in my face like a big mean black dog. I couldn't hear anything he was saying. The laced weed had me lost in my own world. It was November '91, about a week after Magic announced to the world that he had HIV. Magic's announcement scared me. Magic was my favorite player and I was depressed for an entire week after his announcement. If someone told a joke about Magic I was ready to fight. People say I look like Magic and when I play ball I mimic his every move. Though I lived in 76er land I was a Laker fan to my heart. I loved Doctor J, but I just have always had a sincere love for the Lakers. I couldn't imagine Magic dying-so, I became very depressed."

"When celebrity bad news impacts you to the point of depression- you begin to wonder if you have a firm grip on reality. Magic don't know me from Adam and I was in mourning? Magic's disease had something to do with setting me off. Later that night I emptied the clip in the strippers face. At the time none of us knew the weed was laced. The coke made my heart race and to make matters worse I was drinking Henessey straight. The Jinn told me that Carlos had sent the women to kill me, Pogo and Boom. Carlos was cool and he always sent tight bitches: excuse me". Mutalib looked at the judge quickly with eyes that apologized for the inadvertent slip of a cuss word."

"Carlos always sent nice looking' women our way but that night jinns were whispering in my mind confusing me. I had never met any of the ladies before but the weed laced with PCP made me distrust every single woman in the room and I didn't even know any of the ladies personally. Between the laced weed, the raw coke, Henessey straight and the fact that the Shaitan sent his Shaiteen to whisper at me-it caused me to have a chemical and spiritual melt down. The Jinns were yelling at me, telling me to kill the snake. The PCP made the stripper turn into a snake: it was the most vivid view of reality I've ever seen. A purple Jinn walked up to me and told me to put my 45 caliber in the girl's face. The gun caught her attention while she was dancing and I squeezed and kept pulling the trigger: bullet after bullet, after bullet entered her head. The PCP had me so out of my mind that after the last shot another purple jinn wearing a suit and tie walked up and stood next to me and told me a joke about Donald Duck while Boom was yelling in my face."

"The weed is laced. The weed is laced. The weed is laced. The weed is laced!!!!" Boom said up close in my face . Boom screamed at me very loudly but I was still in a trance listening to this jinni wearing the suit, talking about Donald Duck."

I was laughing at the story the Jinni was telling me about Donald Duck and after Boom finished screaming, he punched me in my face hard, knocking out my two front teeth. The PCP and coke had me so high that even after Boom punched me I was still laughing at the Jinni's story. A tooth had cut through my top lip. One of the knocked out teeth was firmly lodged in my top lip meat. Boom was on the ground holding me, screaming, "Why'd you do that Zahir? Why'd you do it?"

The other two strippers became hysterical after I shot their friend. One urinated on herself while running for the apartment door. I remember thinking that the stream of urine running down her legs and thighs looked like a skinny gold snake wrapping around her leg. The two strippers ran out into Boom's hallway. In the midst of all the commotion I was paying attention to the story the Jinn was telling me about Donald Duck bucking' up to go kill Daffy Duck over duck shit. Excuse my language Your Honor. The Jinn had me laughing really hard. It felt like I was looking at a high definition television in my head. The PCP in the weed allowed me to hear and see both Daffy and Donald really clear. The coke we were snorting made the bad trip worse. Both the ducks in my mind started shooting at each other and I found myself in the middle of a really violent cartoon. I was physically ducking to get out of the way of the imaginary bullets that the ducks were shooting.

After Boom knocked out my two front teeth my blood was dripping all over the floor. When the jinn finished his duck joke he told me I was going to rot in hell. That's when I saw the death angel come and violently rip the stripper's ru (soul) out of her back. My faith in the reality of Allah and the truth of the Holy Quran became 100 percent when I saw all of this. Yes, I pulled the trigger, but the jinni made me do it. Blood from my mouth was mixing with the dead stripper's blood. I knew then that-that meant we were both going to have to deal with being tormented in the grave and we'll probably both be condemned to the hell fire when we die. Allah ul ilam(Only God Knows)!"

