The
True History of Da God Ghengis And Right Add’s Prayer For The Fifth Bullet:
Part One
Me and this nigga Be God have been
building, blazing equality, and sometime snortin’ understanding in the front
seat of cee Allah rules for years and I know this nigga well enough to know
what that look in his eyes means. I know exactly what it is. Here it comes. He
is about to start reminiscing about the first time he met my brother Ghengis.
“I can’t tell you enough about how your
physical brother is standing strong for this Nation in the injustice God. The
first thing your brother ever said to me was that Knowledge is the essence of
all things. Your physical ain’t like these other niggaz who spew mindless
cliché’s in regard to this math. Half of them don’t know what they mean when
they say Knowledge is the foundation to all things in existence yada yada yada.
Your brother summed it up perfectly, ‘Knowledge is the essence of all things’.
Your brother would have the whole cipher captivated Lord. He’d ask every single
one of us, ‘What is knowledge?’ He use to say that there is nothing in
Webster’s that would be satisfactory enough to sufficiently lend us an exact
definition of knowledge. If we are to draw meaning from the word ‘Knowledge’ we
must find an adequate material conception of ‘Knowledge’. The numerical value
of ‘one’ efficiently describes the nature of Knowledge. And this is why ‘one’
is symbolic to knowledge. Right Add-yo God-your brother use to be dropping mad
jewels in the cipher Lord.” Be said, his eyes off in a distant stare. “Yo I
went to see your brother last month. Da nigga had an I Phone in the Visitors
Room. Three C. O’s in the room, all of ‘em acting like they’re blind and deaf
and can’t see or hear this nigga Ghengis talkin’ on the power he one. He was
loud as fuck and whoever it was that he was talking to he was cussing them out.
I was sitting there trippin’ because this nigga is in the penitentiary with an
I Phone bold as hell and the correctional officers ain’t saying shit. The big
ass sign on the wall was clear as day: Absolutely No Cell Phones.” Be God
reported, shaking his head with a proud smirk of disbelief on his face as he
recalled the memory. “You should go visit your brother God. Ghengis would love
to see you Gee” Be God finished.
It never fails, every time me and Be God
build, he brings up my brother Ghengis—half brother: different fathers, same ole
Earth. My ole dad was Puerto Rican and Ghengis’ ole dad was some crispy black
Haitian movafucka named Jean Pierre. I hate my brother. I’ve never told anyone
this, but I absolutely hate my brother. Now since we both have knowledge of
self…well, it would seem that defining my feelings toward him as ‘hate’ is
absolutely not right and exact, after all, ‘hate’ is one of the four devils,
and as God it is my duty and also my responsibility to murder and rid myself of
these four devils right? Fuck that, I’ve only murdered three devils in regard
to how I feel about Ghengis. I will always keep that fourth devil of hate alive
and breathing until my black ass brother returns back to essence. Fuck him.
‘Spicky Nigga’ or ‘Beans & Rice’ are
just two of the names he used to call me before we got knowledge of self. After
we got knowledge of self he called me ‘H.O.N.’ which stood for ‘Half-Original Nigga’.
I’m brown skinned, and though I’m not crazy about the seed categorizations that
Gods and Earths use to describe the variations of complexions amongst original
people--I’m a wisdom seed all day, and a border-line knowledge seed if I get
enough sun in the summer. My ole dad was
a brown skinned ‘Nigga-Rican’ and from what I’m told my ole Earth was pissed
when I was born, upset that I wasn’t born with my ole dad’s ‘good hair’.
Supposedly, according to my grand ole Earth my ole Earth’s reason as to why I
didn’t get this ‘good hair’ was because my ole dad was slamming heroin in his
arm around the time I was conceived. So because of the junk my ole dad put in
his arm I got nappy nigga hair. At one point I even had dreads in the early 90’s.
My brother Ghengis is so dark the night sky is light skinned compared to his
black ass, so by virtue of Ghengis being blue black, he proclaims that he is somehow
more God than the next God who may be of another seed categorization. “I carry
more of the essence,” as he will quickly point out if challenged to show and
prove his claim that knowledge seeds are somehow inherently superior, which is
of course utter bullshit. “Allah was a
knowledge seed.” which was what he said when emphasizing his point and
concluding his argument of the superiority of knowledge seeds in a cipher of
Gods.
