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Whereas I will die for my brothers And those I have chose to live with I will refer to those from all religions I don't promote the Holy Scriptures All I'm saying, the minute you deny the folks you sit with It exposed the bitch in that soldier image What did you think, bro? You was gonna roll to England And face some over British Chauffer-driven Bloke that flows about tea, toast and biscuits Crickets and bowling wickets?

What did you think, I wouldn't expose you like the photo pictures Loaded up by Loaded Lux of Calicoe when he was goin' swimmin'?

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Pussy, know your limits! What did you think, bro? I wasn't as cold as most of them old folks in your own division And I would have leaved you voted with them? I don't give a fuck if it's no votes and no decisions The people at home have a right to their own opinions And the polls and posts are gonna show the business This is for the folks at home to witness — focus, listen How can this man hear me? I'm leaving Arsonal in a predicament like Van Persie When they transferred him You wanna talk about gat burstin' and crack servin' Pussy, I know you don't put that work in Only time Arsonal lets shooters go is to Mancini or that twat Fergie Says he's a gangsta though But if he's catching bodies then why's he touring?

If they've got warrants out for the Glocks he's fired And he opt to fly then the cops'll find him, surely?

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Headshot You got a helmet? Neckshot Ruger in my right hand, two straps, in the left Glock It's funny how your body went from flesh to a wetspot I'm squeezin' down on my left and right trigger to shoot Like I'm still playin' my Xbox What would you do for a Klondike? Let me guess, you'd fuck that Big Ang bitch from the Mob Wives That Blicker ring, I'm hittin' things Your whole career was just side swiped Unanymous intervened DNA throw him in the chicken wing without the fried rice To beat me, you gon' need street fighters: Ken and Ryu You gon' need Megan Good's mom's voodoo doll from Eve's Bayou Two midgets on mopeds with broke legs to breeze by you And a book on how to deceive, that means Adam need Eve's bible You big fag, I'll run up on you, pop, slap his dad Give him whiplash, then put a hand grenade in his shitbag You a bitch-ass cracker who wouldn't ride if this was Six Flags I swear to God, I'll put every word on the stitchin' on my Crip flag I'm out in London on some ape shit Grape shit, bandana on my face shit Have him muted, this nigga wouldn't say shit He unable to talk: he the nigga to catch a case with!

I'll call him "Amnesia": your memory get erased quick Let me put my hands up and step back for this 'Cause if you a G in any way, shape or form you should react to this If you got any respect for the relatives that passed I should get slapped for this What I'm sayin' is, I shouldn't be able to say another motherfuckin' word after this But I'm glad your uncle dead, fathead He wasn't nothin' but a knucklehead crackhead With a head full of ringworms and a face full of blackheads He deserved to get caught in the crossfire when that MAC spread And if God gave him a second chance at life I'd wish him back dead!

On some wild guy shit, I'd go to his grave, dig him up Chop his body and smoke his ashes on some How High shit And as soon as his ghost appear I'ma turn into Dan Aykroyd and hit him with that Ghostbuster Just to make sure the coast is clear And when I meet him in the upper room After the angels bring supper to him I swear to God, we gon' stomp him in front of Jesus Me and a hundred goons Now, if I'm lyin', I'm dyin' and I ain't dead, so here's the topic Last night, I was on a stage at a rave And a crowd was formin' a moshpit I seen a nigga gettin' shot, brutally beat, dropkicked And a Vietnamese gangsta done stabbed a nigga with a chopstick I'm thinkin' in my head, "Damn, that's some nasty-ass shit!

Listen, I get love in the room from the men, women and children And tell that fuckin' security guard I'm the only thug in the building [Round 2: Shotty Horroh] This is Saw, I am Jigsaw — you wanna play a game, don?

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Don't Flop got some kinda hype And you've tried to walk through this door with that sensor beam So I constructed a trap attached to the frame's lock A gauge prop with its aim locked and a brain shot Soon as you get your foot in the chain pops Breaks off, forcing a mechanism to press the trigger And give him ghostface features like a tape of Raekwon's What I'm saying is, it's a trap; he walked into that Sensa And walked into a Shotty takin' his face off! Take that!


