Da Legund of da Hightown Croe
CHEESE'S NOTE: Gizoogle version of my novelette.
I. Lost Da travelerz last drop of gin n juice trinkled up onto his hand, dryin up in almost a immediate instant as a result of tha baking, scorchin sunlight which drenched his ass up in heat n' left his ass muthafuckin helpless against tha rays.
A few minutes ago, tha travelerz luck had run thin durin his cross-ghetto travels. On his way all up in tha Mojave Desert, his hoopty had broken down, run outta gas entirely yo. Dude had fuckin started his cold-ass trip up in Mackdaddystown, Massachusetts tha previous three weeks, takin a mild majoritizzle of breaks, most of these involvin crashin up in worn out, two star inns dat stank of must n' oldschool age yo, but all dat didn't matter ta him; chill came first, specifically up in tha eyes n' mind of a thugged-out devote traveler.
Most may wonder of tha motizzle of dis playa yo, but do duly note dat up in his crazy-ass mind, tha thrill of his cold-ass travelin is entirely fo' dat ridin' solo - fun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was no work-related voyages, bidnizz trips, or mindless industrial drudging, n' was entirely not needed on his thugged-out adventures yo. Dude had explored tha majoritizzle of Americaz states, often leavin his cottage home up in Mackdaddystown, Massachusetts fo' a short or long-winded drive (in dis case, bein tha latter) yo. Dude had no lil pimps or spouse, so he needn't make dem worry of his fuckin long n' occasionally treacherous adventures.
A definite example of tha aforementioned "treachery" was evident up in dis particular venture. Days before, his hoopty had suddenly shuddered ta a stop up in tha middle of tha Mojave Desert, California. Upon further inspection, tha travela (who shall henceforth be referred ta as Charlez Ray Keenan, his wild lil' full title) discovered dat tha gin n juice up in his hoopty had drained entirely, leavin his ass isolated up in tha middle of tha scorchin desert, no end up in sight amongst tha oceanz of dirt n' sand.
Charles, luckily fo' him, had been prepared fo' a situation like dis from tha beginnin - he always was, specifically on lengthy travels ta mo' foreign, distant states up in tha big-ass ghetto - packagin various gin n juice defers n' other refreshin beverages, consumption items, n' game safety kits up in tha trunk of his crazy-ass middle-aged hoopty yo. Dude also managed ta wedge a gangbangin' few mo' less needed shit tha fuck into tha clusta of useful or semi-useful contraptions up in his carz trunk.
Time had proved itself ta outmatch Charlez up in a matter of days, however. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be runnin hoes up in 2013. Charles' gin n juice defers had drained straight-up, as did tha just as equally mandatory need fo' chicken n' you know I be eatin up dat shizzle all muthafuckin day, biatch. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Charles' voracious appetite n' thirst up in tha vast regionz of sand had caused his ass ta overlook his fuckin legit destination (that bein returnin ta civilization) n' devour copious amountz of beverages or chicken shizzle, up in a hastily planned n' paranoid attempt ta keep his dirty ass up ta shape (specifically as da ruffneck did not know when da thug would come back ta contacts wit civilized society).
After bout two n' a half minutez of endless drudgin n' mindless drek, Charlez fuckin started ta collapse underneath tha sunlightz searin rays yo. His gin n juice supply had ran up straight-up, renderin his ass useless against tha tiradin onslaught of seemingly unstoppable heat n' blisterin bangin' sand, which even proved itself ta pierce all up in his Nikes n' onto his wild lil' feet.
In a vain attempt ta keep his sanitizzle n' his own life, Charlez refused ta give up in ta despair entirely, n' fuckin started crawlin muthafuckin helplessly all up in tha desert sands, leavin a gangbangin' full-body drag track fo' realz. After various minutes remainin beneath tha sun, Charles' vision dimmed, his wild lil' fuckin ears blurred, n' he faded outta consciousness.
Da thereafter trip Charlez experienced followin tha loss of consciousnizz was rather queer, if Charlez his dirty ass needed ta describe dat shit. Da trip up in itself was considerably morbid, though it would prove ta become childz play up in comparison ta tha subsequent nightmares dat would dominizzle his ass up in tha followin nights.
Charles' imagined his dirty ass on tha stepz of a large, intimipimpin Cyclopean structure dat stretched considerably above tha skyline. Da entire vicinitizzle resembled a oversized church. Charlez could not be certain of tha subsequent events followin tha dream yo, but he recalled a low, perverse, n' strangely humane bellow comin from what tha fuck seemed like a cold-ass lil cavern among a network of other stone chambers.
Charles' trip fantasy was plummeted back tha fuck into reality, as his consciousnizz fuckin started ta slowly but surely resume back tha fuck into tha real ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! After a gangbangin' few minutez of half-sleep, his wild lil' fuckin eyes finally fluttered open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charles' eyes was greeted wit tha familiar sight of a thugged-out dusty, creakin household ceilin hustla up in his fuckin line of sight.
Charles' groaned, chillin up n' coughin tha seemingly ancient, discarded dust from tha ceilin hustla above his muthafuckin ass. In tha midst of his confusion, da ruffneck did notice a window up in tha small, wooden room wit creakin planks n' dusty, unloved furniture. Upon haulin his dirty ass from tha creaking, springin bed n' lookin up tha window, da thug was assured da thug was still up in tha alien, foreign desert up in which dat schmoooove muthafucka had ventured tha past few days.