"Parts blown from Adrienne Johnson's face caused her head to appear to have holes in it-it did have holes but in my mind the holes were similar to that of swiss cheese. It was surreal-I murdered an innocent human being. This girl was a stripper striving to make a few dollars for whatever reason and the Jinns that worked for the Shaitan whispered in my head and made me kill her. It's not fair that I'm being prosecuted. Yes, I pulled the trigger but the jinn spoken of in the Holy Quran were in control of my mind. If I would have kept up with my salat I would have had Allah's protection from going majnun(crazy).

The prosecutor didn't object or bat an eye. Zahir sounded like an idiot to the jury. The prosecutor kept his head down taking notes of Zafir's testimony.

"Three weeks later I was found wandering around Center City Philadelphia looking completely crazy. I looked like a dirty, homeless person. I didn't remember who I was until I snapped outta the PCP trip a month after they picked me up.
That's when they started me on psyche meds. I don't know what kind of meds exactly but whatever it was didn't stop me from seeing the jinns."

"My clothes were dirty-in a few weeks I went from a rather sharp dresser to a schizophrenic bum mumbling at jinn on the streets of Center City Philadelphia. My mama suffered from schizophrenia and that's why my father divorced her and fought to get custody of me and my brothers and sisters."

"Mr Mutalib when did you wake up or snap out of this alleged mental breakdown and did you at anytime recall that you murdered Adrienne Johnson in cold blood just two month prior?" The prosecutor was smooth in his line of questioning.


"The smell of my own defecation made people walking past me on the street get outta my way. For three weeks I had been going to the bathroom on myself. My own funk was so foul it snapped me back from the PCP trip. My two teeth were gone, and I was severely dehydrated when they put me in the ambulance. My clothes were funky, my hair had grew wild and I was babbling like a fool to the jinns. Me and the Jinns were playing a game of tag. The object of our game was to roll on the ground and tag each other. My memory is clear, and not at all spotty. I could see and hear those jinn that day as sure as you are standing in front of me now sir. I couldn't remember all of what I did or everywhere I had been for many of those days but I know that the jinn were real and it is the Jinn that are the ones to blame for the death of Ms. Adrienne Johnson: the stripper. Not me! The Jinn controlled me like a puppet. When the psychiatric people came to get me I was laying on Broad Street, rolling around in the middle of the street trying to tag the jinn because I was 'it'.

Next thing I know I was on a psyche Ward in Hahnemann Hospital. When they picked me up I was so filthy that the cops waited for an ambulance. They refused to touch me because I was very dirty. The cops didn't recognize me from the artists' sketch of the stripper's murderer that was posted in the Philadelphia Daily Newspaper a few days after the murder. I had grown a wild thick beard and looked completely majnun(crazy). "

"On the psyche ward I told the Doctors and Nurses that my name was Max Dasher and I was sent here to Earth to kill the whore who gave Magic Johnson HIV and avenge the death of Daffy Duck at the hands of Donald. The side effects of PCP gave me the mentality of a 6 year old living in a play world. Regardless of the meds I kept playing tag with the jinn. I still see 'em. There goes one right there standing next to the bailiff. I see you!". Zahir said pointing to an empty corner in the courtroom.

"Your honor the defense request a recess. My client is clearly tired and becoming delusional."

"Recess granted. Court is adjourned until 9 a.m. Monday morning."

The weekend was long, but Zahir's story was just as strange when he resumed his testimony Monday morning.

"There was no I.D on me when they picked me up, so on the psyche ward I was known as John Doe. While on the ward I threw feces on a Black male nurse named Big Mike. I meant to hit one of the jinns I was playing tag with but I hit Mike instead. Big Mike was rather upset and chased me down and beat me up really bad. He beat me so bad I remember screaming "Don't beat me daddy! Don't beat me". I cried like a two year old child. After Mike beat me he fed me my own defecation piece by piece."

