The next afternoon, Leon and Bonnie, two creatures of the night, were just waking up.
Bonnie was even more manic than usual today, pointing her finger right in Leon's face and unleashing a nonstop stream of verbal abuse.
Even though it was still two hours before his scheduled meet-up with Davis, Leon couldn't stand another second in that house. He grabbed his guitar and slunk out the door like a beaten dog.
Passing a wall plastered with gang tags and graffiti, he arrived near a local church. A charity organization set up shop here every day, handing out meals to the extremely poor and homeless.
For the proud young brothas of Brownsville, eating this charity slop was worse than starving. They wouldn't be caught dead here.
Leon, however, was a strapping young man in his early twenties with all his limbs attached. Every time he lined up for food, he could feel the middle-aged homeless guys giving him the side-eye.
But he didn't give a damn. Pride doesn't fill an empty stomach.
"Fk! Sweet corn and mashed potatoes again," Leon cursed between mouthfuls.
Seven days a week, five days were the same menu: lumpy mashed potatoes paired with sickeningly sweet corn.
He seriously started to wonder if the founder of this charity had some weird obsession with simple carbohydrates—maybe a latent fetish for starch.
As he forced himself to swallow another glob of potatoes, he gazed blankly toward the church.
A statue of Jesus stood there, arms wide open, looking as if He were embracing the line of destitutes waiting for their handout.
Suddenly, his vision blurred. The church, the holy statue, the cross...
The images twisted together, and a wave of powerful, unstoppable rock music crashed into his brain like a tidal wave of steel.
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—the images were carved into Leon's mind instantly.
His mashed potatoes splattered onto the ground. He hadn't even fully processed what was happening.
After frantically searching his memories, he confirmed it: he had never heard this sound before.
"This is... incredible."
From the lyrics to the arrangement, the song was flawless.
An uncontrollable grin spread across his face—a smile that looked a little unhinged.
The homeless people around him, minds dulled by life's torment, looked up at him with blank confusion.
"Enjoy your shtty potatoes, assholes!" Leon patted the Black homeless man next to him on the shoulder, then sprinted toward the subway station.
The people of Brownsville seemed to know a big shot like T-Ray was coming today. The subway platform was packed with onlookers.
No need to ask—this was definitely Davis's doing. Before anything was even official, he'd already blasted the news to the whole community. Even the stray dogs probably knew.
It was classic local behavior: bragging about the victory before the battle even started.
After squeezing through the crowd, Leon finally spotted Davis. He was currently in the middle of a heated rap battle with some random MC.
"Yo~ My dck is like a jackhammer, tonight I'm drilling your girl's tunnel~"
"Ghetto boy bout to be a millionaire, tell your sister I might fill her kitty with gold~"
The crowd swayed to the rhythm of his flow, never stingy with their applause and gasps whenever he dropped a "punchline."
Under Davis's heavy verbal artillery, the tall Black guy opposite him crumbled.
His face turned a deep shade of purple before he fled the scene in shame.
"Bully" Davis had crushed another opponent, adding another easy win to his Battle MC record.
Leon wasn't exactly an expert on this genre.
To him, it wasn't much different from the rhythmic storytelling beggars used to do back in the ancient East—just louder and angrier.
Davis had never actually written a complete song.
As a Battle MC, his aggressive lyrics and flashy technique were the only reasons T-Ray was interested at all.
"Move! Get out of the way, you dirty ns!"
Shouting came from the subway entrance.
The crowd instinctively parted, clearing a path down the middle.
A fat Black man with a thick beard, flanked by two bodyguards, strolled toward Davis, puffing on a cigar like he owned the place.
Half of his ten fingers were adorned with gaudy diamond rings, but the real eye-catcher was the gold chain around his neck—thicker than a dog leash.
Normally, if a flashy rich guy walked into Brownsville like this, he'd be walking home in his underwear within ten minutes.
But this was T-Ray, a legend in Brownsville.
He had deep gang ties and was the man who discovered rap superstars like Nas—the "Son of New York."
"So you're 'Bully' Davis? Supposed to be the hardest man in Brownsville?"
T-Ray wore sunglasses, hiding his eyes and his expression. This made Davis, usually so tough, suddenly nervous.
"Y-Yes, sir."
A huge, tattooed goon next to T-Ray sneered immediately. "Look at this punk, shaking like a scared little btch. This is the hardest man in Brownsville?"
"Shut your trap, Martin!" T-Ray took a deep drag of his cigar and said in a low voice, "Come on then. Let's see what you got."
The crowd cheered, hyping Davis up. He took a deep breath, trying to stay cool, swearing to seize this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
A captivating 808 drum beat kicked in from the speakers. Davis rode the beat, launching into the most important freestyle of his life.
His thick lips moved like a machine gun, spitting out filthy, vulgar lyrics that quickly ignited the atmosphere.
However, T-Ray didn't move a muscle. He didn't nod his head; he didn't tap his foot.
"Stop."
T-Ray cut the performance halfway through. "Is that all you can do? Do you have any original material?"
"That is my original material."
T-Ray let out a mocking laugh. "You call that material?"
"Son, do you think this is still the Golden Age of 90s gangsta rap?"
"If all you can do is curse, my mama is better than you. She can curse for 24 hours straight without taking a breath."
"If you can get a record deal with that, my mama should have been Madonna by now."
The crowd erupted in laughter. The subway station filled with a cruel, jovial atmosphere.
Davis clenched his fists tight. Despite the humiliation, he had to swallow it.
He spoke in a tone that bordered on begging. "Bro, please. I really need this shot..."
T-Ray tossed his cigar butt at Davis's feet and turned to leave without hesitation. "You haven't realized how brutal this industry is, kid. Wagging your tail and begging won't get you any charity here."
Just as he was walking up the subway stairs, a sudden burst of singing stopped him in his tracks.
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 manic, raspy vocals completely captivated T-Ray. His eyes scanned the subway station frantically, like a pirate hunting for buried treasure.
"Who?"
"Who the fk is singing that?"