"Why I'll Laugh On My DeathBed"
-------------
I see some people are bothered because I laughed when the jury rendered their verdict of GUILTY. Like... me not breaking down and sobbing in anguish, really offends them. It has become one of their "go to" video clips that they use to push their "he's a monster" narrative.
There's nothing less admirable than a man with no fight. Society pronounces the value of true grit, until you are their adversary, then they require your submission.
If it helps you self-righteous sons-of-bitches feel better about yourselves, know this: I was devastated. My entire being was crushed. I sobbed uncontrollably for days, praying for the solace of death. However, MY defeat came months before that jury of 12 idiots pronounced me guilty. By the time I was arrested, there was nothing that could be done to me that would compare to the pain I had already endured. What you witnesses when that verdict was read, was a man who no longer gave a fuck.
_______________
Before that tragic night in December, I was a tenage kid hustlin' in the Rap Game. This was back in the early nineties before anyone with a computer and a microphone was "in the studio." Back before rappers even made real money. So rappin', wasn't my only hustle.
I spent my nights slangin' rocks & weed, then would crash for a few hours before hittin' the studio. It was me, Rob Nice, Que and Lou Bean. We went from throwing parties in Lou Bean's momma's house, to talent shows and club appearances.
When I pressed the tape "Ride the Mighty High," I slung it out of the trunk of my car, just like the drugs I was already selling. I used that money to cop more weed, then flipped that to buy more music equipment. However, somewhere along the line, more of my hustle became focused on selling trees and less on making music. I wasn't famous but I was locally known and the notoriety from selling drugs satified my teenage ego more than doing shows.
The Dope Game doesn't only involve selling Dope. The Dope Game is at the center of every other criminal endeavor also. I was caught in the mix with stickup kids, boosters, counterfeiters, illegal gun runners, gangbangers and killers. Often, the lines get blurred. I sold dope. Most of the girls I fucked with sold pussy. At heart, they weren't the girl next door, they were Jodi Arias.
DECEMBER OF 1993 changed everything for me. I was shell-shocked by that traumatic experience. It's what tilted the scale from me being a petty thug with aspiring rap dreams, to me climbing the ladder of international drug trafficking. I felt like from then on, it was all or nothing.
I spent the year of 1994 wallowing in the depths of debauchery. I was a migrant drug dealer, indulging in everything I sold. Orgies on acid with hippie chicks at 'Dead shows. Bustos on hoodrats in the slums of Chicago. It was a year of fightin', fuckin' and flippin' work. Until DECEMBER OF 1994, when I ended up stranded in Brownsville, Texas, with less than $100 in my pocket.
I slept a few nights on a park bench until I contacted a family friend who took me in. I ended up staying in The Valley for about a month. It was during a drunken night out in Mexico, that I met Angelica.
Angelica's family were all in volved in the Mexican drug trade. She had family in Chicago, so when I returned to the Midwest, she followed. She grounded me and gave me focus. She also gave me The Plug.
By DECEMBER OF 1995, I was cashin' out for 500 pounds of marijuana per week. I rented three apartments in three different states and was eyeballing a house in Texas. I bought five cars but had no drivers license. I planned to grind though the summer of 1996, and retire in Mexico. Then I got that call... a warrant was being issued for my arrest. I was being charged with murder?
Angelica was the first person I told. She responded by telling me that she was pregnant. She wanted to run with me to Mexico. I told her it wasn't safe but I'd meet her in Matamoros. I left her with a box full of money. Then, I led the authorities on a nationwide manhunt. From Chicago to Denver. From Denver to El Paso. That's where I shook 'em and hit Mexico.
The patriarch of Angelica's family was captured earlier that same year. It was too "hot" to go straight to Matamoros. I contacted another connect of mine from Chicago, and he shuttled me to his home town. After a month of hiding deep within Mexico's interior, I met Angelica in Monterey. I begged her to go back to her aunt's house in the U.S. She refused.
Angelica wanted to stay with her family and me in Mexico until she had the baby, then the three of us would disappear together. I didn't want to bring any extra heat on her family, so I shot back and forth between her family's ranch outside of Matamoros and central Mexico, where I was renting a house in the mountains.
I blame myself for the added stress I put on her. Not only was her family falling apart, my past was destroying her future. In late July, she miscarried and hemorraged. Her aunt and I were the only two there to help her. What the hell could I do? I couldn't even understand the words spewing from her aunts mouth.
