Cold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! So cold. Yo ass aint bustin any Nikes n' yo' feet is cold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Thatz yo' first conscious thought. Yo crazy-ass second was tha awarenizz dat yo' jaws hurt, forced apart by a rubber bizzle. Kick dat shit! Yo crazy-ass third was fear.
"Oh, good, it worked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass is wakin up."
Da dude, still blurry ta yo' eyes, replaces tha syringe on a raised tray table, then turns around, struttin tha fuck into tha adjoinin bathroom. Da sound of a tap hustlin fills tha room.
"I know what tha fuck you thinking... Well, goin ta be thinking, once yo' head clears fo' realz. And don't bother n' shit. Yo ass aint goin anywhere fo' a while."
Da side of yo' arm n' tha back of yo' neck both ache horribly. Last thang you remember was bein up in tha elevator on tha way up ta yo' crib, third floor yo. Dude strutts back up in tha room, though you can't peep his ass straight-up clearly from tha corner of yo' eye. Obviously he not tryin ta hide, as da thug strutts round ta sit on tha stool up in front of yo thugged-out ass. Dat punk as nondescript as they come, bustin store-bought clothes- faded blue jeans, acid-washed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Grotesque black crew t-shirt, like one might loot at Hot Topic yo. His afro be a lil' bit shaggy, a trim could do his ass good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! His eyes is tha only thang straight-up off bout his muthafuckin ass. They're a soft red, like a albino's.
"Yo ass can call me Jefferson.
Dude picks up tha syringe, a glass n' metal one dat you might peep up in a antique store, or a museum yo. Dude squirts tha rest of tha liquid up in it tha fuck into a rag n' puts tha syringe tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pocket.
"Don't bother screaming, or I be bout ta bust a cap up in yo thugged-out ass."
Dude reaches forward, n' spins you up in tha chair- itz a crib chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. In tha spinning, you git a phat peep tha room. It aint nuthin but yo' average college hustlaz crib, one room wit a thugged-out deadbolt-and-chain front door fo' realz. A pimpin' futon is rolled up, gangsta-style, leanin up in a cold-ass lil corner n' shiznit fo' realz. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. A lil' small-ass metal computa desk wit a glass top n' a cold-ass lil closed laptop chillin on top up in another corner n' shit. Da juice supply is curled up neatly underneath it, tha cord bound wit a velcro strip. Yo ass feel a tuggin all up in tha gag up in yo' grill as he unbucklez dat shit. Da bizzle gag falls outta yo' grill n' you sputter, flexin yo' jaw n' cursin harshly. Yo crazy-ass grill is dry as a muthafucka n' tacky, tokin of rubber n' shiznit yo. Dude swivels tha chair back around, n' tha same piercin gaze meets yo' eyes, which you glare back tha fuck into angrily.
"Why tha FUCK is I here?" you shout, n' before you can flinch, tha dude pulls out a piece and places it ta yo' head. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch!
"Now, what tha fuck did I rap bout shouting, biatch? Letz use our inside voices, please."
Dude takes tha piece away, placin it on tha tray table.
"Now, ta answer yo' question, Yo ass is here cuz I want you ta be. Yo ass is kickin it cuz I be bored. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And you betta not make me bugged out enough ta find suttin' betta ta do wit you than talk."
Dude's eyes had deepened ta a thugged-out darker red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude hadn't blinked tha entire time, nor had his wild lil' fuckin expression shifted from tha blank look he'd been givin you tha entire time you was here.
"Fine. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So what tha fuck tha fuck do you want me ta do?"
Yo ass spit at him, temper gettin tha dopest of yo thugged-out ass. Yo ass hoped his schmoooove ass couldn't sense tha fear up in yo' voice. But of course his schmoooove ass could. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass knew his schmoooove ass could smell it like a guilty lil pimp comin home reekin of blunts.
"Now, there be a no sense gettin mad salty fo' realz. And profanitizzle just shows how tha fuck limited yo' vocabulary straight-up is."
"Fuck. You. Mutha. Fuckin. Idiot."
Dude continues starin at yo thugged-out ass.
"Now dat was just rude."
Dude standz up, struttin ta tha back of tha crib chair, n' pullin you backwards, tha wheels squeakin on tha thick carpet.
"Wait- Where is you takin me son?"
Yo ass struggle against yo' bonds- no use. Thick leather cuffs, tight as a second skin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude pulls you tha fuck into tha bathroom, n' swivels you ta peep tha shower.Yo ass gotta bite back yo' scream.
"Beautiful, aint it?"
