Apr/May 2018  •   Fiction

Wigger Boy, Spit

by Provost

Found: in ABQ – studio art jewelry by Jessica deGruyter

Found: in ABQ – studio art jewelry by Jessica deGruyter

I'm gettin' real bloody sick o' all the fake news about me origin n' it's time to set things straight. I was tempted to put up a FAQ page on me site answering questions about the WorldStarHipHop video and how I became a legendary grime icon. But that's not how I roll, I'd much rather connect with you fans on a personal, heart-to-heart level. A lot of shite happened to make me who I am today. I combined me private journal entries and made some alterations suitable for you guyz. It's been mostly American fans confused about how I came to be, so it even includes scholarly footnotes for you buggers you can't hear slang properly. Behold n' enjoy.


Da' two things I love more than anything else in 'dis life are grime1 n' skateboardin'. Believe it or not, they mesh together rather well. Picture Houston, Texas, and sizzurp. Or Nutella buttah' n' crack cocaine. Fockin' bloodline level bondin'. When I'm scribblin' bars, I'm holding me board. And when I'm railin', I've got grime blarin' in me skull. I best be tellin' you my name now. I can tell you're scratchin' to hear it.

I'm known to da' mass-media as MC Bodybag (formerly Smoghorn Leghorn). Cain Richards is me God-given name. I don't look like most skateboardin' rappers out in da' streets. I'm pale and a lil' fragile on sight, but sexy as fock overall. Imagine if 'dat prick Ed Sheeran wuz a fockin' gangsta and had a massive cock n' balls. That's me, bruv. Consider me right now, this very moment, the next best thing to happen to muzic, period. Wasn't always 'dis way, not even half-shot. 'Da worst day of me life walloped right on me lap, fockin' everything straight simple. I'mma take it back there.

Old dogs, new tricks / different toilet, same shit. —Kano

Wuz at 'da park, weekend afternoon, railing n' playin' D Double E.2 Feelin' real gassed. The park is at its most filthy Saturday nights. Bum rubbish n' moshed up cigs. Couldn't be more dingy if Satan herself focked 'dis rink simple with da' plague. Real young persons taking part in the best sport ever did exist. 'Da best skater there was me, no contest. I had these jits,3 mouths wide-open at me ability to ride me board n' bust rhymes at once. It helped 'dat me girl was by me side. I won't speak her name, cos' she'd duppy me unconscious if I spilt her personal information. Let's call her "Dee"4 for right now.

Dee n' me wuz linkin' since before our genitals could get hard. 'Dis wuz a particular sorta' infatuation, bruv. You first need to know 'dat Dee is a real sex-bomb, buff 'ting.5 She was prob'ly the third ting' I loved more than anything in this world. We first lipped at 'dis here park on a Saturday night, long ago. And me white ass was in love. I'm thinkin': Dee's black, n' she's bold, n' she's all mine. We wuz surely da' epitome of jungle fever sensuality.

Later, I decided to breath from railin'. Rush on me girl n' mosh me mouth onto hers, lovingly as I could. Then after the kiss she looked real d'pressed n' she said to me with 'da most fockin' tender emotion, "Cain, baby. It's time to sever the tie. I'm luvin' university and you're luvin' not bein' in university. You keep sayin' our paths will always converge, but if we keep this up, we'll both be hurtin' somethin' awful."

I'm choosing to omit me reply. I'm quite ashamed of it. Me mums6 would beat da' stuffing outta' me if she'd known 'da shite I was yellin' at Dee. I was positively livid. Fookin' hulk smash level fury. I don't normally get lit, so when I do, best believe hell gets to be raised, fam. Dee wuz ballin' outright, this wuz the only time I ever see 'er weep. As a consequence, these wasteman7 fuzz remove me from da' park. I neglect to put up a fight, thinkin' 'bout black men n' The States turned into Swiss cheese for just sayin' "howdy" to 'da police. I shouldn't have special privileges. We in da' same game, after all. Da' follow-up week to 'dis was unfiltered, blatant self-crucifixion.

