If I go you gots to go
As this terrible, tragic, painful year comes to a close I swear I can't get death off my mind. Yes, I lost a friend, a confidant, the brotha I'd asked to be my daughter's godfather. And though you might not have admitted it to yourself, still holding to this Rakim thing like you are, you've lost the greatest MC ever to touch a microphone. But it's someone else's death that consumes me. I daydream about murder. Quit my job so I could make it a full-time pastime. Wished to God I had it in me. Left Los Angeles vowing not to return till somebody figured a way. I visit Big's Mother at his condo in Teaneck and she cries a lot. Her whole chest caves in and she can't breathe. So many stories have come and gone on MTV News, a Chevy Impala that the police say "might" have been used in the drive-by was recovered in May, but for her it is as raw as March. She is losing faith in the LAPD, as she should. Though it may be better that way. In a California jail he'll be a star. Still it drives her insane to think her son's murderer is somewhere, feet up, watching Jerry Springer. That he may have a barbecue in his backyard this weekend. That he'll spend a warm Christmas with his mother under California's blue sky. It's enough to drive her out of her mind.
Revenge I'm tasting on the tip of my lips
Puff won't even know what happened/If it's done smoothly
Despite his tendency to break into dance in the middle of a conversation I've never taken Puff for a punk. I've seen him flip the fuck out and beat the shit out of a longtime associate from Mount Vernon in the back of the Apollo one night. When I met him he used to roll with these riotous niggas from Harlem who called themselves Same Gang and covered their baldies with red, white, and blue bandannas. He had less to lose then. He was pushing a convertible Volkswagen with slashes in the ragtop, the result of some jilted lover. The same Puff that dumbs out on tracks, screaming "You bitches!" to his well-known enemies. Still, I don't expect Puff to exact any revenge. The minute you start talking crime around him he starts kicking some ole "Live by the sword..." The next thing you know he's bringing Jesus into it. So no, I expect Puff to do what he's doing. Making money is therapeutic for him. And in the most true way, it's his way of honoring Big. They had the deep, trusting, passionate bond of two men who make each other rich.
Cuz I'm a criminal/Way before the rap shit
That night, the worst night ever on the face of the fucking earth, I went to Big's hotel room. I had to see his man Damian. I need him to tell me all these people who called me in the middle of the night, these people I'd cursed and hung up on, that they were the same idiots who thought Pac was still alive. He just kept saying, "This nigga, who ain't never hurt nobody....I could see it if it was one of us." See, that's the thing. That they shot him in the heart is more than I can bear. It was so enormous, his heart. So giving, so fragile. "One fucking bullet," Damian kept saying. "I been shot mad times, niggas get shot. This nigga died from one ass bullet." The hotel was covered with Big's clothes. Custom-made Versace. The gator loafers he'd bought when he came to Detroit. Gutter called. ("Don't you know my nigga Gutter fucking kidnapped kids?") By daybreak, from jail Gutter called. Fuck Hot 97. He, too, needed to hear it from Damian. "Hold your head," it was the first time Damian let the tears flow. "You of all people have got to hold your head. I need you to hold your head." So real was the rage caused by such an unjust act. He was afraid that Gutter would break someone's neck. Because Gutter, yes, he has it in him.
I know where all them niggas rest at...
Give them bullets room to breathe.