A lump of flesh dat was once a gangsta. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Limbs severed n' stacked neatly by tha torso, wrapped tha fuck into a funky-ass bundle wit a length of intestine. Blood pooled round it, n' tha face, its eyes gouged up n' tongue pulled neatly all up in a cold-ass lil cut up in tha throat. Chest carved like a propsgivin chicken, skinned neatly, tha skin scraped clean of flesh n' hung from tha shower curtain rail.
"I would have thought you would appreciate dat shit."
Yo ass gag yo, but manage ta spit out,
"What tha fuck is you rappin' about?"
"Yo crazy-ass cumpooter n' shit. Yo ass have picturez of mah work... n' others. Yo ass post dem on imageboards, forums."
"Those are... Those is a joke biaaatch! They... they..."
you struggle fo' lyrics, even as da perved-out muthafucka sits on tha edge of tha tub n' stares, waitin fo' a explanation.
"They're just fo' kicks, biatch? Fo' fun?"
Yo ass nod furiously.
"No. They ain't."
he reaches down ta scoop up a lil' bit of gore from tha bath water, n' holdz it up ta yo thugged-out ass. It aint nuthin but a funky-ass blue eye, wit a red nerve hustlin from tha back down his bangin red-stained wrist.
"Funny, aint it?"
he says, laughing.Yo ass retch yo, but there be a not a god damn thang up in yo' stomach ta throw up- you settle fo' glarin at his ass once tha retchin stops.
"Yo ass be a monster."
Dude grabs you by tha chin wit his other hand.
"Maybe I am."
His expression has chizzled drastically, from a funky-ass blank stare ta a rictus snarl.
"But maybe you tha monsta n' shit. Yo ass peep thangs online n' up in tha televizzle, n' don't be thinkin of dem as people. Every single thug wit they throat cut, wit they grill caved up in wit a funky-ass basebizzle bat. "They're thugs. That."
he turns yo' head ta peep tha corpse.
"That was a gangsta. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Hustlin'. Poppin' fools, thankin fo' realz. And if you was ta find dis on a imageboard, biatch? You'd save it ta yo' 'Gore file', n' laugh bout it ta yo ass."
Dude dropped tha eyebizzle tha fuck into tha water, where it fell tha fuck wit a plop.
"Yo ass is just as much of a monsta as I am. Da difference between our asses is dat I don't find dis funky."
Dude shoves you away, n' you fall backwards, tied ta tha chair n' unable ta right yo ass yo. Hot tears course down yo' cheeks, kinda from tha force of yo' retches n' kinda from Jefferson makin you realise, makin you know dat up in truth, yo ass is no worse than his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude muthafuckin rights you, n' reaches fo' tha sink fo' realz. A butcher knife, bloodied n' dripping, rests up in dat shit. Yo ass prepare fo' tha end- but his schmoooove ass cuts you free. Yo crazy-ass wrists ache as he places tha knife up in yo' hands. Yo crazy-ass ass aches as he points all up in tha corpse.
"Cut up his thugged-out ass. Cut it up n' prove dat you just as sick as I am."
Yo ass find yo ass bustin just dis shit. Yo crazy-ass bare feet settle tha fuck into tha wata as you straddle tha body, stabbin tha fuck into tha middle of tha bodyz chest again n' again n' again n' again, eyes blurred by tears n' tha blood dat flies from tha torso tha fuck into yo' face. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch!
Yo ass gasp, blastin bolt upright up in bed, a holla rippin its way from yo' throat. Yo ass pant, lookin round all up in tha familiar view of yo' lil' small-ass crib fo' realz. Afta all dem minutes, you turn up in yo' bed n' rub yo' grill wit both hands. Yo crazy-ass grill tastes tacky, nasty. Mornin wood. Yo ass chuckle hesitantly n' check tha clock. Twelve. You'd slept in- you'd need ta booty-call tha fuck into work n' tell dem you was sick.Yo ass felt sick. That was tha weirdest fuckin trip you've had since you was a lil thug. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo crazy-ass handz is even bobbin. Rememberin tha stories you'd read on tha internet, a gangbangin' flare of doubt forms up in yo' mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass strutt tha fuck into tha bathroom, n' toss tha shower curtains aside. No rottin corpse greetin you up in a gangbangin embrace. Yo ass laugh at yo ass. Just a thugged-out dream yo. Ha-ha. Yo ass turn ta tha sink n' run tha cold water, splashin it tha fuck into yo' grill wit yo' hands. Yo crazy-ass shaggy afro collects up in yo' eyes until you pull it aside, n' strip down ta git a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shower n' shiznit fo' realz. Afterwards, you strutt all up in tha crib ta yo' mini fridge, intendin ta git a funky-ass brew n' shit. Yo ass pull tha door open n' stare up in surprise.There, neatly covered wit plastic wrap, on a plastic plate, be a human ass, wit a ragged bite ripped outta dat shit.