Cos' when the casket closed, / I'm like really what's the use of these cars and clothes? / If man don't wanna' switch up, / I'mma go hard on me own. —Skepta

'Da best part of livin' outside a relationship is da' fact spending less steam sendin' fockin' grapefruit emojis and good mornin' snapchats images and more time repaying your matriarchal, breathin', channel into life. I spent some real quality time with mums. See, if I'm linkin' with someone, they become me all and everything. But mums gave me her milk n' taught me how to dance. 'Dat was crucial to the formation of me as an artist. Dee hated it when I wore Ed Hardy while we wuz boyfriend n' girlfriend', so I put on some Ed Hardy for me n' mums night out in London and fockin' loved 'dat. I copped us tix to da' cinema n' bought enough gelato8 orders for a family o' nine. I wanted to treat 'er, so we e'en plunked by the grave of her late guinea pigs n' talked about her feelings. I told her the bleedin' rodents are floatin' in the stars, e'en though I knew they is in da' dirt. 'Dat very first day of being single wasn't bad at all. But then I went to sleep.

I wiggled like a bitch under me covers, thinkin' 'bout all kinds o' sad shit. I 'membered how nice Dee's ass felt on me bod when I big spooned 'er. It was me favourite ass in the galaxy, n' now I can't perfectly picture what it feels like anymore. I grew bleedin' amorous for every inch of her flesh. I used me phone so much 'dat night, I felt its fockin' Asian-made plastic singe me got-damned fingertips. Had it plugged in 'da wall n' I kept un-addin' n' addin' her back on Gram, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Reddit, Snap, n' Spotify. Back n' forth. See-saw edition. Me taste in muzic was dodgy 'fore Dee brought fire MC's into me life. She showed me muzic that wasn't afraid to fail. And so glancin' at her muzic playlists gave me full wood. Got even more hot n' bothered when I scrolled thru all 'da nudies she sent me over 'da years. Five-hundred forty seven pix of sheer nudity to fock me up real decent. Was too melancholic to nut from 'em, so I tried to wank it to ebony smut on 'da net. Dee n' me had so much sex on the reg, 'dis was me first experience wit' online porno out of necessity. I saw legit, professional African-American fine 'tings with more seductive foreheads n' firmer teets than Dee. But wanted her so badly, I basically used me sorrow tears as lubrication. Geysers out me sockets, bruv. I had a mound of half-white, all-dried, cried-through jizz tissues I was layin' on top of n' d'pression sleep under. It looked like a bleedin' Katy Perry9 album artwork scheme.

Havin' all 'da sexual 'tings down the hall from me mums started to seem vile to me. I 'membered what she preached to me 'bout sublimation10 n' tried to put it to practice wit' me favorite sport.

I stumbled the first, second, and ninetieth time I hopped on me board. Thought 'twas an issue with the board, so I spent all the cheddar I was savin' on me five-year anniversary with Dee to buy a new model. I bought da' new board 'n I fell off 'dat new fockin' board immediately. Da' few times I could ride in a straight line, I began crashing meself into walls n' fallin' down curbs on purpose. The blood on me garbs started dribblin' red then, but later turned brown, then almost black, the more it rolled in 'da street with me suicidal body. By da' time I came back to da' house, me face was mangled n' me dead skin flaps didn't know whether to stick 'emselves back together and throw up deuces n' exit. Back on me mattress, 'da jizz tissues became blood tissues. It disgusted the fock outta' me 'dat I was capable of 'dis utter depravity. I had to remind meself I was still DJ Bodybag.

I started to get me creative juices flowin'. I shut down every electronic device in the room n' wrote 'till me wrist told me to go fock myself. I turned me recording mic on, uploaded a forty-five track mixtape on Bandcamp, 'twas acapella. Hated that shite, so recorded a better fifty-five track mixtape and uploaded it on Soundcloud. Decent. Still acapella. Beats just felt fake for this kinda' realism, tragic sound I was aimin' for. I waited, n' waited, for reviews or comments but didn't see shite pop up. Since I was feelin' dead inside, it only felt right to bump Biggie on full-blast, realz painfully fockin' loud. I stared at me monitor 'til I couldn't discern the minutes from the weeks or 'da railin' bruises from me acne scars.

