S.L.E.D.s

“I get mine the fast way.

Ski mask way.”

• Craig Mack

🛷

Vendetta.

It’s like revenge but it’s one better.

Dead letter?

Nope.

Dropbox killed the envelope in a single swope.

V - for Vendetta.

It’s better than a letter.

Mailbox got robbed. Bureaucracy is faulty.

V.

That rhymes with me.

As Marlowe said, “It’s fine with me.”

I resurrect glyphs like the Easter Bunny drawing crayon trees.

I turn rope to dope.

Transform witches’ stews into honey.

Alchemize the goldie flow and

Allocate weight into fiat celery.

Sometimes I pay but I don’t use money.

Tokens? Notes? - No.

Rhymes are the global currency.

Rhymes open doors and more,

As sure as a rhinoceros snores.

Currently we short on fungibility, though we harvest NFTs.

Try a Platinum Amex - special member, by the name of Centipede.

It’s your wedge. Earn it and burn it.

Steal it and turn it. Spend it or hoard.

Do what you like,

Just don’t get bored:

That’s how you get gored.

Oh, and never feed the greed -

Unless you wanna be bird seed.

Myself, I stick with verbal crimes.

Rhyme pays and it pays cash, on Monday, Monday…

My spits, they got legs like it’s Spiderman time.

My content is cunning. My mind won’t stop humming.

I move naturally from deluxe to total slumming.

Only paper I carry on my body

Are stacked Swiss-denommed five hundies.

I write these memes so my clan won’t worry.

I bank these licks like dogs bury big bones in a hurry.

I’m hired only by the best.

Why?

Cos I’m faster than the rest.

Muy rapido. Got that, vato?

I put the ghetto in the chateau

And I never work free loads.

Copy writing?

More is Less.

Throwing phonemes onto paper is a gift, I guess?

Go-getter?

Oh, yes.

Jetsetter?

Make a guess.

Wheels down in Antartica?

You bet.

Why slop down in Ushuaia when you can fly with Air Force vets?

I play to win but -

Sorry, fellas.

I genuflect faster than an insect

Yet one thing I won’t do is people-please.

Fact is, I come and go as and when I and I decree.

So far I got no alliances.

My only real-world tie’s a spate of lyrical felonies.

Gods of melodies. Goddess bless.

Words, beats, woofers - now that’s my temple meet.

Rap’s my church. Hip hop my prayer beads.

I worship alphabets like Gomorrah dug sodomy.

There’s a buzz in the air. New kid on the block.

Call me if you dare. I’ll do business anywhere.

Do it first for yourself. Serve your own goals for your wealth.

Hire me - absolutely - if you got the dough to distribute to me.

Me, Bombay? I’m the fastest in the West.

I learnt from all the masters whose knowledge is much vaster.

And yet I skied down Mt. Westmore in a bulletproof vest.

No accidents. Skill over common sense.

Safety’s not an issue. The fall line is my ball time.

I’m confident as Clark Kent. “What insurance?”

Got no time for legal reassurance.

I’m adding vertical descents, swiftly

Like hobos collecting 10-cents.

I slip, I slide, I leave figure 8’s in my strides.

Virgin powder? I’ll keep the clams, you hold the chowder.

Keep shredding slopes like Nikki Lauda.

Downhill runs. The steeps of Kandahar.

I’ll chute anyplace if I got waxed planks on my feet.

I’ll hit up institutions - like Max Planck’s joint.

That’s a spot I’d like to ski in

Even though there’s no ridges in Berlin.

Downhill Racer - straight no chaser.

Exit the gate, ripping curves in the slalom -

Like I’m not all that new to Harlem.

Switch up my tricks. Balling internationally.

Now it’s game on. Try and keep up with me.

I drive my Benz the same pace as Lewis Hamilton.

I guess they call the whip competish the blacktop Super-G.

Dodging cars like gates,

Swerving parabolics across six-lane freeways.

At a certain mph it’s less about burnt rubber,

It’s more like dynamic geometry.

High speed? Do the math.

It’s the portal to relativity.

Hardest thing for me?

That’s staying still. Staring at the ceiling.

Laid flat on the matt, I fixate on the fan.

Cool me down with your breeze, will you please?

Laid back in the crib. Area 13.

It’s home to me. To most it’s a no-go zone,

Even for the military. Same goes for Scotland Yard and for the FSB.

Chelsea. London West.

That’s where the homies be.

It’s our own kind of barrio,

Where blue brothers sew their seeds.

Like snow leopards, we stay near summits. Barely leave the peaks.

We kick it camouflaged so we’re rarely or never seen.

Paisley? Check.

Bitches? Yep.

Decks? Downstairs.

Set-up’s fit for Funkmaster Rex.

Seen.

Guess what? Your next hit, your #1:

It’s in my brain already.

Don’t be afraid - just get in touch. Dial in.

No timeframe’s too little or too much.

I scribbled these notes in a state of total ease.

Twenty-five minutes - stop the watch.

Here it is.

Fastest draw in the West. No, I’m not being hasty.

Look me up. Forget the talent agency.

Raise your eyeballs to the sky, shazam the Quakespeare Supreme.

Is it a ship? The Milky Way? Or a satellite at the speed of sound?

Or is it M.C. Crizzle in a 1-man chopper, flying at light-speed velocity?

Safely stratospheric, like Father Christmas fleeing a crimescene?

Bombay in the cockpit. One arm on the sill.

Vaping ether-based indica like fashion’s running outta it.

Or - I may be on the ground, running dogs if the ice holds sound.

A dozen huskies leap ahead whilst he dozes off in Santa’s sled.

Northern Territories. Warm and furry skins.

