6:45PM – Drastic sabotaged by unscrupulous Techniques
By this time, the DJ battles are ready to begin and the masses are filing into the stage area by the dozen. Columbus’s hometown hero Drastic is scheduled to do battle. He’s a master Technique technician. He works two turntables and a mixer like Eddie Van Halen works his Frankenstrat. Slicing, dicing, and juggling beats like a master chef and headline star of a three-ring circus rolled up into one. Serving up a menu full of fresh beats for hungry ears and turntable acrobatics to amaze the eyes.
Now like most cultures, the hip -hop music scene has its own brand of politics and politicians. Ohio is a moderately sized state with three major cities all competing to say they put Ohio on the map when it comes to hip-hop. So, there is a bitter rivalry between the ‘Bus and the ‘Nati. So if you know politics, you know politicians are the worst kind of lying, cheating scum known to man. This is a lesson Drastic would learn today.
We’re all standing next to the stage talking to Drastic before his go and checking out the competition. It’s going to be a good battle but Drastic has more than enough skills to pay these bills. Soon, it’s time for him to take the stage versus one of the ‘Nati’s turntablists. He’s directed to a set of tables. One of the tables has a white sticker on it. None of us, including Drastic, think anything of it. The Nati’s combatant lays down a decent set but Drastic should have him bagged and toe-tagged in no time. He drops his first record and it’s show time. Then, as he drops the needle on the other record, it skates straight across the record screeching like nails on a chalkboard. Those rotten bastards have deliberately sabotaged him. There’s no way to recover from this. Those rotten fuckers had sent him to the marked tables on purpose. The sticker was on the table that skated. This was dirty pool at its filthiest.
You can see the rage burning in his eyes like the bowels of hell itself. But he handles it like a true champion. He doesn’t flip out and cause a scene or anything. He just collects his records, walks off the stage, and heads for his car to get as far away from this seething pool of despicable pole-greasing deck-stackers as he can get before he loses all control and starts pulling the cards they have lining their sleeves.
1:00 Am- The Gun-Toting Tweaker
I’m really not at liberty to give any further details of the actual event, due to the fact by the time Drastic finished his set; I was about three sheets to the wind. All I really remember was tormenting those bastards from Anticon every chance I could get, and asking Slug of Atmosphere who would win a rap battle between the Smurfs and Snorks? He revealed in his opinion Papa Smurf could eat any Snork hands down in lyrical combat. Verbs had been awol for several hours and it was presumed he was pulling one off to the MSK pieces. Around the time of last call, I ran into Bubba who gladly supplied me with the proper tune up to get my head back in the game.
Bubba’s a Yo-yo champion-gorilla pimp with a taste for techno-geekery and fire arms. He also has quite the love affair with all things fast and furious. I’ve known the bastard for years; he’s good people, my kind of people. He’s the only person I’ve ever met in my life who could leave his house with no more than a full tank of gasoline and half ounce of weed and come back a week later with $10,000 dollars in his pocket. The guy’s a natural born hustler.
He’s standing there with his usual flock of hoes whirling his $150.00 yo-yo around like it was a part of him, almost hypnotizing me with it as we talk. I’m in no mood for the party to stop. I know if anybody knows where fiends of my parties’ caliber could get their rocks off, it’s Bubba.
“So, what’s the deal Bubba? Where do we go from here?”
“Well Eddie, you know little Jenny right? She used date B back in the day. Well her and a few of these other little girls should be having an afterhours. I got some things I got to do right quick bubby, but I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell her your coming and to take care of you bubby.”
I knew this glorious bastard wouldn’t let me down. After a few more minutes of small talk, one of his flock scribbles directions down in the palm of my hand and I’m off rounding up the rest of my traveling companions.
The combination of too much booze and healthy doses of methamphetamine have transformed us into reckless savages. The alcohol has drowned any and all of the usual paranoia out of the speed high. This is not a good thing. We now we have 20 times the liquid balls of any drunk. We can’t find the Cougar anywhere and I decide it best if I find higher ground to survey the parking lot for our missing vehicle. I’m just about to the top of a light pole illuminating the parking lot when Verbs begins violently shaking the pole.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you get a 360 degree view.”
“Stop it! Stop It! If you don’t stop it now I’m going to rip your balls off and feed them to you when I get down from here!”