I don't 'member what happened betwixt 'ear and the day mums finally walked into me room. But if she didn't walk into 'da room, I wouldn't be tellin' you 'dis chronicle at present. What she did to me 'dat was particularly meaningful was support me in 'da grime scene. Mum hates what she boils down to just "rap muzic." She 'tinks it all promotes gang activity and sexism. And it does do 'dat, but so does rock n' roll n' da' blues n' every other genre of jams a white man tuned an instrument to. Since she knows 'dat I know what 'da patriarchy is, she doesn't support grime, but she supports grime makin' me feel flexed11 as fock. —I can't forget her face when she rubbed me back, n' held her nose tight, n' handed me a flyer to an open mic night n' said, "Go to this and win first place. Don't lie and say you don't want to." Open mics had always been somethin' I pursued on my ones, so going alone didn't fock wit' me. At 'da time 'da only thing I cared about was receivin' a compliment or two on me new Ed Hardy shirt. Spittin' rhymes had nuffin' to do with 'da motivation. It was just an addition to the game.

I live for hip-hop, but 'da social scene of it makes me wanna' die. Too many wastemen frauds who 'tink they da' next fockin' Migos.12 I was red in da' face with fury, cuz, witnessin' cough-syrup spitters embarrass themselves on-stage. I had enough skill n' time to revise these jokers' bars in me head before they got to da' next beatdrop. When I hopped on-stage, dismissive glares is all I got. I was da' only cracker in da' room and da' fact I took naps during their raps let them know I was already peak. I rap loud and spit fast. Me bars back pathos n' the whole club gradually gathered 'round me fire. They was actin' fockin' hectic, bruv. I performed my tween-era masterpiece, "Canned Tuna" and a more recent joint called "Sum Driver's Ed Head."13 They wuz shoutin' for an encore but that shite is always extra. Miles Davis blue-balled his fans for a livin', and I've been called the Miles Davis of grime before.

I was feelin' done n' dusted in me seat after spittin' me guts out to da' masses. Memories were brought back. I felt absolutely mad in 'da mind. Thinkin' 'bout 'da technical proficiency in which Dee could handle me baby batter. Prayin', hopin' she would zap me a text. I started to see every wasteman in da' club as a different version of Dee, none of 'em givin' a fock about me. I snapped out o' it when a gent named DJ MacroBug spoke to me. Dis' man went straight in for 'da dab.

He said, "MacroBug. But you can call me Wesley."

"Great set on da' mic," I lied to his face, not havin' heard a syllable of his songs, "Me name is Cain Richards."

"Add me on Snapchat real quick. If you can fit me in your schedule, you n' me is gettin' some goddamned tacos, tomorrow."

"That's legit, fam. Le's make it happen."

When I left da' club 'dat night, I went to jam to his shite online. It was then I found out he had produced for Childish Gambino n' Wiley. 'Twas impressive. I didn't know what the 'ell would happen to me next but I did know I rode me board all da' way back to me mums without wipin'. And I slept wit' peace n' dreamt like a jit on a sleepy Christmas Eve for da' first time in fo' evah. The sorrow days were RIP-ing. I was ready for life to bring it 'da fock on. Adam n' Eve.14

Don't follow the cattle, so quiet your chatter or you will get battered / Can't find enough time to dine on these rappers, all of these MCs are looking like tapas. —Dizzee R.

DJ MacroBug is one of da' highlights of 'dis story. He isn't the highlight, but it would give ya' da' morbs without 'em in it. For better or for worse, da' man changed the way I look at success. And we did go out for tacos, just like he suggested.

"Wah Gwan,15 mistah DJ," I said as he entered da' tapas bar.

'Dis time I hit 'em with da' dab first. I was tempted to mention Dee right off da' bat. It sounds semi-offensive, but Africans n' American blacks will respond better to ya' when you mention ya' datin' someone 'dat looks like them.16 It sounds crazy, but I can't blame 'em for not trustin' a white as snow muthafock like me from 'da get.