My
ole dad murdered our mother and Ghengis’ somehow blames me for it and over the
years this blame has manifested in him bullying me, teasing me, and physically
abusing me. Even before my dad murdered my mom, Ghengis was an evil bastard.
“Spicky Nigga this, and Spicky Nigga that.” I was thirteen and Ghengis was less than a
week or so from his eighteenth birthday when my father shot our mother. By the
time we buried our mother, James had turned eighteen and became my legal
Guardian. Yeah, James Pierre Marcheux A.K.A. Ghengis Khan Allah became the new
name on the lease of our Section Eight apartment in El Bario also known as East
Harlem or Spanish Harlem. This nigga wasn’t fit to be the guardian of a gerbil
least of all a thirteen year old minor.
Ghengis is a big blue black Green Mile
movafucka, always has been. He was naturally big growing up, muscles just began
to burst out of his body. By the time he was fourteen his stankin’ ass feet
were draped over the rail of the top bunk of our bunk beds. My mother was
complaining that this niggaz’ shoe size and clothing sizes seemed to change
weekly. She wasn’t exaggerating either, one week the pants he wore to school
would fit, and the next week they’d be high-waters and you’d be able to see his
white sweatsocks between the cuff of the pants and his big ass canvas Converse
All-Stars. Four or five inches of his wrists were often exposed when he wore
long sleeve shirts. My mother thought the clothes were shrinking because of the
laundry detergent she was using, but my clean clothes would fit the same as
they did when I took them off and put them with the dirty clothes that were to
be washed. Her clothes still fit. It wasn’t the detergent. Ghengis literally
grew before our eyes. He got bigger, blacker and meaner by the day.
While we were growing up this big
movafucka Jimmy Superfly Snuka’ed me from the top bunk, put me in Sergeant
Slaughter’s Cobra Clutch, twisted me up in Rick Flare’s figure four leg lock,
bent me like a pretzel in Bob Backland’s Boston crab and I can’t begin to tell
you how many times I have been outright body slammed by this nigga. He has hit
me with a multitude of atomic elbows, suplexed me on the basketball court in
front of girls that I had crushes on, DDT’d me on the concrete, put me in
countless sleeper holds and that’s just wrestling. I can’t count the number of
black eyes, open hardcore neck slaps, chin checks, door blows to my chest, nor
the countless slices of pizza he’d rudely snatch while I was in the middle of eating
them. No, now cipher, I do not like or love my brother and so when he got shot
the first time I was so overjoyed my dick was hard.
Back then I had no real understanding of
how the black man was God. My brother came in our bedroom one evening and said,
“We’re God,” and that was that. Okay big nigga, if that means you won’t put me
in another sleeper hold or figure four leg lock-then we God movafucka. I was
ten and he was around fifteen when he started spending most of his time up in
his top bunk quiet as a church mouse. For
nearly eight months he was memorizing whatever it was that was in the contents
of that spiral note book that I was not allowed to so much as touch. Soon I
would come to find out that what he was studying was called 120. No neck slaps, no chin checks, no sleeper holds,
and even though he still called me Spicky Nigga here and there, his
preoccupation with studying 120 gave my body a chance to recover from his
tyrannical beat-downs. As far as I was concerned whatever it was that he was
doing on that top bunk had to be righteous because it kept me from being the
victim of his torture.
I was a preteen and did anything to keep
this nigga from using me as a crash test dummy.
When he finished 120, he became my Marine drill instructor. The eight months free of abuse wasn’t free at
all. Ghengis had put those back order beat-downs on layaway.
I’m laying on the bottom bunk, drawing a
picture of Spider Man one day and the next thing I know he slaps me in my head,
“Here. Memorize this.” Handing me a faded copy of student enrollment.
“Who is the Original Man?” I read the
question like a robot, sounding like a typical kid in sixth or seventh grade. “The-Original-Man-is-the-Asiatic-Black-Man:
The- Maker-The-Owner-The-Cream-of-The-Planet-Earth-The
Father-of-Civilization-and-The-God-of-the-Universe.” Seemed easy enough right? Wrong. When he told me to recite it back word
for word without looking at the paper I mixed ‘Original’ where ‘cream’ should
be and ‘Universe’ where ‘Asiatic’ should be. The bottom line is, I fucked the knowledge
degree up and that big black Green Mile nigga unleashed the eight months of ass
whoopings he had put on layaway for me that afternoon. The ass whooping he put on me that day was so
bad that by the time my mother got home from work that evening I pretty much
had student enrollment under-cap with tears in my eyes.
