[The Concrete Jungle Dispatch]
Tuesday, October 12, 2004 | Posted at 14:32:01 GMT
Aight, pull up, let me lace you with the real street gospel. I’m talkin' 'bout that straight-up, uncut chronic report. This ain't no news, this is the word from the belly of the beast. Check it:
Yo, word on the block is, yesterday when the sun was high, some straight-up crazy-ass syndicate gathered at a busted-up, dusty-ass gas station out by Cleveland. This spot is straight ghost, man. Nobody knows what kind of sideways hustle these fools are runnin', but it’s a whole lot of trippin' and zero sense.
The rollers—the local 5-0—said ain't nobody catchin' fades yet, but the vibe is straight janky. It’s like a room full of snitches tryin' to act like OG’s—mad awkward, feel me?
Peep the lineup: You got Shoko Asahara perched on a cheap-ass plastic crate. Rumor has it, homeboy got his peepers fixed, but now that he sees the world in HD, he’s spinnin' like a record. He’s holdin' his dome, lookin' like a sucka, tryin' to pop some "levitation" hops on the pavement 'cause his balance is straight garbage since he stopped bein' blind.
Then you got that busta David Miscavige, rollin' on some 8-inch "I-wanna-be-tall" platforms. Man is straight flexin' till he hit a pebble and snapped his glass ankle. Now he’s out here actin' like a straight-up Karen, hollerin' 'bout suin' the whole world, but he ain't even got a target yet. He just lookin' for a payday.
Jim Jones is out here tryna hand out that Flavor Aid. He’s barkin', "It ain't got no kick, it’s just cold juice, keep it real!" But ain't nobody in the set touchin' that cup. Everybody knows his game. Jim don't even trip, though; he’s got his eyes locked on David Koresh’s shades, lookin' to jack him for his ice.
Koresh is strapped with a whole arsenal of spare specs, lookin' like he’s ready for the blitz, blastin' them Stones tracks on a boombox way too loud. The beats are bangin', but Osho ain't feelin' it. Osho’s rockin' a thick-ass wool beanie—homie, it’s a furnace out here, and he’s straight-up cookin' his brain. When the feds ask him 'bout the legal beef with Miscavige, he just plays the fool, actin' like he’s on another planet, talkin' 'bout "I don't know nothin' 'bout no law."
Then you got Luc Jouret. Man looks like a mack, real smooth, tryna spit game, but he’s speakin' that French talk and won't touch no American grub. He’s starvin' 'cause he’s too boujee for the drive-thru. Marshall Applewhite is tryin' to bridge the gap with some prehistoric Windows 95 box, but the translation is straight-up gibberish, soundin' like a broken radio.
And Applewhite? Man, he’s on the grind, workin' harder than a mule. He’s tryin' to Photoshop Shoko lookin' like he’s floatin', but the dial-up is dead. Why? 'Cause Sun Myung Moon is hoggin' the line, havin' a long-ass heart-to-heart with his killa Kim Il-sung. They talkin' 'bout how Kim Jong-il is gettin' too thick and needs to lay off the snacks.
In the cut, you got Rael in some tight-ass leggings and a tank top, lookin' like a straight-up fool with a beer gut. Applewhite is shoutin' the F1 stats at him while he’s clickin' his mouse. When Rael hears Leclerc choked and took 4th again, he lets out a sigh so heavy you’d think he lost his last dime.
Tony Morris III is tucked in the corner, straight-up tore up on that Macallan. He’s faded, man. He ain't talkin' to no one; he just glarin' at Rael’s leggings like they’re a violation of the street code, mumbllin' 'bout how some brothas just ain't got no swag.
The block is hot and these fools ain't movin'. Applewhite is still waitin' for Moon to hang up that damn phone so he can upload his wack-ass fake photo.
Keep your head up, watch your back, and don't drink the juice. I’m out this motherf***er. Westside.