I wrapped our son in a towel and placed him in Angelica's lifeless arms. What's crazy is... it's the smell of that day that haunts me. That and Angelica's aunt's face, screaming at me as I walked out of the house.
I should have overdosed long before that third or fourth day I had been in one of those brothel rooms you rent by the hour. One of the girls told me, "Now you'll cry forever," as she tattooed this tear underneath my eye with an old safety pin she plucked from her dingy bra. Eventually, Angelica's cousin found me. After he backhanded the girls out of "my hospice" he jammed his gun in my mouth.
Three times I had to fight for my life while I was in Mexico. At that point, I had no will to fight. I was defeated. I ached for the comfort that one pull of the trigger would bring.
I don't know why I'm still alive... but all I could do was laugh.
A week later, when I was arrested and brought back to the U.S., I was laughing. "Take it in, this will only happen one time in your life," I told my brother as we were apprehanded. When the cops pulled me out of the SUV that drove us across the border, tourist were everywhere taking pictures of the specticle. "You won't be laughing for long," some jackass hollered at me. He should have followed the story all the way through. lol
The FBI came to see me while I was being held in a Laredo jail before I waved extradition to Michigan. They slapped down a folder full of surveillance photos. The pictures were all of me and Angelica's cousin in Chicago. They offered to take me into federal custody if I agreed to cooperate in the prosecution of Angelica's family. If not, I would be facing a life sentence in a state prison. I told them to Eat A Dick.
Seven months in Calhoun County Jail. Four weeks for the charade of a trial. Inside of the courtroom, the prosecutor fabricated a story and portrayed an image he would drop as soon as he left the sight of his audience. He would actually laugh about it and taunt me, while I sat in the holding tank before trial started. The media broadcasted every lie they were fed. I watched it all play out knowing the Fix was in. The public loves a good magic show.
Yet, when I'm found guilty and all I can do is laugh, you call me a monster. Your judgement of me is based on an edited video clip taken from a split second in time. My reaction to a forseen conclusion. No background story needed.
I haven't shed a tear since I left that mexican brotherl. The last tear I'll shed is tattood on my face. All I have left is a feigned smile for my appreciation of life. To me, your reaction to it is inconsequential. Have you seen my latest prison ID photo? Twenty years later.... Still smilin'.
We're all going to hell... I've been there already... just wait until it's your turn.
I see some people are bothered because I laughed when the jury rendered their verdict of GUILTY. Like... me not breaking down and sobbing in anguish, really offends them. It has become one of their "go to" video clips that they use to push their "he's a monster" narrative.
There's nothing less admirable than a man with no fight. Society pronounces the value of true grit, until you are their adversary, then they require your submission.
If it helps you self-righteous sons-of-bitches feel better about yourselves, know this: I was devastated. My entire being was crushed. I sobbed uncontrollably for days, praying for the solace of death. However, MY defeat came months before that jury of 12 idiots pronounced me guilty. By the time I was arrested, there was nothing that could be done to me that would compare to the pain I had already endured. What you witnesses when that verdict was read, was a man who no longer gave a fuck.
_______________
Before that tragic night in December, I was a tenage kid hustlin' in the Rap Game. This was back in the early nineties before anyone with a computer and a microphone was "in the studio." Back before rappers even made real money. So rappin', wasn't my only hustle.
I spent my nights slangin' rocks & weed, then would crash for a few hours before hittin' the studio. It was me, Rob Nice, Que and Lou Bean. We went from throwing parties in Lou Bean's momma's house, to talent shows and club appearances.
When I pressed the tape "Ride the Mighty High," I slung it out of the trunk of my car, just like the drugs I was already selling. I used that money to cop more weed, then flipped that to buy more music equipment. However, somewhere along the line, more of my hustle became focused on selling trees and less on making music. I wasn't famous but I was locally known and the notoriety from selling drugs satified my teenage ego more than doing shows.
The Dope Game doesn't only involve selling Dope. The Dope Game is at the center of every other criminal endeavor also. I was caught in the mix with stickup kids, boosters, counterfeiters, illegal gun runners, gangbangers and killers. Often, the lines get blurred. I sold dope. Most of the girls I fucked with sold pussy. At heart, they weren't the girl next door, they were Jodi Arias.
DECEMBER OF 1993 changed everything for me. I was shell-shocked by that traumatic experience. It's what tilted the scale from me being a petty thug with aspiring rap dreams, to me climbing the ladder of international drug trafficking. I felt like from then on, it was all or nothing.