MacroBug was highly inquisitive at first, "What's the deal with your stage name? Who put you in a body-bag?"

"Nah, fam, it ain't like that. I'm the one puttin' limp chavs in da' morgue."

We went back n' forth like 'dis for some time. He ended up sayin' I should change me stage-name to CAIN. It wasn't a bad idea, but I'm still not ready for another name transition. Bruv asked me another pertinent question during lunch:

"You ever been part of a collective?"

"Nah. I figure there will be time for friends once I've got some platinum records out. And I'm not too big into collabin' beyond the occasional featurette. And groups always break up when da' most talented member wants more cheddar. That's why I'm one me ones. It saves time." MacroBug's chopper's gleamed ear to bloody ear.17 He promised me he was gonna' put me on da' radar in just a week's time n' 'dat he would take me to record some tracks professionally.

We talked about muzic for a good bit. He asked me who me favourite spittahs were and I told him JME and Kanye West. He knows 'em both, personally. I told 'em 'da sound I'm currently pursuin' is what Hova did with the acapella version of his black album. He said in so many words 'dat I was on the right track. He told me my beats are rubbish but my lyrics are wise beyond my years n' that my aesthetic is extremely marketable. Like if Lil' Dicky worshiped Tony Hawk n' was from England n' took himself seriously.

Chillin' with MacroBug was the closest I ever come to bein' treated like royalty. He maintains a perfect balance of not giving a fock and bein' da' perfect host. 'Da tacos were all on his bill, n' they were real scrummy to a tee. Da' man has 'dis vibe that magnetizes e'rybody in his direction. He was so fond of the tapas tortilla magic, he asked for the chef to come out. Chefs neva' fockin' come out, cuz they too busy cheffin' around. But this bloke came out and b'fore I could blink thrice, we wuz all buddy-buddy n' jokes abundant. Free dessert happened. Drinks happened. Shite 'dat wasn't on da' printed menu.'Dis was life a star in 'da hip-hop biz.

I rode in a left jab18 with MacroBug. Real posh. He was huffin' on a zoot19 with da' back window rolled down, n' the cabbie didn't give a shite. It's as if he knew MacroBug was runnin' da streets. I was bein' handed complimentary lemonades and warm, just out the oven biscuits.20 He connected with me Spotify and we ended up bumpin' me own personal jams. It was fockin' next, blud.

I still have no bleedin' idea how this brutha' from the States managed to book a recordin' space in Notting Hill, midst of the bustle week. MacroBug, he seemed to have a Gandalf-like ability to make the impossible fockin' legit. I was expectin' a sorta' Suge Knight Death Row Records posse to greet us behind 'da booth, but it was just bare moneybags, vacancy. I can't forget 'dis short, blonde 'ting waitin' for MacroBug in the booth. Her name is "Fran" if I 'member right. I could tell she was a yank 'cos she had at least t'ree layers of slap on 'er face and kept sayin "like" every fockin' two seconds. They snuggled n' sniggled n' played grab-ass, and it made me miss Dee for a split-second. I asked how long they been linkin', n' he said with his balls out, "only on Holiday, mate."

Seein' 'em be a supporter of jungle fever romance felt next and 'twas nice havin' another white person in da' room for once. 'Dis was the first time I thought to meself I could down the road fall in love with someone else besides Dee. And I'm grateful to the good DJ for 'dat.

Da' plush headphones were nicer than anything I ever been allowed to touch n' I couldn't help but consider if I was da' first cockney bish to cut a track behind da' glass. 'Da first time we hit it off, I got hella' anxious n' freestyled about cheeseburgers n' Lena Dunham. They both laughed, but then I could tell he wanted me to get serious. I blanked e'en worse after 'dat, as a shriveled up caretaker was clearin' out a rubbish bin n' starin' deep into me core. I'd put down a hundred quid he was fockin' with me. Da' only 'ting to come out o' me mouth was an old track from a few months back. MacroBug cut me off mid-song and said in a gruff, challengin' tone, "Hey, wigger boy,21 spit.