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Smokey back here takin' a shit! They're just gonna start finding your needles in haystacks Addiction is a sickness, you are ill — that's why you hate Smack Everytime you hear his name you want to do 8 grams And make a vein clapse And stop talkin' about midgets, 'cause I motherfuckin' hate that! No, no, that's not it I'm sayin' midgets are really cool people But they are though, they're just misunderstood And just for that I hope an Oompolumpa gives a footrub to your mum She ends up with an Ewok in her mouth and a munchkin in her cunt Wankin' seven dwarves while Mini-Me and Willow cover her in cum You could never talk about people's physical appearances when you look like both Kenan and Kel You look up to small people You wanna be like Illmac and Conceited as well You believe midgets are little magical demons with spells That don't receive any L's And that's why he dropped to his knees against Dizaster Just to see if it would help Look at his face though, he's scared to death What kind of fucking Crip shows up to the bits wearing red?!

You can have that, that ain't even what I'm mad at I'll change numbers, if they can't dial Jones They stock drop like the Nasdaq I'll pistol whip your skull 'til Calicoe get his dad back I said no fingerprints on the gun, my gloves made out of glad wrap So if I hit you with a straight right, then you entitled to jab back I'm tryin' new shit in this battle : experimentin' with a lab rat I ain't even takin' you serious This just some comical shit to laugh at I can never get tired of fans, I mean as long as it's not a Stan I went from Math to a Klu Klux Klan member hologram You look like a white supremist chemist that's part of a Taliban Who talk tough in his rap, with the heart of Juwanna Mann I'll snatch your soul like Shang Tsung Slit your throat with Kitana fan Then grab the Robert Downey Jr.

Have you ever heard a Ruger go off besides Hell Rell? Do you have the mindpower to turn a dyke bitch into a girl girl? And get the same beats free that Kanye and Pharell sell? No, 'cause you ain't like me, now you don't like me You threatenin' to swing, just do it! You decide. To come: the CGI animated version of the image, with the curtain billowing in a hand-of-God wind, courtesy of Eric Saks. Gil: I turned this up sifting through old papers recently.

I wrote it in college, at the University of Colorado. My writing teacher at the time, the poet and playwright Sidney Goldfarb, said this poem would "be remembered when someone like Robert Creeley is long forgotten. I don't know what he had against Creeley. It's in the middle of the photo above right. We've come to Sandbeach Lake to spend the night, And sprawl on the sand, laughing loud drunk Or fiercely preserving the silence.

Four or five Rainbows idle in the shallows, a mongrel cries In the jackpines by the shore. We count stars As they come out, one, two, suddenly We hallucinate thousands, blinking And slipping out from under our count Like trout. We drink more wine, forget About the sky, never notice when the winds Around the peak of Pagoda Mountain Blow loose the stars into darkness. The roly-poly Goldfarb and I had a somewhat tortured history subsequently. He took off for Europe on a summer sabattical in , and had me house-sit his cabin in the canyons above Boulder, near a small hippy hamlet called Wall Street.

Sidney had already left when I moved in, and the first thing I noticed was that his stereo and all his record albums had vanished. A bad omen at the beginning of my stewardship, but I sort of fecklessly considered that perhaps Sidney had taken his tunes with him to Europe or Yurrup, as Pound used to spell it. I spent an idyllic time at his cabin.

We had a lot of wine-stained dinners and created a sweat lodge in the mouth of an old mine-shaft just up the draw from the cabin. Things might have gotten away from me. When the estimable Professor Goldfarb returned from estivating abroad, he was dismayed to discover that the front door to his cabin was wide open with no one at home. An oversight on my part.

He discovered his albums missing, and other irregularities: a few colorful woolen blankets he had purchased in Mexico were now stained with black charcoal, a consequence, I fear, of our sweat lodge adventures. Goldfarb cooled to me. In fact he never spoke to me again, and gave me the stink-eye whenever we passed each other on campus.

A friend of mine, whom he picked up hitchhiking, made the mistake of telling him that she knew me. He pulled over to the side of the road and made her get out of his car. That "mongrel" in line six has a story behind it. A group of friends, Paul Rogers among them, did indeed head for Sandbeach Lake one weekend to ingest hashish and forget how to count.