You hook skims over rims when you hike the red man’s hounds.

We whirlwind thru cities, as Afu-Ra did say.

I rein in deer with kid gloves on my shakes.

I cross continents in single takes.

Can’t do a handstand and - frankly - my dear,

I really don’t give a damn.

I’d rather skim through tundra than break a wrist doin’ ashtanga again.

I’d rather look down from up

Than look up from down.

I like Downtown but over it I’ll always take Chinatown.

I prefer nights at light. Favour twilight over sunup.

Especially if there’s no drank in the morning sight.

Back on earth level I risk a meeting with the Devil.

Call me sick but I like to make him wait.

He gets mad so easy. I prolong for so long just to watch him get irate.

Desperado. He’s got no business down this way.

I run this show with a metal hand.

Devil wants a cut? Well, that’s too bad.

I’m no charity and he’s not well banked.

I closed a deal in Q2 with the big guys up- and downstairs.

I only pay lip service to the jefes.

Don’t let protocol dictate my plays.

Licensed to dream, mind made to scheme.

Only rule I keep is ‘No horny beasts inside my Gulfstream’.

Back in the office. Now we’re grounded.

Vodka, soda and lime slices.

Close the blinds. Ignore the time. Give Diablo some career advice.

I tell him, “You need to be more devious

If you wish to succeed in this life.

Besides, what you doing here?

You should be out there spreading fear.

Your job is encouraging vice.”

“Don’t talk scare tactics to me,” he whines.

“I instill terror like the weather, and I rarely make an error.

I instigate paranoia and I never need a lawyer.

I bug people here, bug them there - I bug them everywhere.

I leave sick traces like tics inside an animal shelter.”

“Then why you here?” I ask direct. “Come to me correct.

First you cross to my streetside then you ask me for advice?”

“Don’t be a hater! You’re the only other player, at least within this game.

See, business on my streetside turned slow.

I’m here to fuck shit up - but I don’t know where to go.

I’m ready to corrupt but I fear I lost my touch.

I blame the pandemic. I had the world in my hands before then.

Now I got global plague gone multi-systemic.

How to make a killing from widespread panic?”

“Listen, brother,” I say his way.

That tone you use talking to a pet that’s slow inside the membrane.

“Listen up. I, Bombay - I got this game covered.

Planet Earth - that’s my berth.

I got a single first-class cabin and I’m sharing it with no one.

Least of all a charred-up brother from a different breed of mother.

I indugle in locomotion like your vixens fix up potions.

I run from Spokane to Bahrain,

From Bangkok to Vladivostock.

The world’s crisscrossed by my tracks,

You could say I own this train.

So save yourself some pain, cornuto, and get out my windowframe.

Find another target. Why don’t you hunt down - um, er - Bruce Wayne?

I’m not your enemy, not your frenemy, not your advisor - nor your friend.

I don’t care what kind of mischief it is that you crave.

All I request right now is that you exit my gangway.

You’re not the only spirit creature with mercury in your veins.

You’re not the first nor last chameleon.

Quicksilver twerks; makes quite the display.

You can’t own it, can’t control it.

Silver bubbles split like atoms,

They congeal then run away.

Chemistry? It’s ambiguous.

I failed the class so bad I got a D.

Fact is, liquid metals run away.

I huff napalm in the mornings.

I surf local breaks like the piano keys that late Beethoven played.

The world is my playground. Get accustomed, Santa Muerte - get off my display.

The globe’s an orange B-ball and I think it’s gonna stay that way.

Go underground? Go undercover?

Find a nice volcano and remember:

My name’s not Mel and you’re no Donald Glover.

Make like the fire-door, bro. Just get outta my way.

I got stuff to do. I could transcribe rhymes all night and day.

Meantime, all you do is stutter…and repeat and complain.

Find yourself a gutter, a cup, and collect some drops of rain.”

The Devil gestured his dismay.

I poured myself a Scotch and passed him a fresh ash tray.

I look him in the eyes, now, and this is what I say.

“Smoke up. Fire the wire.

Whatever, Trevor - I gots to go.

I’m running late for my own talkshow.

Thank you for your time Mr L. Diablo.

I’ll keep your points for a rainy day.

My name’s Bombay. I play and I’m hearing what you say.

What can I do?

It’s not my dharma, dude.

Like Frank, I handle my own things my own way.

Partners and trustees, consultants on hourly pay.

I enroll them to embold them; I pay no attention to what they say.

It’s just nice to see some faces. All the arguments fade away.

So, Doctor Evil… Do you get me? Are you listening to what I say?

I have no more leverage than a dead beverage but

Because I’m fair I won’t contest your gameplay.

One man’s fortune is another man’s pain -

Or that’s what they used to say.

Me, I’m not a handholder. I’m no charity for humanity.

I walk the line. I don’t compare.

Focus. Follow my mind.

What else is there to say?

Now will you vanish from my space because I needs to get away.”

He evanesced inside a New York second.

Devil dematerialised with no delay.

I almost wondered if I’d dreamt him

And then I reconsidered our debate.

He’s not wrong. I’m not right.

There’s no justice in this game.

It’s why we play it, we can’t betray it -

If you give up then you’re just deleted.

Enough chit-chat.

Spit, spat. Destroy the DAT.

Gimme my cane. Pass me the hat.

We’re changing sets. I’m juggling bets.

Remote control. A big cat named Stretch.

Jump in the back of the Maybach

And relax. Now there’s no playback.

Cut some slack. Just relocate me.

I whisper to the drive that now’s the time for exit strategies.

“Let’s go, okay?

Let’s roll, ese.

Turn the volume to the right.

Get me back to L.A. tonight.”

13.12.2021

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