All this knowledge of self shit started
around the time he was in Junior high school. He noticed some kids saying, “Now
Cipher,” and “Y equal Self”. They were speaking above his head in a code that
was driving him crazy. They were calling everybody else ‘85’ and calling each
other God and demanding to be called by their new comic book like names. That
shit fascinated James, causing him to be both envious and angry. This was just
before the Reagan years, before free cheese, and free butter. It had to be
around 1978 or 1979. This feeling of being outside of the loop caused Ghengis
to do the only thing Ghengis knows how to do: fight. He beat some God up in
junior high school and took his ‘Book Of Life’, opened it and there it was: A
is for Allah; B is for ‘Be or Born’ and so on and so forth. When Gods ask me
what family tree I come from, I don’t have an answer. Whoever that God was who
my brother knocked the fuck out: I guess I’m from his tree.
I
didn’t learn one twenty like normal Gods. Knowledge wisdom cipher was literally
beat into me. Every time I showed and proved a degree in front of him I’d
wince, scared he’d pop me with a slap or a chop, or a punch in the chest or
maybe just a full out boxer’s body shot.
“Tell us what did he promise this Nation
he would do?” I stated the question to the wisdom understanding degree and
before I could give the answer I had a busted lip,
“Now Cipher Spicky Nigga. Nigga now
cipher,” Ghengis ranted and raved, “Tell us what did ‘Yacob’ promise this
Nation he would do? Not ‘He’ you half
original Spicky Nigga. What did ‘Yacob’ promise this Nation he would do?”
Blood was trickling from my lip. I studied
that degree for an hour before he tested me, and I knew for a fact the paper
copy said, ‘Tell us what did ‘He’ promise this Nation he would do?’. Yacob’s
name was not in the wisdom understanding degree. At least on our paper copy it
wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I was distillin’
tears and no other Gods in the cipher stuck up for me. None of them pussy ass
niggaz said, “Ghengis that’s not right and exact-you shouldn’t hit da young
God” none of ‘em said shit, just a bunch of bitch ass niggaz with tassles
attached to Muslim kuffis. Nobody said a damn thing. Ghengis was, and from what I hear, still is a
very efficient knock out artist- on second thought and with all due respect to
those Gods back then, I understand why nobody said anything: nobody wanted to
get knocked the fuck out.
A
God named ‘Knowledge Dokwan’ could not break down the supreme spelling of the
word Captain, in terms of ‘Cee-Allah-Power-True-Allah-I-Now’ and lazily said ‘captain’.
Ghengis knocked the God’s front teeth
out in front of his Earth. Then Ghengis calmly tried to get with the God’s
Earth while the dude was on all fours, bleeding, looking for three of his front
teeth. It was gruesome. Gods would try to exile him from the cipher but he’d
just intimidate or beat up whoever it was trying to exile him. Ghengis had a
shoe box full of crowns, buttons and ‘Books of Life’ that he had snatched from
Gods who he felt were undeserving and not qualified to represent Allah’s Five
Percent. My brother was a neighborhood terror when he got knowledge. He was a
monster. People would see him coming and literally turn around and walk the
other way. Jehovah Witnesses didn’t even come down our street because he’d take
all of their Watch Towers and throw them in the air like confetti. Once he
dragged a Jehovah Witness man up and down the street by his neck tie all the
while yelling, “Who is that Mystery God? There is no Mystery God…”
Puerto
Rican Stuff is the only nigga to ever stand up to my brother. In the early build ciphers my brother was out
of control. He’d walk in the bodega and take whatever the fuck he wanted and dare
old man Sanchez to say something. He was a true bully even amongst men. It was
when he tried to use these tactics on women that it all came crashing down for
him. First of all, Ghengis had no game when it came to bitches, none. He
thought he could treat wisdoms the same way he treated men: scare them into
submission. Puerto Rican Stuff had a sister named Elizabeth and Ghengis was
trying to force this girl to be his Earth. Lizzy was scared of his big black
ass. My brother was like 6’7”, 250
pounds by the time he was seventeen. The crazy part is that he was still growing.