'Das when da' song came out. I pulled out some notepad paper I had borrowed from me mum's study n' scratched on. It was a song 'bout how I felt 'bout Dee. I tended to keep our relationship out of the bars while we wuz together, because a paired off rapper just isn't as appealin'. I expected meself to write a murk track 'bout her at 'dis stage. Callin' 'er names n' spittin' some John Mayer shite 'bout how I'll find a better version of her in da' future. But 'das all bullocks. I still love Dee, and I want people to hear why. Me mums raised me not to talk about females like they property for the takin'. The song was called "The Qualities of Dee" n' it was a proper blazon.22 I even sang legit fockin' vocals in between the verses. It was me version of doin' a Drake song 'cept without the whole bit about bein' a talentless, Music Television, bitch-boy:

Her ass is better than an onion, it'll make all of you cry
My heart is broken badly n' it makes me want to die
She's so fine, in the night, call her "dime," so sublime—
her thick hair got you nappy, silent like a mime.
She had it all, and all of me,
I can't believe she once was mine.
Listen close: It's the qualities of Dee!
My only fish out in the ocean and the sea
If I knew the code back to your Love
I would stop poundin' on my meat, so damn, haa-ard
These are the qualities of Dee
More gorgeous than Bee
It's cliche but you were sent down from above
And I'm just waitin' for a piece of your soul
It's the Quality of Dee.

They loved me new style. Even da' caretaker came ovah' to shake me hand. MacroBug proclaimed to da' whole studio 'dat I was his N-word. Fran squeezed me real tight n' showered me with compliments. Said she wanted to be a backup dancer in muzic vid.23 Da' rest of 'dat day just got better n' better. We all took a stretch limousine back to his luxury hotel,24 not too far from where parly meets. I found out he had a copy of Street Hoops for Playstation and we had a bloody good time. I 'tink da' last 'ting he said to me was to get lit about the music video shoot da' following day. Shite, wuz that a helluva night. We said fish n' taters25 n' he called for a left jab to drive me back to da' ghetto.

When I got back to 'da crib, I followed thru with what I consider my final "random act of kindness." I fockin' hate those kind of surprises now, and I'll tell ya' why. I don't think anyone is selfless in 'dis life. It's way too easy not to be. We do nice 'tings to get nicer 'tings in return. But it was 'dis fockin' day I came to a conclusion. If I can't feel 'da good feelings all the bleedin' time, than fock good feelings.

It went into motion when I needed a faster machine to update me social media pages quick n' I wanted to leave the "The Qualities of Dee" promo image up on Mum's e-calendar.

Part of 'da Rule of Cool is avoidin' blood relatives on 'da web, most especially the ones over thirty-five. I broke 'dat rule once I switched on the monitor and saw a Facebook timeline I used to post on consistent. Ya' can take a wild guess as to who it mighta' been. I hoped me mum was just snoopin, n' not up to anything too bananas. But this shit was B-A-N-A-N-A-S. I really fockin' don't wanna' discuss it but, I'm not 'bout to leave out chunks of the tale 'dis wide in.

Mums and Dee had been chattin' behind me back. Da' most recent message was from Dee politely asking how I was doin'. Real civil. I scrolled back up to see how the fock long they wuz chattin' and it went back a week before 'da worst day of me life. I have a long pile of emotions on 'dis subject but how I feel 'bout it changes like the got-damn stages of 'da moon. Mum had messaged Dee it would be "for the best" if she stopped dating her baby boy. Dat's some mule shite if I ever stepped in it, but it got double-decker shit sammich level when I kept reading what was an agreein' back-n-forth. There was barely any opposition on Dee's part. It sounded like they wuz watching a burnin' building from across the street n' watching me sleep inside bundled cozy n' gasoline drenched paper folds. I was askin' how da' fock could I not have seen everyone's bleedin', obvious disapproval of a childish skaterboi and his practical n' ambitious, too good for him girlfriend. I still wanna' know why da' fockin' fock Dee just signed on to bust me heart n' pieces. When you're nineteen, five years is a big hunk of your existence. And apparently I was existin' in a big inside joke. 'Dis was and still is da' biggest merk I've ever received. Fock. I started to feel like I needed to shite in my pants, but couldn't let MacroBug down. He was da' only one still in me corner. I pulled out 'dat same notepad paper, wrote "BITCH" on it and put it on me mums keyboard. I had six hundred n' forty-seven published songs, n' none of them refer to a female as a "bitch."26 I wasn't necessarily callin' mums a bitch or callin' Dee a bitch. But I wanted mums to ponder that possibility. Her words n' advice aren't bible to me no more.

