I can’t stand bitches and it seems anymore that every young buck out there is a bitch, just like their mothers, talking shit with no balls to back it up. You’d think niցցers were the masters of everything the way they talk. I was down in Saint Helena with my boy—not my usual spot, just meeting my boy on the corner, makin’ sure he’s good—when this skinny kid steps up, off a bike, and holds a nine on us, you know, ghetto sites, looking down the side of the Barretta—definitely a Barretta. He was maybe seventeen—fuckin’ punk-ass bitch.

I said, ‘What?’ [shrugs shoulders]

Then I notice the bitch is froze up, like he’s dead.

I step to him [crowds author, holding his own finger and thumb to represent a handgun, pressing the ‘barrel’ to his sternum], “Wha’?, Wha’? Bitch, bitch-you man enough ta pull it, use it.”

This dude was froze solid, like a dude that’s been dead all day. What a bitch! I mean I took niցցer guns before and whipped their asses, but never this easy. He couldn’ even talk, never said a word, just big eyes flaring open like he’d seen a ghost. Now, I’m checkin’ on my boy, this is his corner. Came down to make sure he was good. This bitch—it turns out later when I talked to his people—he’s a Turner Station boy—was just looking for people to rob. This wasn’t no thing.

I stepped off and yanked the nine out of his hand and whipped his face a few times—maybe more than a few times. He just sat down and took it. Thing about dealing with bitches is you never know when they’re going to bring in the pigs. I threw the gun down the storm drain. I already had two bitch-niցցer nines en didn’t need another. The bitch actually filed a complaint with his people—can you fuckin’ believe that? That shit is disgraceful.

So I met them just outside of Turner Station to sort this shit out. Really, we’re fucking slinging dope and you’re going to file an excessive force complaint like I’m a fucking pig? Niցցer, please! I told ‘em I didn’t mind them running bitches up my way, just that I wish they’d send some cuter ones and not expect me to let them point guns in my face.

Talking about bitches, I live across the street from this white faɡɡot out in the County. I have plenty of property and popped off a few rounds over the water with the first nine I took. I kid you not, the pigs roll up in five minutes and that cocksucker is pointing at me where I’m sitting on the patio. I had cleaned up the brass and stowed the iron. The cop asks me if I’m shooting and I say, “Yeah, I got a paint ball, a pellet, and an airsoft—there a law against that, officer?”

I’ve been getting shaken down by the pigs since I was eleven. You just give em the ‘I’m not your fucking boy’ look, tell them what you want them to know, and what do they got? They fuckin’ got nothin.’

Fuck ‘em. I hate pigs and bitches but you have to be able to deal with them according to their ways. Mind you, I do not go breaking bad with a real bad motherfucker. I’ve met plenty of black dudes who were bad news and I treat them with respect. But those guys aren’t goin’ ta have any time [respect/breathing space] for you if you let the bitches pop off at the mouth or if you fold in front of the pigs.

It’s a bitch world, brother.