"Two months later I recovered my mental faculties but I was still seeing jinn.Though I was seeing Jinn, I managed to remember that my name was Zahir Ibn Mutalib and that my father's an Imam in West Philly. The meds were making me better. Until I shot that stripper in the face I was sort of a wannabe neighborhood drug kingpin and Boom was my right-hand man. $4500 dollars was all that our little cocaine drug cartel was worth but in our minds we were destined to be kingpins. But at that point I just wanted my mind back. Though I remembered my name I was still seeing jinn and murdering the stripper didn't seem real-it was like a dream."

"Before I was admitted to the hospital they took my prints and nothing came back, and before I was discharged they ran my name for warrants and again-nothing came back. I was released from the hospital with enough bus fare to catch SEPTA home."

"Wearing nothing but thin hospital scrubs, a pair of old man shoes, and an old green corderoy suit jacket to keep the January cold air from killing me I made it back home. My father opened the door.

"Salaam Alaikum and where the hell have you been?" He asked.

The rest of this testimony has been redacted at the request of the defendant's attorney because the State is seeking the death penalty.
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Sealed by
Megan Jefferson
Court Clerk

Die By The Sword: Praise Does Oprah

"Over the past three months his story has captivated the world. He made a statement on Youtube claiming to be Allah and soon found himself the target of a beheading by Islamic extremist. He's a wanted man who's now on the hit-list of the terrorist group Al-Qaeda. Not overseas: but right here in America. Today my guest is Greatest Praise Allaaahhhhhh!" Oprah yelled at her studio audience and the studio audience cheered back. "Not only that but today I'm honored to have one of the greatest actors of our time who will be staring in the upcoming movie 'Back Against The Wall'. Where he will portray Greatest Praise Allah. Denzel Washingtonnnnnn!!!! Stay tuned we'll be right back."

Backstage they were dabbing make-up on Praise's face, making sure his mic was working and telling him to relax. Praise was calm. He was ready. Oprah was the Mount Everest of media. He was already a household name but being a guest on Oprah would launch Praise to icon status.

"We're on!" the producer's voice came over the studio's speakers.
Camera 2 zooms in on Oprah-Oprah looks into the camera with a serious look on her face and begins to speak.

"Imagine waking up with terrorist standing around you prepared to behead you-and imagine living to tell about it!" Oprah's voice was strong and firm. But just maybe her voice contained a subtle hypnotic suggestion? A hypnotic suggestion that said, 'cry'.

DaGod didn't know what had come over him. He started to distill on the couch across from Oprah before Oprah could ask her first question. What the fuck was going on? He was sitting across from Oprah crying like a little bitch. Not only had the Queen of American media made Mike Tyson cry but now DaGod Praise was distilling back to Earth in the form of drops of water.

"What happened?" Oprah asked with serious eyes that cut to Praise's core.

"I'm-I'm-I'm-not a muslim. I'm-I'm-I'm a Five Percenter and-and-and Al-Qaeda wanted to cut my head off and I defecated on myself." DaGod sounded like a blubbering idiot. She was giving him tissues and he was wiping his wet eyes and blowing his nose, trying to get a grip. She reached out and gently placed her hand on his thigh to console Praise, but he was still sniffling snot like a nine year old who had scraped his knee.

The audience was pindrop quiet while Greatest Praise got himself together.

"I'd like to thank my fellow Americans for their letters of support. There's no greater people on Earth!"

The Gods watching the show in Allah School in Mecca looked at each other like Praise had lost his fucking mind. Maybe he had: lost his mind. After all he had a Hanes Underwear commercial with Michael Jordan; A Gatorade Commercial where he kung Fu'd seven terrorist and took a sip of Gatorade afterward; and a McDonald's commercial where he bit into a McRib sandwhich with a smile and said, "When your out saving America you tend to work up an appetite and absolutely nothing hits the spot like the McRib sandwhich at McDonald's"

Eating the McRib was the last straw. The Gods printed up tee-shirts with a picture of Praise biting into the McRib and above Praise's picture, a caption read 'This Nigga Has Sold Da Fuck Out!' NGE sold the tee-shirts at Rallies, Parliaments and Family day gatherings. Praise hadn't donated one dime to Allah School. His popularity ratings amongst Asiatics were lower than Obama's popularity ratings amongst the Tea Party-particularly after he bit into that McRib sandwich. Praise said "Fuck it!" and for the price of ten million dollars he bit into that movafuckin' McRib sandwich like a goddamn pitbull. And he did it with a smile.

