around the globe they got pac and biggie gangs / and we still claim it’s chill to kill…
he looked at himself through a piece of shattered mirror stained with a hodge podge wallace blood, though the points probably had some of his own. on more than one occasion he had reached for it in his back pocket from the wrong angle. carefully he used the reflection to adjust his bandana so that it was positioned just over the edge of his eyebrow, a shakur standard.
returning the mirror to his pocket he reached for his camoflage button up, worn open so that anyone could see the dry blood colored ‘thug life’ ‘tattoo’ on the inside out u.n. t-shirt, cut to look like an ‘official’ wife beater. he was close to making captain though. captains were the only ones who had ‘official’ wife beaters, those being a rare commodity in these parts.
he had taught himself to read english on the laptop he stole from an american business woman at a shakur checkpoint along the main road, but he knew how to speak english much earlier of course. he now used the computer to load the poetic justice soundtrack into his backpack. he was in charge of the music whenever his unit went on a strike.
they had just learned that one of the most notorious wallace’s lived in a house on the outer ring of central city. the shakurs had sent some of their bitches there two hours ago with english whiskey stolen from u.n. supply trucks, to get the wallaces drunk, hard alcohol being the only thing that really does the trick.
throwing the stock issue ak-47 over his shoulder he stepped out of his tent to the stench of the nearby garbage fire where the rest of the shakurs in his unit were gathered, roasting roadkill over the flames. little other meat was available in the area since it had officially been declared a danger zone. as he walked into the circle, he was handed the roasted carcass of something only about the size of his hand, and hot sauce made from peppers native to these parts. bathed in this sauce nothing kept its flavor, really it was the only way to eat roadkill.
before he could finish eating, the captain of his unit gave the sign that they were ready to roll. in an instant everyone had dropped their food and were loading onto the medical truck which had been abandoned in a ditch after the pullout. twenty men glistening with beads of sweat (from the sauce) crammed into the back of the truck.
they sped down the dirt highway toward the center of town. itwas still bustling with life at this late hour, but as they sped by all activity stopped. eyes that were trying to solicit sexual favors instead focused on the passing shakur’s looking for any indication that they might be the target. the shakur reputation for violence was as well known as their disregard for motive when the time came. anyone could be a target. the onlookers were reassured as the truck kept speeding by. there was no doubt the shakurs intended violence, but so long as they weren’t the target it was none of their business.
the shakurs maintained their silence all the way through the center coming at last to the dirt road that was the outer ring. the truck was parked about a quarter mile from their target where all of the shakurs jumped out. the men spread out as they headed towards their target. soon they could hear the bass rattling the roof of the compound. when the building was in sight they could clearly hear the voice of the wallace martyr singing who shot ya. outside was unguarded.
quietly the men started circling the place chanting ‘thug life’ first in a whisper but gradually gaining in volume. when at last it could be heard inside, causing one of the wallaces to turn down their music, he pushed the button on his backpack blasting definition of a thug nigga.
one of the wallaces shouted ‘bad boy’ to which the shakurs replied with gunfire while singing to their martyr.
Nobody’s closing me out of my business
Nobody’s closing me out of my business
My definition of a thug nigga
before long the wallaces were shooting back. three men away he saw a fellow shakur drop. the captain gave the sign for them to move in and they all charged, kicking down the makeshift walls.
as he entered the compound he was met by a wallace in their traditional suit, likely stolen off a foreigner staying at a hotel in the center by one of the wallace bitches. you could tell the rank of wallace by whether their suit was clean and ironed. you could also tell the rank of a wallace by their size, as food was known to flow upwards in rank. the wallace that stood in front of him was a nobody. his suit barely fit him and he didn’t even have a tie. nevertheless the wallace did have a gun in hand and so he didn’t hesitate to put a bullet in his head.
he was hoping to get the wallace captain as it was the quickest way to a promotion in the shakur ranks. he saw the shakur bitches running from a room down the hall where another shakur grabbed one of them by the hair and threw her out of the way. ‘we don’t love these hoes,’ but as soon as the words had left the shakurs mouth a bullet ripped through his gut sending the shakur to his knees.
he knew that the wallace captain was in that room. probably had his back to the wall, guarding the door. he ran over to the fallen shakur bitch and picked her up by the waist. using her as a shield he barged into the room firing the ak-47 straight ahead. the wallace fired back, but the bitch absorbed the brunt of the bullets, only one grazing the arm he carried her with. soon the return fire stopped. he dropped the bitch and saw the wallace slumped in the corner full of bullets.
‘thug life!!!’ he screamed, and heard his surviving comrades return the call indicating they had successfully taken the place. slowly he inspected the wallace’s corpse. the suit he wore wasn’t buttoned because it was way too small, but the tie was silk and the pants had a crease. without a doubt this was the captain.
standing over his sworn enemy, he reached in his back pocket and pulled out the mirror. bending over he jammed it into the heart of the wallace, whispering to dead ears, ‘thug life nigga!!’
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