Lizzy was a small, cute girl around the neighborhood, she stayed to herself and
never bothered anyone. My brother just
kept harassing her, following her to old man Sanchez’s bodega every time she’d
walk to the store. I can’t remember
Puerto Rican Stuff’s righteous name and for some reason it never really caught
on because damn near everybody knew him as Puerto Rican Stuff. There were
actually two ‘Stuffs’: ‘Black Stuff’, who was also Puerto Rican but ‘Puerto
Rican Stuff’ was lightskinned. So for the sake of clarification in the neighborhood,
he was referred to as ‘Puerto Rican Stuff’. He was a short skinny dude, not big
at all. On second thought he wasn’t really a God per se, he didn’t take the
lessons ‘to heart’. But he did respond to ‘Peace God’. He use to hang with Gods, so he picked up the
lingo and whatnot and was swift enough to roll in our social equality every now
and again. He was more Latin King than God. Anytime my brother Ghengis came around,
Puerto Rican Stuff got ghost, he didn’t like my brother and I don’t blame him.
Puerto Rican Stuff started gettin’ money when crack hit and my brother had yet
to realize that those early crack dealers were dead ass serious about that
paper, and weren’t gonna be intimidated by some nigga in East Harlem just
because he was big, black and ugly and filled-out a wife beater tee like a
professional body builder. The only street credibility my brother had was who
he had beaten up in the past, he wasn’t a stick-up kid, nor was he a dope
dealer, Ghengis wasn’t known for shit else accept for fighting and just being
that big, black, ugly scary nigga named James who called himself Ghengis. If he
wanted something, Ghengis would just Debow a niggaz’ shit, whether it be
groceries, bikes, weed, money, or your girlfriend. He’d go to Universal
Parliaments and start building with Earths, like their Gods were invisible. He
was completely disrespectful. Whatever the fuck he wanted, he took Jerusalem
from the devil as he called it. That was his attitude.
Puerto Rican Stuff’s sister got flyer and
flyer every summer. The flyer she became-the more Ghengis wanted her. One day
he followed Lizzy home from Old Man Sanchez’s bodega, harassing her every step
of the way, putting his arm around her, grabbing on her ass, making her stop by
not letting her pass on the side walk. It took her damn near an hour to walk
two city blocks to the bodega and back to her apartment building all because my
dumb ass brother was harassing her. By the time she got home she was in tears.
When Puerto Rican Stuff heard about what my brother did he tooled the fuck up,
and came out of his house blasting at my brother.
My brother was the first person who I ever
saw get shot. Puerto Rican Stuff is chasing my brother, busting at ‘em and
missing. It was a hot day in August and
I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. I was sitting on the stoop of the
apartment building. My ole Earth was still alive at the time and I could hear
‘When Doves Cry’ by Prince coming out of our second floor apartment, mixing
with the Salsa music coming from a window on the third floor. Ghengis turns the corner looking just like
that big nigga in the movie ‘The Green Mile’ with Tom Hanks. He was running
full speed, pumping his arms like a track star, and a couple seconds later
Puerto Rican Stuff turns the corner after him buckin’ at his big ass. Kids were
playing in the fire hydrant that day.
That August heat was a beast. People had air conditioning back then but
everybody was conscious of their bill and usually used fans during the day. Damn
near everybody who lived on that street endured the heat that day by sitting
outside in chairs and on the steps of stoops on the shady side of the street.
They all had a front row seat to what should have been Ghengis’ murder. If they
weren’t outside they were looking out of their windows. Six young girls were
arguing over who’s turn it was to turn the ropes in Double Dutch. Though the
block was full of children playing, Puerto Rican Stuff ain’t give a fuck as he
recklessly unloaded in broad day light at my brother. Me and my brother locked
eyes for a split second and I heard him yell at me as he was running, “Open the
door Spicky Nigga. Open the door!” as he got closer to our buildin’ I froze. The
sound of the gunshots from Stuff’s gun had me in a momentary state of shock. I
didn’t like my brother then, he was an asshole and caused my ole Earth many of
sleepless nights. As a matter of fact he had just finished arguing with her
before he left the house to go harass Lizzy on her way to the bodega. The nigga
had eaten an entire box of Captain Crunch and a half-a box of Trix and used a
whole gallon of milk in one big ass salad bowl and my mom cussed him out and
told him that his big ass needs to get a job. Mommy was pissed, so fuck that, I
wasn’t going to open the front door of the apartment building because this
greedy nigga ate the entire box of Captain Crunch and half the box of Trix.