"You know Oprah, while I was doing the movie with 'Zel' I found it to be therapeutic-just being on the set as a consultant gave me great respect for the craft of acting. We've actually been talking about working together on another movie in the future."

"Praise! Praise! Praise!! Wake up-you gonna be late for work." His Earth Priceless yelled, walking from the bedroom to the living room where he was sleep on the couch.

Praise woke up, wiping crust out of his eyes, speaking jibberish, "I was on Oprah with Denzel-'Zel' was playing me in a movie called 'Back Against The Wall'. The Gods and Earths were mad at me cause I ate a McRib. I had a Gatorade commercial with Jordan cause I killed a bunch of terrorist. I was an Asiatic American Hero. A white lady gave me a million dollars to be my agent. A muslim from overseas wanted to cut my head off, a black ass African from Rwanda wanted to kill me. It was crazy. There was a white guy who knew 120. Even my brother Moteef was still alive. I couldn't believe it-the shit seemed so real Queen. I was even on CNN giving a press conference. The shit was so damn real! "

"You know what's real God? The light bill! After you wake up from Mystery God dream land-please go get that extention on the light bill when you get off of work today. We need that extention Praise. I told you about falling asleep in front of that damn TV!"

Praise angrily put his head back on the couch and mumbled under his breath, "Ain't dis a bitch! None of that shit was real!"

And DaGod Woke Up.

The End

Die By The Sword: The Meditation Of A Heroin Nod

At sixteen Moteef fell into the abyss of his first heroin nod. He nodded off for nearly an hour with his eyes wide open, slobbering and drooling over the 'Stock' section of a week old Wall Street journal. In the mist of that heroin nod the symbols and the numbers began to make sense. It was a eureka moment-an intuitive light came on in his mind. Unlike most dopefiends, Moteef had a plan: when he wasn't shooting heroin in his arm he studied the New York Stock exchange and NASDAQ in depth, discovering the underlying principles of how financial markets worked in concert . He was the first nigga to figure out who the fuck Dow Jones was. After reading dozens of books and after multiple needle marks in his arm he learned to play the market like Coltrane played his horn-masterfully. Yes, he was a junkie and he accepted that fact-but he vowed not to be a stereotypical junkie. At a young age he understood one thing about life: 'man must serve God'. Unlike his younger brother Ricky who changed his name to 'Greatest Praise Allah' and began to call himself God, Moteef chose another spiritual path: heroin. Heroin was his God-he freely and openly admitted that truth to himself. Like all Gods-heroin needed to be praised and Moteef swore an oath to praise his God faithfully. He paid tithes to his God by making a fortune playing the market. He could afford to shoot his God in his arm religiously-filling himself with the holy ghost daily. Moteef became very wealthy from playing the Market, purchasing a lavish home in Delaware where he comfortably shot up heroin in a luxurious hot tub filled with bubbles. Usually he found himself nodding in front of the huge flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The tub was his sacred sanctuary where he exclusively watched cable shows that dealt with the stock market or business.

That day finding a vein was torture on Moteef's mind. He was trying to shoot his breakfast in his arm. With his pointer and index finger standing side by side like two best friends he tapped the upper part of his forearm violently. Still no vein. Knowledge seed niggas make the worst dopefiends because they're black asses can never find a fat enough vein to shoot dope in, especially those niggaz that have shot as much dope as Moteef. His veins hid like scared prisoners afraid of getting shanked.

