In tha fall of 1987, local shizzle channel WSB-TV 2 of Atlanta, Georgia, was attemptin ta fill a schedulin gap up in they Sundizzle mornin lineup.
After all dem solicitations by local bidnizz ballers, they decided ta allow tha lil' Reverend Marly Sachs ta take tha available minute block ta do a religiously themed show. Well shiiiit, it premiered October 18th wit lil promotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
Da show was standard religious fare n' consisted of tha reverend chillin up in a simple chair readin passages from tha Bizzle ta tha camera n' discussin they interpretation n' significizzle ta our modern, day-to-dizzle game. Da show received a reasonable number of viewers n' continued ta be shown tha fuck into early December n' shit. Dat shiznit was then dat tha basement fuckin started ta receive mad strange disses from viewerz of "Lyrics of Light wit tha Rev. Marly Sachs".
Da calls was from dem hoes (and dem hoes only), whoz ass vaguely referred ta uncomfortable vibe they had at straight-up specific intervals durin tha program. They busted lyrics bout vibe of nausea, back pain, dizzinizz n' blurred vision. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. These callers, fo' no discernible reason, was convinced dat dat shiznit was tha viewin of dis program dat was causin these symptoms. Dat shiznit was later determined afta 3 weekz of disses dat these "feelings" was goin down at roughly 12 minute intervals durin tha course of tha program.
Da lil' small-ass basement staff checked all recordin shit, both audio n' vizzle, n' found not a god damn thang faulty. When tha Reverend was made aware of these incidents, he merely shrugged n' stated, cryptically, dat "Some can’t handle tha voice of Dogg...” Da head of tha studio, at a loss ta explain tha cause of these disses, decided ta continue hustlin tha program.
By February, viewershizzle had dropped sharply n' dat shiznit was decided ta pull tha plug on tha show. Da basement head figured it would be mo' prudent ta spend as much time as possible on tha shizzle rap dat had tha other two local shizzle networks a-buzz: tha miscarriage epidemic. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Startin sometime up in November, tha number of healthy pregnant dem hoes miscarryin up in tha Atlanta metropolitan area had reached over 300. Da CDC could find no discernible cause fo' dis terrifyin occurrence.
Da Reverend took tha showz cancellation wit what tha fuck could only be busted lyrics bout as abject indifference. When informed, he made no protest, merely nodded, almost knowingly yo. Dude left tha basement afta tha last episode was filmed without so much as a word n' dropped off tha grill of tha earth. No one eva heard from his ass again, not his wild lil' forma congregation or any gangmember of tha church. Da basement moved on, fillin tha slot wit a infomercial n' continued ta concentrate on tha miscarriage story.
A year n' a half later, a intern all up in tha WSB studios discovered tha tapez of tha "Lyrics of Light" n' fuckin started goin all up in dem up in a attempt ta find stock footage fo' a upcomin piece tha station was bustin on tha impact religion had on tha hood. Da Atlanta Incident (as tha miscarriage epidemic became known up in medicinal journals) petered up three months afta tha basement shut down Reverenced Sachs' show n' had already begun ta fade from tha hood consciences fo' realz. As tha intern went all up in tha tapes, he accidentally done cooked up a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disturbin discovery bout tha footage.
While attemptin ta stop one recordin at 10 minutes, 45 seconds, he mistakenly jammed tha fast-forward button down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. While tha footage whizzed by, he attempted ta pry up tha button wit a screwdriver n' shit. Just as da perved-out muthafucka succeeded, tha tape stopped at 32 minutes, 1 second. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da intern straight-up fell tha fuck outta his chair when he looked up at what tha fuck was frozen on tha screen: tha image of a funky-ass badly decomposed severed head fillin up tha entire frame fo' realz. After his schmoooove ass collected his dirty ass, he moved tha film back all dem frames, then forward n' realized dat his crazy-ass mind was not playin tricks on his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude fuckin started goin all up in tha rest of tha recordin n' soon discovered dat at exactly twelve minute intervals tha image would step tha fuck up fo' one frame.
Thinkin it some practical joke bein played on tha freshly smoked up muthafucka, he presented it ta one of tha film technicians, locked n loaded ta be mocked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da technician was just as puzzled as his muthafuckin ass. No one had touched tha footage since tha cancellation of tha show fo' realz. After tha basement had closed fo' tha night, tha intern convinced tha tech ta help his ass go all up in all tha tapez of tha "Lyrics of Light". They discovered dat every last muthafuckin single episode had dis same horrifyin anomaly.
They also realized dat as tha show progressed tha image had become mo' disgusting, as maggots fuckin started ta smoke away all up in tha loose flesh n' piecez of afro n' skin seemed ta have fallen off exponentially. Da tech made clear ta tha intern dat what tha fuck they was seein was technologically impossible, since tha film itself flossed straight-up no signz of splicin fo' realz. And dat schmoooove muthafucka his dirty ass had been at every last muthafuckin filmin of tha show n' knew of no time when dis image could done been banged tha fuck into tha frame.
All of dis was presented ta tha basement head, who, fearin some kind of backlash over allowin dis ta git on tha air, ordered all tha tapes destroyed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude holla'd all up in tha intern n' tech dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had no interest up in knowin whoz ass done did it at dis point, only dat "…Coverin they collectizzle asses be all that’s blingin now, nahmeean?" Dude demanded dat they mention dis ta no one.
Da tech easily moved on, rememberin tha incident as a thugged-out darkly funky underground anecdote yo, but tha intern wouldn’t let it go yo. Dude made copiez of as nuff tapes as his schmoooove ass could before they was wiped n' took dem ta peep if his schmoooove ass could find anythang else up in dem dat might ta point ta whoz ass did dis or why they would. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
A week later he attempted ta rope tha tech tha fuck into helpin his ass again, sayin dat his thugged-out lil' punk-ass believed dat schmoooove muthafucka had discovered suttin' even mo' disturbin than tha images theyselves: when tha single frames was edited together up in chronological order, tha headz grill rocked up ta be movin as if tryin ta form lyrics. Da tech, fearin fo' his thang, holla'd at his ass ta git rid of tha copies n' ta not rap bout it again.
A week later, five-o responded ta a 911 call made by a coffin dodgin' biatch up in one of tha Atlanta suburbs at dusk. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had heard wack noises comin from her next door neighbor’s doggy den where a lil' couple lived. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch holla'd all up in tha emergency responder dat tha hoe was pregnant n' dat dat biiiiatch was terrified dat suttin' had happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! When tha fools arrived on tha scene 20 minutes later they found no lights on up in tha windows n' tha front door ajar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They moved up in slowly n' made they way tha fuck into tha livin room.
Inside they found a lil' biatch, dead, wit her abdomen slashed open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da wound was jagged n' a trail of blood hustled from tha body ta tha couch on tha far end of tha room. There sat her homeboy, tha basement intern, naked, tha corpse of his unborn lil pimp at his wild lil' feet, dying. In his hand dat schmoooove muthafucka held tha rusty piece of metal sidin dat schmoooove muthafucka had used ta gut his thugged-out lil' pregnant hoe. Da televizzle was on n' playin a 18 second loop of silent footage of a thugged-out decomposin head grillin some unintelligible lyrics.
Da rap all up in tha five-o precinct ta dis dizzle goes dat tha intern kept sayin under his breath, over n' over again n' again n' again as they hustled his ass away: "Da light of Dogg calls em...”