Another Two headed Moron: Twenty-Two Sleek's Slash What These Nigga's Need to Know Is...

This One's for Sleek (dot, dot, dot) yeah, you heard me (full stop) The sole purpose of this here post is to prove to Sleek that I, Bujulaati Rhymes, the fasted bra popper this side of the Sahara has not gone soft. Or put more aptly, has not “Gone Sleek”. And yes, haters (that means you Sleek) this is the part where you can start hating. (paragraph) Don t be fooled, I'm as hood as ever Sleek. SO hood in fact that you better start resting with one eye up. Why? Cos' Sleek, us hustler's don't sleep, Nigga. And yeah, I know what Lil' Sleek must be thinking, that “This nigga right here has no idea who he's messin' with. This is Lil' Sleek we're talking about.” and that, “Who does this nigga think he's foolin'? Nigga's lost his swag, and once you've lost that, there aint no getting it back.”

Well Ive got news for you Sleek, this post right here is a lil' something I like to call “The Return”. And Sleek, my nigg, this is gonna be one hell of a come back. And not the “Kingdom Come” or “Before I Self Destruct” kind of comeback either but the monster smash, multi-platinum, my name is friggin' James Cameron type of come back.

And it all begins with this here post. And Sleek, before you start looking for a loophole, don't be fooled. The boom may not come with this post or the one here after but just know Sleek, that it will come.(paragraph) half way through my Twenty-Two Sleek's Campaign (okay, now its half way through +1) and the name Sleek, (Okay there goes one more) is starting to wear off its welcome on this one golden boy's tongue. But seeing as I still have 9 Sleeks to go (okay, now they're 8) I might as well get it over with. But FIRST (dot, dot, dot)

Bujulaati Rhymes Presents: Kill Or be Killed. A Tuesday Massacre

Time: Shortly Before Two A.M.

The Place: The Victorian; a small out of the way bar on the west side of town; the best side of town to get killed in.

There are few revelers. The rain has kept most of them at bay, locked up in their small story book houses, seated in front of their small story book fireplaces, sipping on small mugs of story book hot chocolate. It is only the brave...and the intensely desperate who have ventured from their homes, into the rain and into the night to Sleek out, oh I'm sorry, I meant to say SEEK out, the camaraderie of fellow man, especially fellow slightly drunk man and the warmth of The Drink. And for some, not many but some...the promise of blood. Our hero; let's call him B. Rhymes, is seated alone in a singular dim corner of the bar sipping on the house's tapped special, his custom .45 deftly tucked into his jeans snug in the small of his back, waiting for the appointed time. 

After a leisurely sip, B. Rhymes pulls out his uniquely crested golden pocket watch, only but one of his various curiosities and checks the time. 

His breath is slow in coming. Another sip. This one a whole lot less leisurely than the one before; there is now very little left of it.

He finishes the beer. Sets down the mug. Inhale, exhale, a rub of the chin...

Ding! The bell above the entrance goes as the door is pushed open and four pairs of black Tims and black hoodies saunter into the bar. It's Lil Sleek. The nigga who thought he ran that part of town. The nigga the entire town was afraid of. 

The bar is suddenly silent. Deathly quiet. They all knew what he was there for. He had come for blood. Blood and more blood; gallons of the stuff. 

Everyone knew that you didn't cross Lil Sleek. Because if you did cross him...it would mean a dozen red roses for your family and a head stone that read something like “Brother, Son and Beloved Husband”

Following a silent order from his boss, Sleek's right hand man “Wild” walks up to where B. Rhymes is seated, not cowering but quietly calm...oddly collected, and towering above him, (Wild is at least 6 foot 4) jerks a thumb towards the door. 

“Time to go.” he rumbles.

B. Rhymes reaches for his beer mug for one last sip but then remembering that he's already finished his beer, pulls back his hand, discreetly touches his custom four-five, ready to blow one's hive because one doesn't have to go to church to get to know one's God and stands up.

He can feel the heat of Sleek's gaze as he walks up to the rest of the posse under the irate glare of the giant that is Wild.

Our Hero (approaching the man who is intent on killing him): 

Sleek...

Our Nemesis (Smiling, sadistic and full malice): 

Rhymes...how nice to see you.

Our Hero: 

yeah, havnt seen you since-

Our Nemesis (Cutting him off, his voice high pitched with an odd Arabic inflection to it): 

Silence...! I'll Kill you!

Our Hero (his tone slightly mocking):

well someones been watching too much of Achmed The Dead Terrorist. Remember that part when he started talking about how the Washington Monument looks more like a tribute to Bill Clinton than it does to-

Our Nemesis ( Completely flustered): 

Do you WANT to die infidel?!? do you want to??? Cos' Nigga you is pushing me!

Our Hero: 

I mean I just figured, you're planning on killing me anyway, what difference would it make, huh? I mean, its not like if I act all nice and crap you're juss gonna let me go...is it?

Our Nemesis, staring disbelievingly at this nigga not quite sure what to say next. Instead he snaps his fingers, points at Wild then points at Rhymes. Reacting instantly, Wild grabs Rhymes and pushes him towards the door.

Our Nemesis: 

Enough chit chat Nigga. You better start praying to whatever God you believe in to deliver your black ass. 

(To Wild)

Wild. Outside. Now.

Ever the henchman, Wild does what he is told. Pushing Our Hero out of the front door and into the night. They are promptly followed by the rest of the posse who put up their hoods and pull out their biscuits. (And by biscuits I mean their guns...and don't look at me like that, it's apparently a west side thing)
After issuing the bar's occupants with a stern warning, namely that if anyone said anything, and he WOULD know, there would be hell to pay, Sleek pulled out his own tech and followed his boys onto the street...

This is supposed to be one of those “To Be Continued” things but before I do that; Sleek...and...Sleek. There. Those are Twenty-Two Sleek's. Now, with that out of the way;

To Be Continued....