Moteef was watching CNN while preparing his 'works': heating the dope on a spoon; and kissing the heated dope with the syringe. With an old belt tied around his arm tightly he finally isolated a viable vein. But what he saw on TV made him put his morning prayer nod on pause. Why? Because his little brother's press conference was on CNN. His little brother Praise was answering questions like he was Obama-fielding questions from newspaper journalist and TV reporters-calling on them one at a time as they raised their hands.

'The little nigga use to pee in the bed' Moteef thought-now he had microphones from every major network and daily newspaper in the country hanging on his every word. Even the BBC had a microphone in his face. Moteef couldn't believe it. He thought that he was dreaming. But he wasn't: "It's Ricky! What da fuck!?!" He said to himself with a heroin filled syringe poised to be stuck in his arm.

"Bitch! Bitch! Come here!" Look at this shit!! It's Ricky! That's Ricky!" Moteef screamed for Kitta to come into the luxurious bedroom where the gaudy tub sat in the middle of the bedroom like a swimming pool. Kitta had been Moteef's girlfriend for over 20 years. They met in rehab. Moteef wasn't following the rules of his Heroin religion and briefly fell off in the late 80's when family checked him into an upstate rehab facility kicking and screaming. Meeting Kitta in rehab was 'love at first sight'. They were in the same support group-where they had fallen in love and learned to 'accept the things that they could not change'. So Moteef accepted what he could not change: heroin was his God and he could not and would not change that. Ever!

"My name is Moteef and I'm a drug addict!" Those were his first words to Kitta.

"My name is Kitta and I'm a crack cocaine addict and an alcoholic. Pleased to meet you!" That was her response to Moteef nearly 25 years ago. Now, here she was, rushing into the room like there was a fire. Kitta was a hyper crackhead who was in the middle of smoking crack when Moteef interrupted her blast.

Kitta had the most expensive weave of any crackhead since Whitney Houston. But before she met 'Teef' all she had was a little piece of pony tail tied with a rubber band in the back of her head. Just a neighborhood crackhead giving head for rock. Her life was a crackhead's nightmare before she met Moteef. For a dopefiend 'Teef' had it all together. His recursive personal formula was 'to serve thy God Heroin by simply being able to afford thy lord'.

When he called her to come see his brother Praise-his voice scared her so much so that her weave damn near untied itself from her tracks and stood up and pointed to the ceiling-startled to the point that she almost dropped her glass crack pipe that she grumbled, "Why do you do that!! You know I got a bad heart 'Teef!!" Both in their 50's and though she fussed a whole lot and Teef called her 'bitch' like it was her first name-they were still young lovers at heart. She hymmed and hawed in agitation while flicking the lighter that refused to produce a flame at the crack-pipe's tip. The lighter was out of butane. "Shit!" she mumbled under her breath. He had trouble finding a vein and she was out of lighter fluid-such are the pet peeves of dopefiends. Kitta had smoked crack so much that she was down to her last nerve. Literally.

"Look! That's Ricky on TV!! Look!" Moteef continued with surprise resonating in his voice as she entered the room. He didn't call his brother 'Greatest Praise Allah'.

"My mama named da nigga Ricky-Ima call da nigga 'Ricky'!" Is how Moteef answered people who questioned why his brother changed his name to 'Greatest Praise Allah'.

"It is him! It is him!! What happened?!?!" Kitta asked.

"Sh-Shh-shhh. Be quiet bitch! I can't hear!"Moteef harshly reprimanded Kitta.

"Diane Rollins: MSNBC-Do you know why you were singled out by Al-Qaeda?"

"Theological differences. Members of Al-Qaeda follow the Sunnah or way of the Prophet Muhammmad and I'm a Five Percenter-Five Percenters don't follow Muhammad per se. Three weeks prior to me being kidnapped I had made a statement on Youtube pertaining to the fact that the Black Man is Allah. Apparently an Imam by the name of Imam Abdul Ibn Masoud from Yemen somehow got wind of that Youtube footage and a fatwa was then issued by Abdul Ibn Masoud." Praise was suprisingly articulent, shocking federal authorities and news reporters. He spoke like he held a political office-holding back and refraining from street slang with ease. He sounded just as professional as a nightly news anchor.

