Post by Dru Tha Merc on Nov 28, 2010 3:09:19 GMT -5
The Hydeout.
Once proud bar, privately owned in Tampa Bay’s historic Ybor City. At this moment in time it’s closed, very closed. The owner has since gown home. An e-mail had been sent out to one ‘Christopher Strike’ explaining that the owner, in keeping with his more important matters of the wrestling school, had decided to hand over the bar. The e-mail was as follows…
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Smells are the first thing to be noticed… The chilling, unrepentant scents of Bourbon, Ales, perfectly good Scotch, Vodka, Rum, Whiskey, and Liqueur, being poured on every single bit of furniture, the walls, down the bar in the front, in the back by the kitchen, the bathrooms, anything that can get soaked in alcohol, does.
The next thing is the abnormal heat and smoke… A single burner on a stove has been left ‘high’, with one alcohol soaked rag on it. One rag soaked in Bacardi 151, more to the point. You know, the particular alcohol that happens to be extraordinarily flammable, and can be the perfect choice for arson that can be made to look like an accident.
Whoever has done this has long since left. He knows full-well that by the time he’s in his car and driving away, there would have been no one to witness the crime, or realize what has happened. He knows that no one will jump to the assumption that it was anything but an accident. The city of Tampa was about due for a random restaurant fire that people would mutter and whisper as a ‘shame’ and how it did ‘such good business’. The bar’s assailant shakes his head in amazement. People were stupid. Niggas was stupid. This was all nigga logic. Logic for niggas. He was the kind of man to admit that the world was going to shit, yet he thrived in the madness, in the climate.
…
Ah well.
---
The logo for KoP flashes before the camera zooms out on a man sitting, his feet cocked up on a table as he leans back. In front of him on the worn, circular table is a six pack of Blue Moon, and a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. The man’s face is hidden thanks to a newspaper, though he speaks, addressing those watching.
“You know what’s always a given, my niggas? When shit hits the fan, and all kinds of problems arise and shitty-shat, what you gonna do? Who you gonna call? Not ghostbusters in this bitch, that’s for damn sure. Look, listen, check this, peep this. You need someone to watch your back, and make sure your title defense goes smoothly?
Damn sure I’ll be there.
Or maybe you're the challenger, lookin’ to snuff out, or beat a nigga just before that fool’s title defense, ‘cause he be on that next shit? Hell, you may even want someone to rock his clock, dock his jock, and knock his frock, if you know what I’m sayin’…
You know what I’m sayin’?
You know what I’m sayin’?”
The man crumples up the newspaper and throws it over his shoulder, staring viciously into the camera. That man is none other than the one and only, Dru Tha Merc.
“Shit mother-lover, do you know what the hell I’m saying?! Check me out. My name is Dru Tha Merc, and I’m popping in to cut some lives, and drop some dives. Drown the kids, shoot the neighbors, shit bitches, I’ll do it all. You want someone kidnapped? You want a rape committed on someone’s valet?
Shit, I’ll go Jack Benevolence on a bitch for the right price, too.
Why? ‘Cause I love money. I love money more than my own family, my possibly illegitimate children, those women who SAY they had my illegitimate children, and the sisters of those women, especially Keisha, who gives some of the best head I ever had. Damn fiery little Portuguese girl. Yo, when she sucks your- ”
Someone clears their throat from behind camera. During his spiel, Dru was making some hand motions of someone’s crotch being jerked on while their scrotum gets placated. The director of this little commercial clears his throat, as Dru glances at him and sneers. He looks back to the camera.
“This is the Gangstar, Dru Tha Merc. Like I said, I’m comin’ back, to make a splash and crack some heads, beat some respect and basically bring the hustle. Let’s hope whoever you are in this Kingdom… That someone doesn’t pay to have you silenced, cause well…
…I’ll be dead on your ass like Spencer for fuckin’ hire! I’ll feed you your own testicles and do it in a jiffy! I don’t car if your momma there, grandmomma, kids, babysitters, bill collectors, whatever! I’ll fill your whole block with hot brass if I have to! Know why?!”
Dru gets slowly, slowly into the camera as it zooms on him, his big nostrils moving slowly, hypnotically as he grins that wicked, white grin.
“Cause I just don’t give a fuck.”
---
…To Be Continued…
Once proud bar, privately owned in Tampa Bay’s historic Ybor City. At this moment in time it’s closed, very closed. The owner has since gown home. An e-mail had been sent out to one ‘Christopher Strike’ explaining that the owner, in keeping with his more important matters of the wrestling school, had decided to hand over the bar. The e-mail was as follows…
---
Dear Chris.
Hey bruh-bruh, how’s it hanging, The King of Muay Thai here, ‘Grimeyville’, God of Wind, God of Death, uhm, Psychosomatic Submissionist was a good one. You know, in retrospect, I’ve had more nicknames then… I was gonna make a joke about Christian Kane and his many lays but I realize that would make me feel kinda stupid ‘cause I wanna get laid. Anyhoo…
Chris, you are a part-owner of my bar, The Hydeout, but with me putting more attention on my wrestling school ventures, I think it’s about that time that changes. I want to give you the Hydeout. Now I know what you’re thinking. Well actually I don’t but hell man, you’ll always been a good friend of mine, and hell, you know the place about as well as I do, and the staff. Besides, if I hand it to Dru, the place may get burned down in a matter ofmonths… weeks. No offense to my cousin, but Dru ain’t exactly the business type.
