Talk about "Later today," right? It's been a fairly interesting time since last I posted. Finals week, winter break, and netflix all hit pretty hard this time around and I just never really found the time until now. Aside from that, I've been in my own head for a very long time beating myself up real bad. Growing up is weird AF. But you didn't come here to hear about me; you came here to ROLL SOME FUCKIN' DICE! Also, there is some real talent in these rhymes, keep it up!
Counter that.
"Oh, you think you're so fly,
But now, you're just gonna cry,
and because of that lisp,
I'll burn you to a crisp.
[6] You're swift counter caused half of the gang members to faint. The other half completely lost their shit and just screamed
"OOOOOOOOOOOOHHH!!!" for several minutes as they ran around the street corner doing cool karate moves. One of the onlookers, Grandma Nelson, died of a heart attack, was revived instantly, and then died again after being karate kicked in the head by on of those gangsters. The whole audience was wylin' out and Marcus was pissed as shit. He scoffed
"Alright, bitch, final round."Jutht take yo donuth and leave;
Thith hood life ain't fo you.
And if you don't like it, bitch,
you can tathte my shthoe
Or my brath knuckle hitth.
They hit harder than titth
How about I fuckin' thlit ya throat
tho you can tell me what'th after thith?
Just as Marcus finished his lines, the whole crowd booed and threw pickles at him. One of the pickles hit him right in the eye and the salty brine of the pickle juices stung painfully, almost blinding him.
"My eyeth, my eyeth! It hurtth tho bad!" he yelled as he stumbled into the street, gripping his face. Suddenly, out of fuckin' NO WHERE, an 18-wheeler barreled down the street at 160 miles-an-hour right at Marcus. Still blinded by the pickle juice. he could not see the bright headlights of the big rig and could not get out of the way. The truck hit him and was reduced to a pile of bloody gore in an instant. Blood and chunks of his flesh spread everywhere and covered the whole audience, who, at this point, were pretty indifferent about his violent death. His gold chain flew up in the air and
[5] landed perfectly around your head and on your neck. One of his perfectly toned buttcheeks landed at your feet and all the gang members from before knelt before you.
"You have proven to us that you are truely the best of rappers. Do with us as you please. We are yours to command," said one of the ballers. All
[2] 20 of them begin to shout
"All Hail Doris, Donut Queen forever!" You ponder for a moment how they knew your name when your musings and their chants are interrupted by another large tremor.
How did I not find this before
Real Name: Lord Zizzlefrax
Stage Name: Lord Z, LZ
Hometown: Space
Background: After picking up radio waves from an RNB station, LZ came to Earth to find the creators of this music. But that was from 22 light years away, and now that he's hear he sees how far it's degenerated and is pissed, ready to show these Earthlings how it's done oldschool.
[6] Your spaceship touches down in the middle of a street in San Fransisco, flattening several cars and possible a few people. You hop on out and find what appears to be
[3] $300 in this planet's currency on one of the bodies. After looting the body, a hobo hops on out of an alley and shouts
"I knew it! I knew the aliens would come eventually to save hip-hop!" The hobo then began doing cartwheels down the street. Yeah, this planet's definitely in need of your help. As you muse over how you're going to hide your spaceship from these peculiar beings, a ground beneath your feet shakes violently.
"Okay." Find a place to stay the night.
[3] You begin to search around for hotels. Unfortunately, the only place where you can rest your head is some dingy-looking motel just outside of town. This place looks like those places out in the middle of nowhere where travelers mysteriously vanish overnight. Anyway, you enter this place and the man behind the counter says in a stereotypically southern accent
"Hey boy, you lickin' for a nice warm place to rest your soft, smooth head? It's $10 a night at our little slice of heav'n." It seems pretty shady, but as far as resting places go, this is all that's here. As you contemplate what to do, a small earthquake hits the area and you cling to the walls to maintain your balance.
Have me useless mooks provide some beat for my rapz!
Oh, I see, ya called fo' ya daddy,
you prolly also ride a pink caddie,
how about we play on same terms,
then you will feel the sharpness of my thorns.