Mum 'course walked in on me, givin' my fockin' luck. Wanted to be like Sly Cooper n' just walk away from me petty lil' crime. She picked up da' note n' stared me down hard. I woulda' prefered to not exist ovah' speakin' wit' 'dis bloody traitor poor excuse of a woman.

"You don't mean this, luv," she said to me.

I tried to stay quiet, but I was so used to tellin' 'er everythin' on me mind in the past, that plan didn't pan out.

"I would tell you to fock off but youz ain't worth me damn time no more," I said.

I tried to storm da' room but she had 'dat maternal magnetic pull, fockin' me again.

"If you want to talk about your old girlfriend, I'm here for you, son."

"She ain't fockin' old—"

"Watch how you're speakin' with me, boy,"

"We just split up less than a week ago! N' it's all your fockin' fault, you bleeding bi—"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You can't even spit it out. You're a good young man, Cain, n' I taught you how to respect females."

She balled up the note n' tossed it in the rubbish bin. I rushed me ass over to da' desk and begin writng new notes that read "BITCH" in scribble. Flashed them right in her face, one after another, n' made me way outta' the study again.

"Is it because she's a black woman? I know how you look down on Africans and American "negroes," as you prolly like to call 'em in your free time. 'Das why you hate me doin' grime, cos' you see how much I appreciate their culture. You're just a bleedin' racist!"

"Oh, Cain, luv. You're trying so hard."

"Tryin' hard for fockin' what?"

"Ask that again without swearin' this time."

"What am I trying hard with?!"

"Makin' everything about black n' white. You want to always be an exception. Sometimes, none of that really matters. I want you to stop actin' up around the streets and find somethin' useful to study and get yourself going on a nice, stable job. It's time you grow up now.You can work at a music store, even."

"Why did you convince her to split up with me?"

"Luv. It really wasn't that hard."

After I heard 'dat croc o' shit, I left the house for real. I was feelin' straight bodied.

I really don't have no remorse sometimes / Tell this guy he will get floored one time / And if you could beat me in a clash / Pigs will rise up off the floor and fly. —Lady Lykes

Tis' a bloody shame me memories of the vid shoot are so hazy. 'Twas set in da' skatepark I told ya' 'bout earlier. DJ MacroBug dropped some heavy coin to make 'dis happen, n' I don't even 'member most of it. Unfortunately, he wasn't there for da filmin'. Fran came up to me n' told me he had to fly back to Atlanta to watch his daughter's ballet recital. She tried 'er best to tell me da' rundown of da' filmin', but I wasn't listenin' to a got-damn word she said. Da' few skaters 'dat were at 'da park wuz in amazement, I do 'member 'dat. There wuz lotza gash in booty clappin' garbs, holdin' tiki torches n' all sorts of crazy shite. Any other moment in me life, I woulda' butchered their bacon n' eggs, but I didn't give a shite how fat their asses were. Me life was crumblin' down like a Jericho wall. Fran told me to 'ave fun wit' da' girls n' not get hung up ovah a teenage dreamt up ex girlfriend. 'Dat mighta been a pretty good suggestion, but I told her to allow it.

