Everybody wonders why rap stars carry such huge silver crosses around our necks, and even bigger guns under our macks. Well shit, we need those to stop the fangbangers. Our music pulls in the juicy warm bodies and when the hunters arrive to feed, that's when we kick it old school style.
I was slamming a freestyle rap on stage at the Metro, when suddenly I could feel a presence in the crowd of homeys and bettys. Trill, a hunter was here, checking for sweetmeat to jack. Well not in my hood. Cutting the rap short, I finished and made a fist with my right hand to thump my chest twice, then showed two fingers. The crackers in the audience thought that meant 'peace' or some hippie shit like that. But my G in the boxseat nodded and flashed me back the two-finger V, which stood for vampire. Houston, we have a hunter.
Chilling on stage, I slipped into the next rap, knowing my 11 was solid. My posse was hip to the bad vibes in the Metro and had my butt covered. But we had to move fast, fangbangers only come out when they're jonesing for the red. Those boneyard bitches sure ain't here to window shop. Don't take no Cronkite to get down with that.
The gig was def, but bouncing the show short I slipped off-stage, telling the Beavis I was going to the knock boots with a slit. But hitting the side door, I stepped into the alleyway and my dawgs rolled up in a classic 98. Putting on a game face, I took the shotgun seat and tucked on some steel. A deuce-deuce in my belt loaded with hollowpoints packed with garlic mixed with high-ex mercury, and a Glock nine under my arm carrying blessed African Ironwood rounds. The rest of my posse had crossbows, gauges, and a lot of wooden shanks. Tasty. Unless the toothfairys were packing mil, we owned their supernat ass.
Swinging out of the alley onto MLK, we did a drive-by on the crowd pouring out of the Metro, players and homegirls all cursing as we sprayed them with Holy Water from our supersoakers. Def. Nobody fired a cap back 'cause it was me in the '98 Olds and that made it all hardcore.
Then a brother in biker leather caught the H2Holy and burst into fire. Lottery! The two stags alongside the flamer took off at B-boy speed, but G at the wheel slammed through a P.O. to blindside 'em both on the lamp. Domes went uptown, while hightops went for the burbs, but the Bloody Crypts were still aces and came humming, charging the low-rider like crackheads from Hell, screaming and spitting.
Damn! We didn't need to drop science on a cipher to know it was time to get medieval on their ass, so we cut loose with our Dillons. Catching wooden pills, the bloodsuckers went down, exploding into ashes that got blown away on the Hawk from the d-town river. Totally phat
Then from out of no-fucking-where some steroid junkie drops from the sky and crumbles the hood of the 98. Eight feet tall, with fangs and cape, sheet, he must have been the old school McCoy itself!
Slapping mags, we knuckled up gats. But instead of showing us his pearlies, the supernat bad ass wipes out a Mossberg and starts pumping lead!
The windshield shattered, and G jerked backwards as he caught a burst in the dome, his face removed to the bone. Sombitch gaked my bro! I emptied the nine into the red rum czar, but he only fell off the Olds and hit the ground running. Wigger had a mil vest and was playing us! Now I was bugging.
My posse poured onto the pavement and laid down everything they had while I calmly drew the deuce-deuce and took aim as if this was LP and I had all the damn time in the world.
As they stopped pouring wood, he turned to fire the Mossberg and I stroked the trigger to cap a .22 smack in the dirtnapper's ear. Zero! His head burst into flames from the detonating garlic, so I gave him another taste in the eye and he hit the sidewalk thrashing and squealing like a new fish in stir tossing a salad.
By now we could hear a ghetto-bird in the air, and I knew the 5-0 was coming. But the life-jacker was still moving, trying to crawl into the storm sewer and escape. Fuck that shit. We grabbed the heavy silver crosses off our necklaces and drummed him a ride on the forever train until even his ash was bust. He had game, but we were slamming that night.
Done deal, it was Miller time. But this sort of gig was much too hard to 411 to the city blues. So we left my bomb Oldsmobile were it was parked, and bounced into the shadows on a ghost. We were gone.
So go ahead, chill in the crib with a tallboy and Leno, we got ya six, cos. Rap gangstas are the secret brotherhood of heavily-armed musicians that stalk the night, protecting all the homies and fat cats alike. My straight name is Robert Adams, all my dawgs call me Big Daddy. But to the downtown fangbangers, I'm Puffy the vampire slayer.
Word up. Peace.
BIO: Nick Pollotta is the author of three "Bureau 13" novels, in addition to "Illegal Aliens" (written with Phil Foglio) and a great number of popular military novels. His homepage is: www.NickPollotta.com
RPG: Bureau 13 is a covert branch of the FBI that uses military firepower, and magic, to handle supernatural criminals. Created by TriTacGames.com.
Text copyright © 2002 Nick Pollotta