I'll give, and say yer not shit,
you may give some words, and maybe even beat,
but if ya be an upstart, ya'll be hit,
and fuck up, like a total git.
I can do all I want, don't believe?
Here, your mother has HIV,
yer pops be a dog,
and your sister cann only get laid in a fog.
Dude, this is my hood,
and I find you rude,
trying to snatch my food,
but in the end, in crap you stood.
You think I give a fuck about you, lil' boy?
You nothing, but a little weak goy,
but here, how about a candy,
now, things will be just fine and dandy.
[4] With Jake and Jim being the only ones conscious, they apply vicious bass beats for you as you freestyle. The lyrical prowess you exhibit makes everyone shoot their firearms in the air in acknowledgement of your skill. The priest, the rabbi, and the monk went from twerkin' to straight up bumpin' and grindin' on each other like it was an R. Kelly concert. People stopped maiming each other and started getting down. Everybody was dancing freak-nasty style and getting all up in there. It was so hot, Johnny somehow managed to get a boner even though he was completely unconscious laying in a pool of malt liquor. The man from across you spews fire of his own, but where your was like napalm fire, his was but a dim, wet match match. The audience scoffs him off as though he doesn't exist and continue to dance real sexy-like. It then begins to rain Alizé and Cristal. Probably from all the freak-nasty dancing going on in the throngs of people surrounding the plateau. Suddenly, the same voice yells from the heavens
"ROUND TWO TO THE (REMAINING) BLAK PUPPETZ!" A tremor of even greater strength hits the area. As far as you know, it's currently tied up, one to one.
"Alright, alright now. You may have gotten me with calling me a little boy, but
Gattamn, at least I ain't a little girl,
Your rhymes ain't sick, but they make wanna hurl,
My words unfurl,
Big name like a banner,
Rhymes are medical,
Fix up the timeline like a spanner,
Your rhymes are the poor house,
Mine are rich like a manor, and I got a matching manner,
Go back to scribbling rhymes in your middle school planner,
You're the nail, I'm the hammer, my lines enamour,
But they hurt you so hard, I should be put in the slammer,
Leave you desperate, panicking in a clamor,
You can't change, but my words shapeshift like a glamour,
Bite so deep, leave you with a stammer.
[2] The gentlemen from across the circle spit rhymes that make you question your abilities and your manhood. You respond with hot licks of your own, but in spite of the dope-ass quality of them rhymes, the audience just isn't feeling it. Maybe its a cultural difference, what with you being from the future and all. Anyway, the whole crowd seemed to ignore you and your bars as the hot-ass booty dancing and grinding began to make it rain Alizé and Cristal from the sky. Damn, that's some sensual-ass dancing. You think you may have seen the uncoscious body of that guy from across the circle that got hit with the 40oz get an erection from the hot-ass, fiery-ass booty dropping. Soaked in ghetto alcohol, you sulk heavily as a voice from the sky shouted
"ROUND TWO TO THE (REMAINING) BLAK PUPPETZ!" The loudness of the voice sent reverbs that could be felt for miles. According to the voice, its one to one. Game point.
Can I join as an antagonist?
Real Name:Old Man Jenkins
Stage Name:"The Patriot"
Group Name And Members
6 elderly men that agree with him
Hometown:Washington D.C
Background:He's 97 years old and has seen the music industry go to rubbish, It's time to restore the good old days, Of Classical Music,At All Costs!
If not PTW
You and your troop of elderly men have rode on your scooters all the way to San Fran from D.C. It was an arduous journey filled with all sorts of crazy, but you all made it in one piece. You park outside of a club and figure that you and your crew have
[6] $600 between you all. Ample currency for your mission. Suddenly, you spot a hobo cartwheeling down the street. He jumps, spins in the air, and lands perfectly in front of you all as you count money. He then pulls out a rusty knife.
"Arrgh! I'm Cap'n Drake! Give me all your gold and valuables and maybe I won't fillet you like I did the Kraken!" Before you can respond, an earthquake hits you all, sending one of your crew members to the ground.
Author
Topic: Roll to Rap: Save the Hip-Hop Industry (Read 19190 times)