Paul brought his dog Oliver along. Strictly forbidden to have dogs within the confines of the park, of course, a Federal rap, in fact, if you're caught. So on the way up we concoct a story, agreeing on a false address in case we were stopped. We enjoy a glorious night at Sandbeach Lake, and Oliver howled at the coyotes in the Ponderosa pines "jackpines" scanned better, even though there is none in the park. On our way down the trail the next morning, sure enough, we encountered a park ranger.

He busted us on the dog. Summoned each one of us away from the others down the trail twenty yards, giving us the fifth degree to see if our stories matched. They did, fake address and all, except I forgot the agreed-upon house number. Smokey wrote us all summonses and let us go, after verbally ripping into us with righteous naturalist anger.

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Notes from the co-writers of Dirty, directed by Chris Fisher November GIL: Do you remember our first spit-ball sessions on Dirty? You always told me that in the land of the LAPD there are one million stories to tell. Perez also pointed fingers at about seventy fellow CRASH officers during his grandstand days in court.

Fish is a director who made some very interesting films about crime, one of which made Sundance. GIL: I love police acronyms! Within an all-powerful organization such as the LAPD, the ones who get punked the most are its own foot soldiers, the guys on the street. They get punked, but they achieve some measure of redemption, too. Was it you? GIL: We thought he was off his rocker! But it proved exactly right. Because Dirty is way deeper than an errand boy-cop-buddy punks newbie-buddy-cop.

The plot we hatched is more Machiavellian. GIL: The L. ERIC: We decided to take the Hansel and Gretel model back beyond the sanitized middle-class 19th-century versions to the medieval core of the fairy tale. In the Middle Ages it was a common practice to commit infanticide because of the constant shortages of food. GIL: Our early drafts of Dirty were way more dark than what the story is now.

Remember the exploding microwave? Get the public approval ratings and make the front-man mayor look good. ERIC: I always loved the character of a gangbanger with an attack of conscience. GIL: Or a dirty cop with an attack of conscience. Sancho is both! ERIC: What happened was that Fish took our script, stripped it down, added his magic to it, and then cast some of the greatest actors in movies to give it life, improve it, improvise around it. ERIC: Right. Our courtroom sketch artist connection fed us this And, as Adele says in Dirty, "Number one, motherfuckging rule is that you run, you get a beat down.

November Yes, the rumors are true. In the battle of his life over the ragingly successful music label he helped found, Ruthless Records, Heller had seen death threats, extortion, strong-arming, and beatings. Now the violence had come home when his enemies burglarized his house, jacked his Corvette, and left behind this sneering piece of graffito. As a long-time music industry super-agent, Heller had the skill and insight necessary to guide N.

Along the way there were raucous nationwide tours, out-of-control MTV pool parties, and X-rated business meetings. Heller held on through the brutal shocks and reversals of the Ruthless Records era, which saw the label being targeted by the F. Always in the middle of the whirlwind were Jerry and Eazy, an odd-couple pairing that represents one of deepest and most appealing stories in American music.

Heller turns the music industry inside out, exposing its strange logic and larger-than-life personalities. Ruthless provides keen insight into the popular music scene, with an unforgettable portrait of its rollicking excesses, life-churning drama, and multi-million-dollar highs. In the mids, Heller was the moving force and marketing genius behind the world-wide emergence of West Coast rap music.

Dollar for dollar the most successful music executive of the rap era, Jerry Heller continues to work and prosper in a changing music business. He lives in Calabasas, California with his wife Gayle, sister-in-law Vicki, and their four dogs, three cats, and a parrot. The Dirtiest Cop Alive Nov Maxim Magazine. So how did the cops become monsters themselves?

It was a bright day in early August , but he had to force himself to keep from shivering. He was terrified. He recognized them from the gaudy patch some wore on their uniforms: a grinning white skull with deep black eye sockets, wearing a cowboy hat with a silver LAPD badge on the brim. Everyone on the street knew to fear that insignia and anyone who wore it.

