“Aight, aight, settle down.” MC Rickshaw says. He waits for the cheers to dwindle to a buzz. “We’re down to the wire y’all, finals, check it. We got our two finalists, here at last and what a muthafuckin trip it’s been.”
This is it. This is my time. I slap my face before stepping up on stage. A ritual that hasn’t left since the day I started spitting.
“To my left,” Rickshaw bellows, “The demon of the doc. Shred through PP Callow, on his way here. Murked Wayde “tha Blade” Winston on his way here. Demolished Soulsky Peppa on his way here. Everyone give it up for A. P. R”
The crowd erupts into cheers and I drink it up. My heart beats in my throat, and my stomach knots mom’s spaghetti but I hold it down.
“Aight, quiet down,” MC Rickshaw continues, “And to my right...Ha, this man needs no introduction. Ain’t a motherfucker in this battle he hasn’t chopped. Ladies and gents, give it up for Papa Pops.”
And there he was. The underground has been thundering about this dude since he busted through the scene, but I’ve never heard him spit. Last month, word has it that six months ago, Killa Chinchilla, born on the streets, raised in the streets, left the stage in tears. That motherfucker was so hard, legend had it he was born with a 40 and a 9 straight outta his momma’s va-duche. My boy Dostum told me, and if he didn’t, i wouldn’t have believed it.
I study him. Glasses, hair slicked back. Khakis, button down, no sleeve sweater in guacamole green. How was it possible?
“Aight APR, heads or tails.” Rickshaw asks,
“Heads.”
Rick flips the coin. “Tails. Papa’s call.”
“My buddy over there.” he says.
“Aight, APR. You got thirty. DJ, spin it.”
The music starts…
*“Aight, look...Check it out.” *
Hey there buddy, sit tight,
What i gotta say might,
Rub you the wrong way,
If you get butthurt, shit, we may fight,
But tell me, what’s your day like?
Wait, on second thought,
Don't matter ya fake dyke,
*I’m here to slit your wrist *
with my words like a steak knife,
Let the blood run till your vein's white,
And when you die, At your wake, I'll wave bye, Fake cry,
And act like you were a great guy,
Lay a bouquet at your gravesite,
Like a visceral criminal,
Serial killer
Formidable lyrical great white,
*Here to take a straight bite,
Out of your pitiful fake life,
Murder material in plain sight,
I’m the ghost that haunts you late night,
Got you runnin' scared, fuckin’ stage fright.