Читать книгу Get Down or Lay Down - Derrick MD Johnson - Страница 5

“Hurry the fuck up man! Close the trunk!”

Quarter Man did as told and kicked the leg of the victim back into the trunk and slammed it shut. It was a cold dark evening in Murderapolis; as cold as a hooker’s heart.

As I sit here trying to figure out how the following events took place, I’ve slowly come to realize that what many of today’s rappers rap about was just another average day for a small group of men called the Bogus-D-Siples.

In a state known as The Land of 10,000 Lakes - at least that is the state’s slogan - for the pimps, dope boys, and thieves, it was a hustler’s paradise. Up north here we don’t vibe off of the out-of-towners coming into our city for any reason, but the dislike alone didn’t stop the flow of people seeking a piece of the pie up here. Consequently, as a result of their being here, a click was formed of local guys from various gangs; those who just didn’t seem to fit in with their clicks.

Prior to forming the Bogus-D-Siples, we all hustled crack and the game was lovely. All the local niggas was breaking bread. What we brought in from Chicago we tripled up here. That was until the FBI, and many other out-of-state crews, invaded our turf and under cut the local prices. Due to this, us local niggas decided shit had to be done. This is how BOGUS-D-SIPLES CAME TO BE AND MADE A CITY THAT WAS ONCE CALM INTO WHAT IS NOW KNOWN AS MURDERAPOLIS.