"Jonathan O'Brien-Fox News. How did they kidnapp you?"

"They called my place of business. Told me they were interested in having some work done. I responded to their request. Went to the halal meet market in Brooklyn, and was lured to the back of the market where I was then knocked unconscious and tied up. When I had awakened a man was reading an Arabic letter into a video camera. Basically I had woke up into what can only be described as a living nightmare. Five guys in black hoods were standing behind me. One of them was holding a sword ready to behead me. I was absolutely terrorified."

"Jane Dolan: Washington Post:" Mr. Praise How did you escape?" At that moment a tall, professionally dressed middle aged white woman with blond hair stepped in front of Praise and put her hands over an array of microphones and whispered in Praise's right ear.

"My name is Francesca Styles Mr. Praise. I represent Bruenstein, Hyman and Bloomingthal: a law firm, slash Public relations firm. I have a Cashier's check in the amount of one million dollars in exchange for the exclusive rights to the story of your ordeal with Al-Qaeda. We promise a best selling book, a full length feature film with a major movie studio. Endorsements-you name it-we can milk this 'Asiatic American Hero' thing for all it's worth and make you a very wealthy man in the process Mr. Praise. We can put all this in motion as soon as possible, providing you agree to our contractual terms." The blue eyed, blond hair white bitch meant business. And her breath was as hot on his earlobe as the money she had in her hand. Praise could tell she was dead serious.

Greatest Praise picked up on her vibe instantly. The white bitch was making an interpretation of more gold. Falling victim to the promise of 'more gold' is what almost got his head cut off the first time. But this time the Bitch had a check in her hand instead of a sword. Fuck it! He took what was behind door number two. The white bitch essentially said, "Let's make a deal and asked him "Do you want to be a millionaire?" Praise without hesitation answered, "Emphatically Y equal Self!"

After her whispering discourse, Praise grabbed the mic, "I can't go into details at this time at the advise of council." Praise spoke those words immediately after Francesca's million dollar proposal.

Francesca Styles was a corporate attorney and immediately moved Greatest Praise from one tax bracket to another. Praise was introduced to her assistant: Kyle Weinberg- who was about to become Praise's best friend. He was a public relations spin doctor; a young jew white boy who understood the art of making a celebrity and best of all-he worshipped money.

"For legal reasons and for the safety of this very important American Hero we feel that it would not be in the best interest of my client, Greatest Praise Allah to go into detail about his heralding ordeal at this time. Thank You! "

In less than two minutes the Press Conference was over and in the next 20 minutes Greatest Praise Allah had robo signed 40 legal documents back stage and received a check in the amount of one million dollars. He was now a client of Bruenstein, Hyman and Bloomingthal. The firm was armed with the exclusive rights of Praise's ordeal-they would market him to the American public one movie; one book; one McDonald's commercial and one Nike commerical at a time. Madison Avenue had come strong with cash in hand, telling Praise 'More Gold' was coming.

After the press conference CNN went to commercial and Moteef plunged the syringe in his arm. When the heroin hit his blood stream Moteef floated into a place of esoteric enlightenment; a place that made his balls tingle: it was the refuge and sanctuary of a dopefiend's nod. It was Moteef's favorite corner in the entire universe, a place where he could view life like Coltrane viewed musical notes.

In Moteef's heroin stupor he could see all the angles that surrounded his little brother Ricky-and he drew up his brother's cipher like he forecasted the performance of a stock. Though he was an eighty five dopefiend-he wasn't your average eighty five dopefiend. Moteef found his brilliance in the fine mist of a heroin nod. When he got high he saw all the angles.

"Those white movafuckuz are preparing to pimp my little brother." He mumbled to himself in the mist of his heroin nod.

It didn't take a genuis to see that Praise was about to be pimped-or maybe it did: Moteef was indeed that genius.

To be continued...