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Word was these guys were worse than any gang. On the way up one of the cops kicked Tenorio square in the head as he walked past him. As Hewitt and Perez trooped back down, they booted him upside the skull again. He watched nervously as the big freak Hewitt took out a black felt-tip pen and drew two concentric circles on the plaster wall of the hallway.

Wrong answer. The two cops uncuffed him from the railing and recuffed his hands behind his back. Then they hurled a battering ram consisting of the head and body of Joey Tenorio hard into the target. The cops smashed Tenorio into the target over and over until the wallboard busted apart and they were ramming him into the two-by-fours underneath. He felt blood trickle from a gash in his head, then gush. He tried not to pass out, even as the splinters of wood sliced into his skin and embedded themselves deep beneath his scalp.

Welcome to Rampart, kid. Officers Perez and Hewitt never entered the event into their memo books. Poor and mostly Hispanic, the densely packed area is home to more gangs than any other part of L. For years, bodies littered the streets. To fight fire with fire, a city-wide antigang unit, CRASH, was created and given a simple, all-encompassing mandate: Clean up the mess, no questions asked. But at what cost? Last fall, the stunned citizens of L.


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Two years after he used Joey Tenorio as a battering ram, Rafael Perez became the central figure in one of the worst police- corruption scandals in U. In 50 hours of gripping testimony given to investigators, Perez painted a chilling picture of brutal, rogue cops working far outside the law. The elite officers of Rampart, he said, planted evidence to get convictions, sold drugs, and unlawfully beat and even murdered suspects.

Few of the cops, investigators concede, may have been worse than the whistleblower himself. He moved to the U. He joined the Los Angeles Police Department in at age 21, and prospered right from the start. Mack had run his way out of the ghetto, winning a track scholarship to the University of Oregon and becoming an NCAA meter champ.

He almost married fellow sprinter Florence Joyner. Mack and Perez worked undercover in some of the worst neighborhoods in east L. Mack seemed to know everyone. That night they rolled up to Jesse Vicencio, a crack dealer with the Clanton 14th street gang. Vicencio, dusted up on PCP, acted nervous and jerky. Suddenly, in the middle of the deal, he threw the cash Perez had given him back into their car. Suddenly, say bystanders, David Mack was reaching past Perez with a. He thrust it out the window, then he began squeezing off rounds.

He hit Vicencio in the scrotum and in each thigh. The gangbanger staggered away toward the middle of the street and clutched his midsection while blood began to seep through his clothes, warm and sticky. He turned to run. More shots, in rapid succession. Two hit Vicencio in the left arm and one went through his back, tearing up his innards. One more bullet entered his chest, puncturing his right lung and aorta. After 13 shots in all, Vicencio died in front of Cambridge Street, the house where his parents, wife, and young daughter lived.

He never fired a round, and according to witnesses, may not have even been armed. Vicencio, the investigation concluded, pulled a gun first.

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They nominated Mack for a medal on that one. Ray Perez came out a hero, too. But Perez was restless. He wanted something bigger. The units were given breathtaking autonomy, with little oversight. For Perez, there was only one problem. You had to be sponsored in. His first impression was that he had joined a particularly hard-partying fraternity—Animal House with semiautomatics.

Perez dove headfirst into its rituals. One was an apartment in the Valley donated in return for the increased security that a cop presence would provide. The parties had a tendency to get out of control fast. They were leery of the new recruit. Getting in the Loop As soon as Perez hit the sidewalk in front of the Shatto Place apartments the night of July 26, , all hell broke loose. Shotgun blasts boomed from the interior, sounding like cannons.

He tore up the front stairwell and almost tripped over the wounded body of a gangbanger, Jose Perez. More blasts echoing from upstairs. Just as Perez got to the third-floor hallway, he saw Juan Saldana, a member of the 18th Street gang, fall over backward. Another blast had ripped through his back. Above him stood Officer Kulin Patel, his semiautomatic still drawn. Perez inched forward to put the cuffs on Saldana. Just then officers Brian Hewitt and Doyle Stepp burst into the hallway from upstairs. Now the guy lay bleeding at their feet, going into shock.

