Tommy, you a stupid mofucka. Gonna compare me to Yeezy, and Through the Wire, when dat was the hit that put him on. Going through this wire gonna put me in that spotlight and on da map, no cap. Tommy ya best stick to getten trashed, and trashen air BNB’s, cause ya title run bout to be a dumpster fire.

Ya a dupe of a rapper, a dupe of a wrestler, and a dupe of a champion. White wrapper, but ya ain’t spit na bar. Ya gonna be spitten Scotland though, spitten ya teeth out ya mouf. AYY, I’mma be spitten too sun, spitten that hot FIRE with lyrics cold as ICE.

Ya tryen to come at me questioning the quality of my beats and my words, but you ain’t drop a reply track, sound like you is what I said you is, a fake, a fraud, a phony, and a bitch made Marshall Mathers Stan. Tryen to be relevant and cop some rizz by jocken the street game. Ya a mumble rapper at best, couldn’t spit the hotness with a gut fulla ghost peppers. When CRAM  can SCRAM is the best wordplay ya got, you showing ya hand and ya ain’t got shit in um.

Ya wanted this smoke, and ya wanted in da barbed-wire, ya got ya wish Tommy. But ya ain’t know that like them six hundred and fitty wished John Blade done granted, it’s ya last wish.

~ Smoke from the pineapple White Owl cigarillo drifts across the dimly lit room. A black middle-aged man sits at a control panel of a recording study taking a deep inhale. He feels his lungs to their full capacity and then hands the blunt to the massive hand of Cram who sits across from him on a leather couch. The two men are feeling and dressed relaxed. The middle-aged black man wears a Valor sweatsuit straight outta the early 2000s with some gold chains in serious need of polishing.

Cram is also laid back, baggy green basketball shorts, a throwback Dwayne Johnson Miami Hurricanes jersey, and dripped in a platinum chain with a Rams head pendant. Cram takes the blunt without taking his eyes off his phone. As Cram takes the blunt the black man begins to cough as a large cloud of smoke exits his mouth. Cram begins to laugh as he takes a drag from the blunt. ~

Black Male: Yo cuz, ya laughen at me?

~ Without looking up from his phone Cram responds. ~

Cram: Na bruh, these vids got me splitten.

Black Male: Da hell you be watchen ya phone for cuz? You bout ta lay down a track and you watchen some animal videos or some crap.

~Cram shakes his head as he takes another hit from the blunt, and turns the phone around to show him the video. ~


~The Black Man throws his hands, and pushes the phone aside reaching for the blunt. ~

Black Male: I don’t give a shit bout some goat headbutten a cracker in his balls. I do gotta a problem with you double hitten that blunt. Puff, puff, pass motherfucka..

Cram: Yo Regg, you better check ya damn mouth. First, this is my chron, second I paid for this time I can do whatever the shit I wanna up in here. Ya think I needa be reading a damn thesaurus or somethen before I step in da booth?

~Regg looks like a scolded dog having been put in his place by a man over twice his size. Regg cautiously takes the blunt from CRAM and leans back into his chair as he takes a hit, picking his next words carefully. ~

Regg: Na cuz, I’m just saying you need to be thinken bout what ya gonna lay down. Maybe reviewing ya lyrics, maken sure you got um memorized ya know.

~CRAM  laughs as he throws his torso forward, gaining momentum to get his massive body off the black leather couch. CRAM shoves his phone into the pocket of his basketball shorts and snatches the blunt from Regg. With a large inhale that sucks his gut in CRAM takes down nearly the entire remainder of the blunt. CRAM holds the smoke in his lungs and drops the roach into the ashtray before slowly exhaling without a single cough. Iron lungs bruh. ~

Cram: Na bruh, I don’t be writing down my rhymes. I’m straight off the top, and straight from the heart. I live diss, I don’t be some diary-keeping motherfucka. I ain’t gotta get ready, cause motherfucka I stay ready.

~CRAM opens the glass door to the soundproof booth and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. CRAM pulls the headphones on and adjusts the mic in the booth. Regg pushes a button on the control panel in from of him to be able to talk to CRAM. ~

Regg: So, whatcha wanna lay down first big dog?

Cram: I got somethen for that bitch made Tommy Wish.

Regg: Da fuck kinda name is that?

Cram: I dunno bruh, some trash ass cracka.

Regg: Shiiiitttt, I got that beat you sent me qued up. Hope ya done got the rights to release this bitch.

~Reg releases the talk button and presses another button on the control panel that starts a beat. Regg adjust a few knobs and CRAM nods his head feeling the beat before he begins. ~




~The beat fades and Regg is pumped, shaking his head and pumping his fist as he grabs a jar of chron and another blunt from a small table beside the couch. Cram takes his headphones off and steps out of the booth seemingly unphased by the track he just laid down. ~

Regg: Boy I don’t know who this Tommy cat is, but he done gone and messed with the wrong damn Samoan.

Cram: Sha, Tommy ain’t shit that’d be left on da paper.. Just some trash cracka done got put in my path. Dude think he can stop ya boy from securen da gold outta the box. Tommy gonna wish CRAM never got signed and never spit that whackass comparison to Kanye, cause now he bout to get that Tupac Hit Em’Up treatman. I’m that NAS with the ether to make his soul burn slow, and gonna fuck’um outta his title no vaseline like Cube did NWA.

~Regg empties the guts of the White Owl into a trash can and begins refilling the shell with crushed-up cron. He doesn’t bother looking up at Cram, just continues rolling. ~

Regg: Why you wanna get into that wrestling stuff anyway. Grown men rollen around on each other in spandex seems zesty to me cuz. Course, some dem women I be seeing in spandex though, whoo boy.

Cram: Sha ain’t nutten like that bruh, there do be some fine females in da game, but they be just as deadly. Course that don’t concern ya boy none, I like my women as feminine as possible, keepen it one hundred. Some them so called men, that be as feminine as them females though. Old Tommy body as soft looking as a womans though, and dat boy be so emotional you think it’s his time oh da month all month or somethen.

Regg: Them hormones got bruh on lock.

Cram: When I slam my big coconut through his face dat whore gonna moan.

~Regg snorts while laughing, blowing the chron from the shell all over the control panel. Regg immediately stops laughing and slowly turns to look at Cram. Cram shakes his head, disappointed. ~

Cram: You gonna take that off my next booth fee bruh.

Regg: Oh fo sho cuz, BET!

~The popping sound of gunfire is heard through the studio walls. Regg drops to the floor, and rolls under the control panel desk. Cram snarls and heads for the exit door. As he does he lifts up his jersey grabbing a Pearl handle as he exits the studio door.

Regg stays under the control panel, frozen in fear. Through the walls we hear more popping and then the sounds of screaming. A loud thud of a body is heard, followed by more popping and screaming, and then silence. It is a chilling silence, that seems to last for eternity when it is only a few minutes.

Regg begins to emerge from his hiding spot, and as he crawls out the door to the studio opens. Regg sinks back into his hiding spot until he sees Cram heading back into the studio, adjusting something in his waistband under his jersey. ~

Cram: Yo bruh, hit that third track.

~Regg nods his head as he comes out of hiding and watches Cram head into the booth. Cram pulls his headphones on and grabs the mic as we fade to black. ~