Fuck him, I hated Trix-Trix are for kids. He busted my lip because I quoted the
23rd degree in the one to forty correctly. He was the one that was
quoting it incorrectly, not me. I consciously chose not to open that front door
to the building that day. When he tried
to turn and run up the steps and into the apartment building Puerto Rican Stuff
shot him four times in the back. Even though Ghengis was smacking me around,
making me parrot lessons I still believed in that mystery God back then and on
that stoop in front of our apartment building I prayed for that Mystery God to
make sure he died and I also wanted that Mystery God to send him to hell. I heard four bullets fired and saw four
holes rapidly open up in my brothers back. At that moment I exhaled a silent “Amen”
in the name of that mystery God.
“Die you black movafucka,” Puerto Rican
Stuff yelled over my brothers body in front of our building on that hot August
day in East Harlem. “Die you black movafucka!”
Puerto Rican Stuff was a hero in my book. He was a hero for the entire
neighborhood. Finally somebody stood up to my brother. After he yelled, ‘Die you
black movafucka’, a second time I locked eyes with Puerto Rican Stuff, and I
know he heard my thoughts, ‘One more time, shoot him one more time’ I
petitioned Stuff with my telepathic powers.
Stuff heard my telepathic request and pulled the trigger a fifth time
and the gun dry fired, making an impotent clicking sound. Stuff was out of bullets
and sort of looked at me as if to say, ‘Sorry Papi hopefully the four bullets I
already hit him with will get the job done.’ Unfortunately that big black Green
Mile movafucka lived. He wasn’t even paralyzed. When I found out he wasn’t dead
or paralyzed I was truly pissed and it was finally official: there is no
mystery God because a mystery God would not have let that movafucka draw another breath of life on this
Earth.
My mother came out the house screaming,
and did the whole “My baby, my baby. They killed my baby,” routine. The entire
time while my mother is screaming for someone to call an ambulance, Prince was
still singing about doves crying over a Salsa remix. I’m
looking up and down the block hoping that Puerto Rican Stuff went home to
reload his gun so he could come back and shoot him a fifth time-oh how I prayed
for that fifth bullet. The thing I remember the most about the moment my
brother was shot is that I literally had an erection. That day I had on some
cheap five dollar shorts my mother bought from the Ave and my dick was hard at
the thought of my brother being dead. If he dies I’ll be free of him forever,
and I could finally stop memorizing those goddamned lessons.
Ghengis this and Ghengis that, Gods talk
about him like they got a fuckin’ man-crush on this nigga. Be God included.
Every time me and Be God have a build he has to bring up my movafuckin’
brother. This is one of the reasons I went outta town to get money, because in
a new town I could be me, in Now Why I’m Ghengis’ younger physical. Fuck him.
Gods come home from the Pen always talking about how Ghengis is standing strong
for this nation and knocking niggaz out who disrespect this nation. My brother
is huge and by being so big he naturally commands a certain respect, and my
brother can fight. He can flat out fight, he never smoked weed or used drugs
but from what I hear he got all them niggaz bitches stuffing that shit in their
pussies to bring dope inside. Supposedly Ghengis is the unofficial D.O.C.
push-up champion of New York State. What the fuck kind of shit is that to be
proud of? Gods go on and on of how eloquent he is and how swift his
understanding is. He’s a fucking push up champion and jail-bird philosopher: fuck
him! I’ll never go visit that nigga. Let him rot. Oh and don’t get Be God and
the other old Gods started on the story of when he got shanked by the Sunnis
while he was screaming “I’m Allah, I’m Allah, I’m Allah” Be God can tell the
story better than I can but I’ve heard it a million times. Gods come home and
get misty eyed when they tell the story. “Your brother is standing strong-your
Brother standing strong for this Nation! I miss Da God. He let them Sunnis know
who Allah is yadda, yadda yadda.” Every time I hear one of them bald-headed old
Gods tell them romantic war stories about my brother I feel like screaming, “Fuck
Ghengis!”
