The Crips and the Bloods are at it again.
They’ve got their AK’s and OG’s and gin,
Marching to the beat of their own drum.
And really, it is a fantastic one.
The Crips and the Bloods were gangs known for their lethal hijinks on America’s urban landscapes. In the late 20th century they went at each other’s throats, popping caps and dropping bodies in the manner of countries at war. Drugs were their currency; hankerchiefs their flags; AK-47’s their atom bomb; OG’s their generals. Though bloody and not without casualties, gang warfare provided one spectacular benefit to both sides: fear. Both the Crips and the Bloods became programs on a network owned in part by Osama bin Laden.
Do they hear it? Where they at, those clowns?
The woods of the Congo are burning down;
They said “Y’all got three minutes to show ya face
Or cut another strand from the human race.
Boom, boom, we run this place.
Africa is now our home base.
This whole block, this whole rock, this whole Earth;
Nigga, we own the dirt.
Y’all could throw the stone, we gon’ clap first,”
As arrows flew over the sound.
But here, in Africa, a third-world continent that welcomed no one, the Crips and the Bloods were accessories around the necks of warlords. All their bravado, all their showmanship, all their street cred and criminal records—all was as wind in the face of the local Kony. And that unsettled them a great deal. For what realm but hell did not shiver with each titanic step they took?
Exodus, a game played too long
Played too strong by wronger men.
Hunger then, I wonder when,
Shall end on a note not sweetly sung.
2150. A global population too high to count, too poor to count, and too angry. While the rest of the world wrestled with nitrogen levels, the U.S. concocted a more solid solution, pouring it into the water supply and settling in for the long wait. By the middle of the year, the missing person reports had all but snitched away the deed. Blacks, latinos, and Asians were vanishing by the thousands, and waking up back in their ancestors’ homelands.