I spent the year of 1994 wallowing in the depths of debauchery. I was a migrant drug dealer, indulging in everything I sold. Orgies on acid with hippie chicks at 'Dead shows. Bustos on hoodrats in the slums of Chicago. It was a year of fightin', fuckin' and flippin' work. Until DECEMBER OF 1994, when I ended up stranded in Brownsville, Texas, with less than $100 in my pocket.
I slept a few nights on a park bench until I contacted a family friend who took me in. I ended up staying in The Valley for about a month. It was during a drunken night out in Mexico, that I met Angelica.
Angelica's family were all in volved in the Mexican drug trade. She had family in Chicago, so when I returned to the Midwest, she followed. She grounded me and gave me focus. She also gave me The Plug.
By DECEMBER OF 1995, I was cashin' out for 500 pounds of marijuana per week. I rented three apartments in three different states and was eyeballing a house in Texas. I bought five cars but had no drivers license. I planned to grind though the summer of 1996, and retire in Mexico. Then I got that call... a warrant was being issued for my arrest. I was being charged with murder?
Angelica was the first person I told. She responded by telling me that she was pregnant. She wanted to run with me to Mexico. I told her it wasn't safe but I'd meet her in Matamoros. I left her with a box full of money. Then, I led the authorities on a nationwide manhunt. From Chicago to Denver. From Denver to El Paso. That's where I shook 'em and hit Mexico.
The patriarch of Angelica's family was captured earlier that same year. It was too "hot" to go straight to Matamoros. I contacted another connect of mine from Chicago, and he shuttled me to his home town. After a month of hiding deep within Mexico's interior, I met Angelica in Monterey. I begged her to go back to her aunt's house in the U.S. She refused.
Angelica wanted to stay with her family and me in Mexico until she had the baby, then the three of us would disappear together. I didn't want to bring any extra heat on her family, so I shot back and forth between her family's ranch outside of Matamoros and central Mexico, where I was renting a house in the mountains.
I blame myself for the added stress I put on her. Not only was her family falling apart, my past was destroying her future. In late July, she miscarried and hemorraged. Her aunt and I were the only two there to help her. What the hell could I do? I couldn't even understand the words spewing from her aunts mouth.
I wrapped our son in a towel and placed him in Angelica's lifeless arms. What's crazy is... it's the smell of that day that haunts me. That and Angelica's aunt's face, screaming at me as I walked out of the house.
I should have overdosed long before that third or fourth day I had been in one of those brothel rooms you rent by the hour. One of the girls told me, "Now you'll cry forever," as she tattooed this tear underneath my eye with an old safety pin she plucked from her dingy bra. Eventually, Angelica's cousin found me. After he backhanded the girls out of "my hospice" he jammed his gun in my mouth.
Three times I had to fight for my life while I was in Mexico. At that point, I had no will to fight. I was defeated. I ached for the comfort that one pull of the trigger would bring.
I don't know why I'm still alive... but all I could do was laugh.
A week later, when I was arrested and brought back to the U.S., I was laughing. "Take it in, this will only happen one time in your life," I told my brother as we were apprehanded. When the cops pulled me out of the SUV that drove us across the border, tourist were everywhere taking pictures of the specticle. "You won't be laughing for long," some jackass hollered at me. He should have followed the story all the way through. lol
The FBI came to see me while I was being held in a Laredo jail before I waved extradition to Michigan. They slapped down a folder full of surveillance photos. The pictures were all of me and Angelica's cousin in Chicago. They offered to take me into federal custody if I agreed to cooperate in the prosecution of Angelica's family. If not, I would be facing a life sentence in a state prison. I told them to Eat A Dick.
Seven months in Calhoun County Jail. Four weeks for the charade of a trial. Inside of the courtroom, the prosecutor fabricated a story and portrayed an image he would drop as soon as he left the sight of his audience. He would actually laugh about it and taunt me, while I sat in the holding tank before trial started. The media broadcasted every lie they were fed. I watched it all play out knowing the Fix was in. The public loves a good magic show.
Yet, when I'm found guilty and all I can do is laugh, you call me a monster. Your judgement of me is based on an edited video clip taken from a split second in time. My reaction to a forseen conclusion. No background story needed.
I haven't shed a tear since I left that mexican brotherl. The last tear I'll shed is tattood on my face. All I have left is a feigned smile for my appreciation of life. To me, your reaction to it is inconsequential. Have you seen my latest prison ID photo? Twenty years later.... Still smilin'.
We're all going to hell... I've been there already... just wait until it's your turn.
