I was a worker, hustlin at Colkinom Laboratories, Wales. Us thugs work wit sticky-icky-ickys n' medicinal elements, bustin cures n' vaccines. My fuckin boss holla'd at mah crazy ass dat whatever I do, I should never tell mah playas bout what tha fuck we is bustin yo. Dude fuckin started actin strangely only all dem weeks ago, when we fuckin started Project Axolotl: Us thugs was aimin ta give humans tha mobilitizzle ta regenerate lost limbs.
But it went wrong yo. Horribly wrong.
My fuckin boss called mah crazy ass up ta peep his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude be a tall playa wit dark afro yo. Dude holla'd at mah crazy ass dat there seemed ta be a problem wit Testin Area 5B, where mah dopest playa was working. Of course, I immediately took tha thang of goin down there n' checkin wit his ass if all was good.
Dat shiznit was not.
My fuckin playa was sweatin terribly n' breathang heavily yo. His handz was bobbin n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass backed away from tha testin area. I had never been up in a testin area; well, not while there was a pimp at work, anyway. I hit dat shiznit upstairs, where we formed chemical combinations n' researched, dissected n' examined.. n' you KNOWS that, up in tha testin area, we'd be testin on muthafuckas. No matta how tha fuck wack dat sounds, it sounded a whole lot betta than what tha fuck they was straight-up bustin.
Testin on humans.
Dude backed away from tha glass panel n' I stared through, askin what tha fuck was wrong yo. His handz trembled n' tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta pull me away, spittin some lyrics ta me not ta look. Da humans was there, all dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was immediately sickened, tha scam of testin on each other sounded wack ta mah dirty ass. But I noticed dat one was kickin dat shit, yo. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch held her lil pimp up in her arms. Us thugs was also testin on lil' small-ass lil' thugs.
Suddenly, she looked all up in tha corpses. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked at us, n' grilled something. I looked away n' didn't see; tha sight of dirtnap itself proved too much fo' mah dirty ass. But I heard a sickly groan from mah playa yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Dread filled mah dirty ass. I grabbed his ass by tha hoodie n' shook his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude gave a hollow rattle, as if there was no internal organs up in his muthafuckin ass. I felt tha sudden need ta git as far away as I could. I cupped mah handz over mah ears n' closed mah eyes, hustlin (although bumpin tha fuck into walls) all tha way back ta mah boss' crib.
I holla'd at his ass frantically what tha fuck happened, wavin mah arms madly. My fuckin boss' eyes opened wide. But then da perved-out muthafucka smiled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude grinned. Began laughing. That laugh was not of mirth, dat shiznit waz of insanity, it drove me mad, his fuckin lil' demonic chuckle beatboxin all up in tha room.
Our thugged-out asses had been formin a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disease fo' realz. A new, special disease. Well shiiiit, it would instantly bust a cap up in our opponents yo. Dude had injected one dose tha fuck into tha test subjects up in 5B, then holla'd at one of tha pimps ta read off a cold-ass lil card. Once he read it, he gave up a sickenin gasp yo. Dude was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When his body was examined by scientists just all dem rooms away from me (the thought of dis caused mah crazy ass ta vomit) they found dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost all of his crazy-ass muthafuckin internal organs fo' realz. All all up in tha same time yo. His dirtnap had been instant yo, but excruciatingly fucked up fo' dat fraction of a second.
Da thang is, tha biatch next ta his ass heard what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka holla'd n' suffered a similar fate, only grillin tha lyrics ta tha playa next ta her n' shiznit yo. Dude then shouted tha lyrics; only heard by tha baby; tha last biatch was deaf n' mute. Da biatch was terrified at losin her baby. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch went insane yo, but did not show symptomz of tha disease. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch cradled tha baby, n' freestyled ta tha scientists;
'Why won't mah baby drink, biatch? Why is da perved-out muthafucka so pale, biatch? How tha fuck come da perved-out muthafucka so cold?'
