The next afternoon, Leon and Bonnie — both night-shift survivors — had only just crawled out of bed.
Bonnie was even more feral than usual, jabbing her finger straight at Leon's face and unloading nonstop.
Even though he still had over two hours until he was supposed to meet Davis, Leon couldn't take another second in that house. He slung his guitar over his shoulder and slipped out the door like a whipped dog.
He walked past walls plastered with gang logos and graffiti until he reached the church area. Every day, nonprofits set up here to feed the extremely poor and the homeless.
Proud young niggas in Brownsville would rather starve than touch charity food like this.
Leon — a healthy guy in his early twenties — always caught the scornful stares from the middle-aged homeless men when he lined up.
He didn't give a single fuck. When your stomach's empty, pride doesn't pay the bills.
"Fuck! Sweet corn and mashed potatoes again," Leon muttered as he ate.
Out of seven days, five were always the same watery mashed potatoes paired with corn so sweet it made your teeth hurt.
He couldn't help wondering if the charity founder had some personal beef with Khrushchev — why else the psychotic obsession with corn and potatoes?
While forcing the lumpy mash down his throat, he stared blankly at the church.
The Jesus statue stood there, arms wide open, like it was hugging the line of poor people waiting for their free meal.
Suddenly his vision blurred. The church, the Jesus statue, the cross — everything twisted together.
Then raw, thunderous rock music slammed into his brain like an unstoppable steel flood.
I was born sick, but I love it
Command me to be well
A-amen amen amen
"WTF is this?"
The beat, the notes, the lyrics — every single detail carved itself into Leon's head like a blade.
The mashed potatoes slipped from his hand and splattered on the ground. He still hadn't fully processed what the hell was happening.
After searching his memories, he was sure: he had never heard this song before in his life.
"Holy shit… this is perfect."
From the lyrics to the arrangement, the song was flawless.
An uncontrollable, slightly psychotic grin spread across his face.
The half-crazy homeless guys around him looked up, staring in confusion.
"Enjoy your nasty potatoes, assholes!" Leon slapped the Black homeless man next to him on the back, then took off running toward the subway station.
The Brownsville crowd seemed to know a big name like T-Ray was showing up today. The platform was packed wall-to-wall with spectators.
No need to ask — this was 100% Davis's doing. The deal wasn't even close to happening and he'd already told the entire neighborhood, dogs included.
Classic nigga energy — all hype, zero chill.
After squeezing through the crowd, Leon finally spotted Davis. The guy was right in the middle of a heated battle with some random MC.
"Yo~ My dick's like a giant jackhammer — tonight I'm drilling tunnels in your girlfriend~"
"Project nigga about to be a millionaire — go tell your sister I might gold-plate that pussy~"
The crowd swayed to every rhythmic pause, never stingy with gasps and applause when a killer line landed.
Under Davis's brutal verbal assault, the tall Black guy across from him folded fast and ran off with his face twisted purple.
"Bulldog" Davis had crushed another opponent, adding another easy win to his battle-MC record.
Leon wasn't super familiar with this style.
In his mind it was basically the same as the rapid-fire "guan kou" street performances beggars had been doing in China for over a thousand years.
Davis had never written a full song in his life.
As a battle MC, the only way to catch T-Ray's eye was aggressive bars and flashy technique.
"Move! Get the fuck out the way, you dirty niggas!"
Shouts came from the subway entrance.
The crowd parted on instinct, clearing a path down the middle.
A fat, bearded nigga swaggered through, flanked by two bodyguards. He puffed on a cigar like he owned the whole damn station.
Half his fingers sparkled with gaudy diamond rings. Even louder was the gold chain around his neck — thicker than a dog leash.
Normally a flashy rich guy like this would be walking home in his underwear inside ten minutes in Brownsville.
But this was the one and only T-Ray.
Not only did he have heavy gang ties, he was the producer who made NAS — "New York's Son" — a superstar.
"You the one they call Bulldog Davis? Supposed to be the hardest man in Brownsville?"
T-Ray wore dark shades, so nobody could read his face. Even Davis, who usually played tough, suddenly looked nervous.
"Y-yes, sir."
One of the big tattooed guys next to T-Ray sneered, "This fool looks like a scared little bitch. And this is the hardest man in Brownsville?"
"Shut your filthy mouth, Martin!" T-Ray growled, still puffing his cigar. "Alright, show me what you got!"
The crowd cheered, hyping Davis up. He took a deep breath, fighting to stay cool. This might be his only shot in life.
The speakers dropped a smooth 808 beat. Davis rode the track and launched into the most important freestyle of his life.
His thick lips fired like a magic machine gun, spitting filthy, vulgar lines that quickly set the whole station on fire.
But T-Ray never once moved to the rhythm.
"Stop."
He cut Davis off halfway. "That's all you got? No original songs?"
"This is my original shit."
T-Ray let out a mocking laugh. "You call this a song, kid?"
"You think it's still the 90s golden age of gangsta rap?"
"If all you can do is curse, my mama's better than you — she can go nonstop for twenty-four hours."
"If you could get signed, my old lady would've been Madonna years ago."
Laughter exploded around them. The subway station filled with mocking energy.
Davis clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white, swallowing the humiliation.
"Please, bro," he begged, voice cracking. "I really need this chance."
T-Ray flicked his cigar butt at Davis's feet and turned to leave without hesitation. "You still don't get how cruel this game is. Begging gets you nothing out there."
Just as he started up the subway stairs, a sudden powerful voice stopped him cold.
Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life
The wild, raspy voice completely hooked T-Ray. He scanned the station like he was hunting buried treasure.
"Who?"
"Who the fuck is singing?"