With that, I heard the scream of snapping metal and I began my white -knuckle descent down into the parking lot riding the lamppost straight down through the windshield of an SUV, parked some twenty feet away from the base of the pole. The screaming sounds of splintering glass and twisting steel was earth-shattering. Sparks are flying from the base, as if I was riding a missile straight into ground zero. I smashed clean through the windshield and was now stuck head first on the floor board under the steering wheel, which the force of my fall had ripped clean from the column.
“Oh shit, I think you killed him Verbsy!”
“No, you couldn’t kill that bastard with a claw hammer if you bashed him in the brains with it. That fucker’s hard as nails.”
With this I have to interject.
“I’m fine but you’re not going to be if you don’t get me the fuck out of here now, you cock sucking bastard!”
By this time a large crowd of spectators begins to form around the SUV. Verbs and Catlin grab me by an ankle and pull me free. I came out holding the steering wheel in my hand. Just at this moment, I heard the angry shouts of the vehicle’s owner. We needed to make our escape and quick. Luckily, the Cougar was parked right next to the SUV. It seems I was right in getting to higher ground in order to find the vehicle. We dive in. Verbs cranks the ignition and we peel rubber the fuck out of there with the angry owner of the SUV in hot pursuit on foot. I toss the steering wheel out the window and scream “Here, you may need this asshole!”
Amazingly, I’m unharmed from my little ride, except for a couple scratches and a bruised ego. Something about being totally blitzed leaves your body in such a relaxed state you don’t tense up, you just kind of go with the flow. Think about it. How is it thousands of drunks get in these horrific wrecks and walk away unscathed but everybody else who was sober involved ends up a grease stain? Alcohol makes your mind believe the body is invincible. It’s all mind over matter. Go pick a fight with any drunken bastard staggering down the street and see if he thinks he’s anything but indestructible to test my theory.
Once we’re a safe distance away from the scene of the crime, and the threat of a shiny pair of bracelets reflecting flashing blue lights in the night air is unapparent, Verbs ask me to check my directions to the afterhours. I open my hand and notice the humid air and use of my hands has caused the directions to smear into an undecipherable mess in my palm. I know better than to say anything. This will only cause him to erupt into another fit of blinding rage. So, my mind is racing to try and remember what the hell Bubba’s flock member had said as she scribbled them in my palm. Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying attention to much else but the beads of sweat coating her cleavage and her diamond-hard glass cutters poking out against the thin fabric of her wet t-shirt.
There’s only one thing to do in situations like this. Lie your ass off and hope for the best. I begin rattling off lefts, rights and exit numbers like nothing was wrong. The next thing I know, we’re pulling into a Greyhound station. Before I can even say anything, Verbs has me by the neck squeezing the blood up into my brain like a pimple ripe for the popping.
“You stupid fucking bastard! Can’t you do anything right?”
My head begins to feel like I’ve just taken a 5 liter blast of nitrous oxide straight to the dome from the lack of precious oxygen to my brain. I have to do something before I lose consciousness to save my life and teach this foul beast to keep his grimy hands to himself. A well placed thumb buried deep in his eye socket should do the trick.
“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGH! You bastard I’m blind. Why would you do that?”
“Why would I do that? You’re choking the life out of me you fat bastard and you’re asking me why would I do that? You’re lucky I didn’t stab them out of their sockets with that fork on the floor board!”
The idiocy of some people’s reactions to why people do things to them at times is staggering especially in the junky mind. Here this fat bastard is cutting my air off and trying to crush my larynx with all his might in hopes my eyeballs would rocket from skull like cannon balls, and he’s wondering why I just stuck my thumb in his eye.
Lesson #237: when dealing with drug addicts- It’s always someone else’s fault. It doesn’t matter if you’d been choking someone and they stuck their thumb in your eye and blinded you. It’s their fault your blind now. Or let’s say you sent them out to score for you and they came back shorthanded yet high as kite three hours later. “Well you see I sent Bob in to get it and well he must have pinched that shit.” All the while their eyes are bulging from their sockets sweat is pouring down them like they just hopped out of the shower and they seem to be trying to grind their teeth down to the gums. But Bob must have dipped in the bag. There’s just something about the junky mind that refuses to take responsibility for anything. Except credit for having the best dope, or saying “I told you so.”
Once Verbs realizes his eye seems to be fine and the oxygen returns to my brain we send Slimmy off to the payphone in the distance to call Bubba for proper directions to the afterhours spot. A few moments later he returns to report Johnny Law has broken the party up. It’s then decided we might as well just get a hotel room and rest up for tomorrow.