This was too much ta bear; tha card was shown again, n' afta readin it, n' grillin tha lyrics ta mah dopest playa, died. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Every Muthafucka whoz ass say tha name of tha disease, readz it, hears it, sees it lip-read, feels it up in braille, sees it up in Morse code or click code or any language, is instantly capped. Instant; although unbelievably painful, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.
Dude axed mah crazy ass if I wanted ta know tha name of tha disease.
I screamed no, covered mah ears n' ran outside tha door.
When I peered back, mah boss was bustin up yo. Dude hadn't even holla'd dat shit.
I went home, tryin not ta be thinkin bout dat shit. When I went ta bed, I dissed n' dismissed it as A: A wild-ass trip or B: My fuckin boss pullin a prank. But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat I felt like I was lyin ta mah dirty ass. I couldn't help but feel dat way. I couldn't chill up in tha doggy basket. I felt a cold-ass lil churnin up in tha pit of mah stomach, mah head throbbed like dat shiznit was implodin n' I felt as if one of mah thugs had taken a sledgehammer ta mah shins. Decidin ta booty-call up in sick, I rung up mah boss up in tha morning. I explained ta his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude just laughed, his sickenin chuckle dissolve tha fuck into a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disconcertin giggle yo. Dude holla'd at me, OK yo, but I'd be missin out.
Dat shiznit was up in all tha newspapers.
Colkinom Laboratories shut down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All hommies found chillin wit tha fishes as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Company Prezzy Mista Muthafuckin B yo. H. Big-Ass found chillin wit tha fishes up in crib. No evidence of how tha fuck dirtnaps occurred, no weapon found, no gas leaks/sign of accident. Only worker survived: C. W. Dickenson, stayed home sick.
I couldn't take dat shit. I packed every last muthafuckin thang I could grab tha fuck into a suitcase, smashed open mah wet-ass dizzle jar (the contentz of which amounted ta bout fifty ass cracks) n' stuffed tha notes n' coins tha fuck into mah wallet, which now felt like a lead weight. I started up mah car, cranked up tha radio, regardless of what tha fuck was on, n' floored dat shit. I drove as far as I could, until I had almost crossed tha border n' shit. My fuckin radio buzzed.
This just up in from tha Colkinom Laboratories case; tha dead seem ta have no internal organs. There is no sign of lacerations or wounds. Well shiiiit, it be almost as if they internal organs simply vanished. This seems instant yo, but recordings, CCTV n' a three-letta message scrawled by one of tha hommies may prove dat it certainly wasn't painless.
I crammed a CD up in n' slammed tha pedal, bustin a half-ish U-Turn (an L-Turn?) n' went fo' tha ghettoside. I drove n' drove, aimlessly followin roadz roughly north. I didn't stop until I ran outta gas; where I grabbed mah cases n' ran. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When I entered a gangbangin' field n' I couldn't carry mah cases no mo', I threw dem up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' ditch fo' realz. As long as I could run, I ran, I didn't chill until mah body dropped.
I awoke chillaxed n' groggy, mah bones aching. I knew I had ta run from what tha fuck I knew. There was a virus goin around. I knew exactly what tha fuck mah boss had done yo. Dude had shouted tha name of tha disease over tha loudspeakers. Everyone whoz ass heard died. Some tried ta block they ears but tha lyrics flashed on tha computers, tha lights blinked it up in Morse code. Everyone up in dat buildin was now dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da terror they must have felt, tha split-second of reality-bendin agony, all tha playas, tha pimps n' dem hoes I used ta know.
I be now chillin up in a hotel room I found. It aint nuthin but far away, itz oldschool n' quaint, I be thinkin I be bout ta be fine here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. They aint gots TV n' I always stay away from tha radio. I be bout ta live. I know a harrowin truth. But I can't tell.
I gots a name fo' tha disease. It aint nuthin but simple. It aint nuthin but blunt. Well shiiiit, it do exactly-what-it-says-on-the-can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy bitch. I call dat shit...