Untitled 9 (Arge)
It was the summer, hot like a melted popsicle. The girls would double-dutch to the sirens and gunshot medleys. Me and RJ would slap box in the backyard of his mama house then run inside for a long plastic cup of Kool-aid too sweet to not teach a kid to fly. It was the summer where everyone had a crew and a hit list paid for in skittles and one rotating friend actually willing to hit that nigga if he says something slick again. We learned how to be legendary from Friday or Hard Knock Life...vol. 2 or watching our heros get killed over some beef well cooked. We all wanted to be Biggie someday, so we made any excuse to throw hands. Told niggas to square. Tried to become god. To make a story out our name they could tell their kids. Like the one time Slim got caught up with Jelly’s girl so Jelly turned his jaw a river. Or when they jumped Squeak up on Third after he won a game of 21 and made an ill timed ya mama joke. Or that one time, dice became a shootout where all the bullets missed their targets. Or that one time... We tell a million stories of the immortal, every retelling becomes more a myth. We are trying so hard to live forever.