It dawned on Perez: No gun. Saldana was unarmed. He and Stepp disappeared upstairs, returning seconds later. Stepp carried the butt of a pistol by his fingertips. He dropped it next to Saldana. Then they showed Ray Perez how it was done. Nobody else was allowed near the scene. The cops huddled together as Juan Saldana bled out a few feet away.

Finally an ambulance was called, and Perez led the barely conscious, handcuffed Saldana downstairs. Medics met them at the first floor landing, but Saldana died shortly after. New Blood That summer Ray Perez got a new partner, a guy he sponsored into the unit. Nino Durden knew enough to play second fiddle. He let Perez, who spoke Spanish, do most of the interrogations while he booked evidence. But he had a mean streak. On October 11, , Durden and Perez were set up in an OP, an observation point stakeout, in apartment of a huge abandoned apartment building downtown.

They were looking for 18th Streeters with guns. The place stank of piss. Inside, they found a year-old named Javier Ovando. The two cops handcuffed Ovando and dragged him into a darkened, trashed-out apartment. According to an account told much later by Ovando, Perez and Durden began interrogating him. Things quickly went straight to hell. Ovando refused to cooperate, enraging both men.

The blasts sounded enormous in the tiny space. Ovando lay moaning and bleeding, sprawled backward toward the door. Then Perez grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulled him off the floor, and shot him point-blank in the head. Amazingly, Ovando was still breathing. When he returned, he carried a filthy red rag. Javier Ovando was paralyzed from the waist down. Convicted of assault on a police officer, he was wheeled into his sentencing hearing strapped to a hospital gurney. The judge scolded Ovando for what he characterized as a total lack of remorse and gave him a prison sentence of 23 years.

The cops were just unleashed on the streets, more and more in plainclothes, and everyone—police hierarchy and citizenry alike—turned their backs. Throughout the spring of , Perez and Durden slipped deeper into the dirty bath of street drug culture, barely noticing that the level was rising over their heads. At the same time she was seeing Perez, she became involved with Ruben Rojas, one of the leaders of the Temple Street gang.

The cops made Rojas take his shirt off—revealing his gang tattoos—and pushed him out of the car. Then they switched on the loudspeaker.

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Ruben tried to run, but it was futile. My jaw was broken and so were two of my fingers. When Ray found out, he went ballistic. A few days later, Rojas was sitting at home in his boxer shorts watching Free Willy on video. They slammed Rojas down to the carpet. Perez stood over him and shoved a shotgun into his face.

They found nothing. It was David Mack. He had dropped by the neighborhood and thought he would help out his old buddy Perez. They confiscated a shoebox stuffed with the holy trinity of the coke trade—money, drugs, and pagers. After returning to the Rampart station house, Durden sat in an unused interview room and counted the cash. Perez walked in on him. Perez paused for a moment. There was no turning back now. During a bust that summer, Perez took a pager and a white paper bag filled with cocaine off a suspect. The bag contained 24 ounces of coke, already rocked up.

As he prepared to book the coke as evidence, the beeper went off. Perez looked down at the number on the display, and looked back up at Durden. Why not? Perez made the call. Pretending to be a dealer, he set up a meeting with the potential buyer, fully intending to arrest him when they met. But as he and Durden were driving to the rendezvous, Durden came up with a better idea. Desperate Measures If things were spinning out of control for Ray Perez, he had plenty of company. His old partner Mack was in the West L. In private he started speaking cryptically about planning a major crime.

As winter approached, Mack became more and more desperate. On the morning of November 6, , Mack dressed in a dark business suit, a cloth hat and dark sunglasses. A little after 9 a. Mack seemed to know his way around the bank. It helped that the branch assistant manager was his girlfriend, Romero. Romero got Mack into the vault, where two tellers were at work. Once inside, Mack turned nasty. Sweeping an M assault rifle from a sling inside his jacket, he screamed at the bank employees not to touch their emergency pagers.

Scooping up almost three-quarters of million dollars in shrink-wrapped packets, he got away clean. Mack went on a spending spree that was extravagant even by his standards. They never got around to the fight.


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For the occasion Mack wore a bright-red designer suit, complete with a matching top hat. Back in L. He bought car stereo gear, leather furniture, and a Chevy Blazer. The investigation into the robbery almost immediately settled on Romero.