I roll'd all da' way down to the bottom of da' biggest dip in da' rink and stood still like Han Solo in 'dat one flick. Skaters wuz ridin' n' trippin' all over me, n' I was likin' 'da way it hurt. I wasn't fulfilling anyone's wishes for me. Not Dee, not mums, not MacroBug. 'Da skaters started veerin' away from me but some chunky chav smashed right on top of me leg at peak speed. 'Da sound of me bone splittin' echoed through 'da park. Fran got real official, stopped usin' "like" every sentence. She shouted at da' skaters to move along n' she dragged me out of da' pit. I was cryin' so hard on 'er shoulder. The broke leg hurt savagely, but everything else hurt more. 'Da cameramen n' backup dancers looked bafoozled as Fran pulled me sobbin' body thru the crowd. She tried to get me to pipe cos' I was screamin' out Dee's name for da' world to here. For Dee to hear. I was informed later a pool o' blood was tracin' me steps, but I fell the fock asleep in 'er arms. Or at least I pretended to.


You're all caught up now, bruvs. Me leg is still broke, but chattin' with you helped pass some time.

I 'avent yet forgiven mums for fockin' up me life. She ain't sorry for it, and as far as me career as an artist goes, I ain't sorry because of it. Forgiveness some is overrated trash. It should really just be synonymous with forgetfulness. When someone forgives, they're just sayin' they're ready to forget just how focked up 'da 'ting 'dat happened was. But what me mums did was plenty focked up and I want to bloody 'member what it did to me. I'll always have 'dis leverage over 'er, but in 'da big picture, she still got long shite over me.

'Tings like this and da' pain associated wit' 'em are what make songs worth listenin' to crimson n' clover.27 I made mum type back to Dee on FaceBook in detail. Lettin' 'er know me career was gettin' a next upgrade. I'm not in University like she is but hearin' I'm still rapping one of 'da few 'tings that'll make 'er happy I stayed in Peckham.

I haven't heard anything from DJ MacroBug. What a guy, bless. He popped in me life in 'da dark n' left when it was bright out. Next time I reach out him I'll be known to da' mass-media as CAIN.

"The Qualities of Dee" video never got made, and I don't think it should be given another go. No comments yet on da' audio recordin' of da' song, but it's only a matter o' time. There is a glowin' review just posted on 'dat Bandcamp acapella LP I published tho. 'Dis person paid long above full-price for it.

Their username is "Dee."



1 The hardest hip-hop there is. Done perfectly in the UK. Just sounds better.

2 If you want to know what grime sounds like, check these cats out. They're founder level.

3 Any person under the age of 18, guy or gal.

4 Don't try and guess her name. This was a completely arbitrary codename. Her first name doesn't even begin with the letter "D."

5 A hot woman.

6 The fourth thing I loved more than anything else in the world.

7 A douchebag, or loser, or faker. Anybody that sucks can be a wasteman.

8 An Italian frozen dairy treat. Like ice cream but more rich tasting and less airy. I'm a fan.

9 A popstar from the States I don't mind too much. She sings about plastic bags and lezzy experiences and usually has choruses that are dance-able.

10 The idea human beings only need sex for reproduction and that it's good to push sexual energy towards wholesome activities. Boxing or fishing or scribbling outside of the lines of a coloring book— with passion. It can work if you try hard enough.

11 Excited!

12 While I'm on it: fuck Lil' Yachty, Yung Lean, and Post Malone. They're what's killing the artform. Garageband rubbish beats and repetitive, slow as fuck, weak rhymes. Lazy pieces of shite.

13 Based on the best oral sex I've ever received.

14 You best believe [it].

15 A cool greeting. Try it out sometime.

16 For as long as I can remember, I've been more comfortable around blacks and Africans then white people. I fit in better with people of color. And it's always been that way, even before I became interested in hip-hop.

17 The man has truly exquisite teeth. I'm glad he doesn't wear grills.

18 A taxi-cab.

19 Marijuana.

20 Cookies.

21 A white person who acts black.

22 A poem of detailed praise.

23 I found out later that while I was recording, DJ MacroBug and Fran were wanting to film me performing the song. My first and only studio music video run.

24 It's called Corinthia Hotel London. The spa is like nothing you've ever been to but ask around about the food because some of the room-service shite wasn't the best tasting. Very clean digs.

25 Catch ya' later.

26 During my true crime EP days, I did however write a song about the Casey Anthony trial called: CU Next Tuesday.

27 Over n' over.