I can’t stand when niggaz do that
shit. They didn’t know that nigga back
when Puerto Rican Stuff put them four bullets in his ass. That nigga wasn’t
standing strong then. He was slumped on the stoop and thought he was gonna die,
and when he came home from the hospital he stayed couped up in that Goddamn house
like a hermit, scared cause he thought little 5’4”, 135 pound Puerto Rican
Stuff was gonna put some more bullets in his big ass. Stuff ain’t do time for that shooting,
because nobody saw him shoot my brother. Nobody! It had to be at least 100 to
150 people on the street that day and nobody saw shit, including me. My brother
deserved every single one of them bullets. Little ass Lizzy was barely 105
pounds soaking wet and this big black Shrek movafucka won’t let the girl pass
to buy milk and a couple of cans of Goya beans? Detectives said the entire
neighborhood was all of a sudden stricken with a case of massive
blindness. Disco was the unofficial
Mayor of East Harlem at the time and put the word out that if anybody say
anything that it would be met with consequences and repercussions. Nobody
snitched. I looked the shooter dead in his eyes and knew him well and ain’t say
shit. My mother told the detectives when they wanted to question me, “My son didn’t
see anything officer.” When the
investigating detectives asked Ghengis, “Who shot you son?” even he ain’t say
nothing. Fuck Ghengis.
Puerto Rican Stuff got his work from Disco and
Disco ran shit on 96th Street and was quick to let niggaz know that Harlem
don’t begin on 110thstreet. He was a serious business man, and made
sure Puerto Rican Stuff ain’t serve a second in police custody.
While Ghengis was couped up in the house
hiding from Puerto Rican Stuff-Puerto Rican Stuff introduced me to the game. By
fifteen I was a little fly nigga and Ghengis was a fucking homebody, stuck up
in the house lifting old cement weights watching General Hospital with his fat
ass Earth Bunny. That bitch was fat as shit, she called herself Queen Mamasay
Mamasan Mamakousa. I told her you can’t get your Earth attribute from a Michael
Jackson lyric bitch, and then Ghengis’ big ass gets off the weight bench,
flexing bare chested because he ain’t have but 3 shirts that fit. He calls
himself checking me and says, “She can call herself whatever she want Spicky
Nigga!”
By the time he was twenty he had pretty
much stopped punching on me because he knew I had a .22 caliber for his big
ass.
All these Gods that don’t know any better
romanticize about my brother but he was a corny nigga in the free cipher, never
got no money, never got no pussy outside of Bunny’s fat ass, never had no
clothes and after Puerto Rican Stuff put them bullets in him he pretty much was
too shook to go outside again, and when he finally did go outside he ended up
committing a dumb ass crime and getting a life sentence. The problem is-is that
these Gods don’t know Ghengis’ history. I’m his brother and I know that nigga
like no other. Fuck Ghengis!
Fat ass Bunny, A.K.A. Queen Mamasay
Mamasan Mamakousa gave my brother his first shot of pussy and the nigga was in
love. The bitch weighed four hundred pounds easy and had a nerve to try to rock
Spandex. Ghengis’ dumb ass for some reason thought she was a dead ringer for
Pepa of Salt ‘N’ Pepa. That bitch ain’t look like Salt, Pepper, Ketchup,
mayonnaise or Mustard. That bitch looked nothing like a condiment, she looked
more like a big ass pig or a cow.
Before my mother was murdered she had just
got a brand new living room set out of layaway: sofa, love seat and chair. Not
six months after our ole Earth dies, Ghengis moved this big fat bitch Bunny in
with us. Bunny’s fat ass put a fucking permanent dent in the sofa. There was
literally an outline of her fat ass deeply impressed on one and a half of the
three square tan velvet sofa cushions, meaning that Bunny’s fat ass, also known
as Queen Mamasay Mamasan Mamakousa took up half da Goddamned Sofa with her fat
ass. And when I saw what this fat bitch could do to a toilet seat I packed all
my shit and took a trip to V.A. with Disco and Puerto Rican Stuff and didn’t come
back to New York until I grinded my way to a black Chevy Blazer: my first cee
Allah rule.
“I’m your guardian. What the fuck you mean
you going to Virginia to sell dope. You ain’t going nowhere!” He yelled at me
and started moving toward me.
I pulled out my deuce deuce on that nigga,
“Yeah, come get this fifth bullet nigga! Please give me a reason to squeeze!” I was sixteen and that big Green Mile nigga
was chattering like a chicken. Flashbacks from Puerto Rican Stuff I figured.
Next time I heard from that nigga was in a
letter he was doing three consecutive life sentences. Bunny had let two niggas
run a train on her fat ass(ill). Ghengis found out and kilt both of the niggaz
with his bare hands and then strangled Bunny’s fat ass, oh excuse me, Mamasay
Mamasan Mamakousa.