Sure, the guy will crack anyone’s head in for the right price, punch someone in the chest, lay someone to high hell out, and crunch out a few throats, even his own mother, but you’ve been a better tag partner and even friend at times then he has. No offense to him but well, he’s turned his back on me enough times…
Anyway Strike, hit me back when you get the chance. I got this new kid at my school today, he’s like fire.
~ Lyn
Hey bruh-bruh, how’s it hanging, The King of Muay Thai here, ‘Grimeyville’, God of Wind, God of Death, uhm, Psychosomatic Submissionist was a good one. You know, in retrospect, I’ve had more nicknames then… I was gonna make a joke about Christian Kane and his many lays but I realize that would make me feel kinda stupid ‘cause I wanna get laid. Anyhoo…
Chris, you are a part-owner of my bar, The Hydeout, but with me putting more attention on my wrestling school ventures, I think it’s about that time that changes. I want to give you the Hydeout. Now I know what you’re thinking. Well actually I don’t but hell man, you’ll always been a good friend of mine, and hell, you know the place about as well as I do, and the staff. Besides, if I hand it to Dru, the place may get burned down in a matter of
Sure, the guy will crack anyone’s head in for the right price, punch someone in the chest, lay someone to high hell out, and crunch out a few throats, even his own mother, but you’ve been a better tag partner and even friend at times then he has. No offense to him but well, he’s turned his back on me enough times…
Anyway Strike, hit me back when you get the chance. I got this new kid at my school today, he’s like fire.
~ Lyn
---
Smells are the first thing to be noticed… The chilling, unrepentant scents of Bourbon, Ales, perfectly good Scotch, Vodka, Rum, Whiskey, and Liqueur, being poured on every single bit of furniture, the walls, down the bar in the front, in the back by the kitchen, the bathrooms, anything that can get soaked in alcohol, does.
The next thing is the abnormal heat and smoke… A single burner on a stove has been left ‘high’, with one alcohol soaked rag on it. One rag soaked in Bacardi 151, more to the point. You know, the particular alcohol that happens to be extraordinarily flammable, and can be the perfect choice for arson that can be made to look like an accident.
Whoever has done this has long since left. He knows full-well that by the time he’s in his car and driving away, there would have been no one to witness the crime, or realize what has happened. He knows that no one will jump to the assumption that it was anything but an accident. The city of Tampa was about due for a random restaurant fire that people would mutter and whisper as a ‘shame’ and how it did ‘such good business’. The bar’s assailant shakes his head in amazement. People were stupid. Niggas was stupid. This was all nigga logic. Logic for niggas. He was the kind of man to admit that the world was going to shit, yet he thrived in the madness, in the climate.
…
Ah well.
---
The logo for KoP flashes before the camera zooms out on a man sitting, his feet cocked up on a table as he leans back. In front of him on the worn, circular table is a six pack of Blue Moon, and a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. The man’s face is hidden thanks to a newspaper, though he speaks, addressing those watching.
“You know what’s always a given, my niggas? When shit hits the fan, and all kinds of problems arise and shitty-shat, what you gonna do? Who you gonna call? Not ghostbusters in this bitch, that’s for damn sure. Look, listen, check this, peep this. You need someone to watch your back, and make sure your title defense goes smoothly?
Damn sure I’ll be there.
Or maybe you're the challenger, lookin’ to snuff out, or beat a nigga just before that fool’s title defense, ‘cause he be on that next shit? Hell, you may even want someone to rock his clock, dock his jock, and knock his frock, if you know what I’m sayin’…
You know what I’m sayin’?
You know what I’m sayin’?”
The man crumples up the newspaper and throws it over his shoulder, staring viciously into the camera. That man is none other than the one and only, Dru Tha Merc.
“Shit mother-lover, do you know what the hell I’m saying?! Check me out. My name is Dru Tha Merc, and I’m popping in to cut some lives, and drop some dives. Drown the kids, shoot the neighbors, shit bitches, I’ll do it all. You want someone kidnapped? You want a rape committed on someone’s valet?
Shit, I’ll go Jack Benevolence on a bitch for the right price, too.
Why? ‘Cause I love money. I love money more than my own family, my possibly illegitimate children, those women who SAY they had my illegitimate children, and the sisters of those women, especially Keisha, who gives some of the best head I ever had. Damn fiery little Portuguese girl. Yo, when she sucks your- ”
Someone clears their throat from behind camera. During his spiel, Dru was making some hand motions of someone’s crotch being jerked on while their scrotum gets placated. The director of this little commercial clears his throat, as Dru glances at him and sneers. He looks back to the camera.
“This is the Gangstar, Dru Tha Merc. Like I said, I’m comin’ back, to make a splash and crack some heads, beat some respect and basically bring the hustle. Let’s hope whoever you are in this Kingdom… That someone doesn’t pay to have you silenced, cause well…
…I’ll be dead on your ass like Spencer for fuckin’ hire! I’ll feed you your own testicles and do it in a jiffy! I don’t car if your momma there, grandmomma, kids, babysitters, bill collectors, whatever! I’ll fill your whole block with hot brass if I have to! Know why?!”
Dru gets slowly, slowly into the camera as it zooms on him, his big nostrils moving slowly, hypnotically as he grins that wicked, white grin.
“Cause I just don’t give a fuck.”
---
…To Be Continued…