Outside was a cold-ass lil collection of "ye Oldskool Westside" townhouse buildings, n' tha familiar sight of sand n' tumbleweeds. It looked as if da thug was within a scene from a ancient, laughably tedious Westside film. Wheelbarrows n' hay lay strewn at random turns or alleys between buildings, seemingly uncared for. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was a gangbangin' few larger, mo' robust buildings, particularly a cold-ass lil church dat towered a cold-ass lil considerable bit over tha other buildings up in tha area fo' realz. A ass outside, Charlez did not peep nor hear all up in tha window. Da only sound dat schmoooove muthafucka heard was a thugged-out distinct, rather bangin cawin of corvidea, specifically crows.
It was then Charles' sense of hearin came ta grasp wit tha faint, eva so familiar sound of sizzlin n' bubbling. Da sharp, doorless corner lead tha fuck into some unknown corridor of wherever Charlez was in, n' he immediately thought of tha comfortin sound of a funky-ass breakfast treat, preferably bacon, fryin on a gangbangin' fryin pan up in tha early minutez of tha morning. Charlez grinned, takin up in tha delightful aroma of eggs n' ham. Wherever tha smell was emanatin from, da thug would feast - da thug would let no chicken git all up in waste afta starvin up in a thugged-out desert!
Charles' followed tha odorous delight all up in tha corridor, finally approachin a wooden door dat looked like it could be unhinged all up in tha slightest touch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly, without a momentz warning, Charlez fuckin started ta feel a thugged-out deep pang of dread up in tha pitz of his stomach as his hand gripped tha limp, wooden knob. Charlez wiped off a trinkle of sweat from his brow, n' shrugged tha feelin off nonchalantly. Puttin aside all hesitation, he opened tha door.
Contrary ta Charles' expectations, tha door did not unhinge or crack yo, but merely creaked loudly as it was pushed open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Beyond tha door, there was a visibly short, straw-hatted oldschool playa hunched dangerously over tha stove, up in which da thug was fixin a scrumptious smellin bacon n' egg breakfast yo. Dude whistled tunelessly as da ruffneck did this, before turnin his wild lil' freakadelic gaze upon noticin Charlez yo. Dude smiled crookedly, revealin a array of mostly missin teeth. Turnin off tha stove n' placin tha eggs on tha small, two seated table up in tha kitchen, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta drop a rhyme ta Charlez up in a raspy, thick n' somewhat stereotypical "farmer" vocalization.
"Aye biaaatch! I be glad yer' up, laddy!" His crooked grin then expanded tha fuck into a gangbangin' full smile, revealin once again n' again n' again dem teeth, or rather, tha lack of tha majoritizzle of em.
Before Charlez could do, say or ask anything, tha coffin dodgin' playa motioned ta tha table, beckonin Charlez ta take a seat yo. Dude did so.
Da oldschool playa also sat down as well, across from Charlez yo. Dude placed a quad of silverware up in front of his ass - a gangbangin' fork n' knife fo' his dirty ass n' a gangbangin' fork n' knife fo' Charles, whom he gave tha latter ta before Charlez could reach up n' pick dem up by his dirty ass. In spite of tha nonchalant atmosphere up in tha room, Charlez had obvious curiositizzle n' dissin fo' dis coffin dodgin' man.
"Sir, what tha fuck hood would dis be?" Charlez axed up in his fuckin lil' deep, baritone drawl, strugglin ta overcome tha splendid aroma of tha chicken beneath his muthafuckin ass. "In what tha fuck desert n' hood be I?"
Da oldschool playa frowned quickly yo, but then his wild lil' grill quickly mutated back tha fuck into a smile yo. Dude laughed, n' Charlez was unfortunate enough ta be up in tha line of smell. Charlez nearly gagged all up in tha oldschool manz tooth smell, a odorous stench dat stank like a unholy cross between vomit n' shittin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. To avoid soundin impolite, Charlez choked back tha smell n' smiled, as tha coffin dodgin' playa fuckin started ta drop a rhyme once again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Y'er up in Heighton, lad," he explained, a jackin cough eruptin from his crazy-ass grill. "I be s'prised ya never heard mah name b'fore. Oh right, mah namez Revern'd Michaels. Nice'ta meetcha. Whatz yer name, boy?"
"Keenan, sir," Charlez responded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "...Charlez Ray Keenan." Charles, however, was not goin ta lose his opportunitizzle of askin vital thangs ta dis coffin dodgin' playa - he needed ta express tha blingin need ta know where exactly da thug was n' how tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had ended up there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. "Why be I here, biatch? What tha fuck iz goin on?"
"Aye," tha oldschool man, Reverend Michaels replied, "me n' some of'tha ot'er townsfolk found ya ly'n off up in tha des'rt. What w're ya doin' up there, not shizzle I wan't ta know, lad hommie biaaatch! But yer here now, n' ya need some shelter b'fore ya contin'ya on yer ventures, s'that erect?"
"Yes, sir, dat is exact." Charlez attempted ta avoid soundin awkward or stupefied yo, but his voice cracked up in slight which dat schmoooove muthafucka hoped Michaels did not hear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "But I must know, nahmeean?..what exactly is dis town?" This was a particularly vital question - Charlez had not recalled seein any "Heighton" on any map. Then again, puttin unfairnizz aside, a lil' small-ass desert hood wannaly not garner much mention up in general.
"Ah, Heighton, we've all l'ved here fer as longz we all rememb'r." Michaels sounded another jackin cough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Charlez didn't notice it all up in tha time yo, but it sounded rather excruciatin. "Us townsfolks 'ere only gots a populat'n of fifty-four folks. N'much playas knows 'bouts our asses yo, but I mah dirty ass'm kin'a known 'round some places. N' our slick asses ludd crows. Each'n everyun of our asses gots at least one pet crow. They're stunnin' muthafuckas, if ah do say so mys'lf!"
"Yes, indeed they are," Charlez complied, tha so-called reverendz lyrics brangin ta mind tha bloodcurdlin cawin of crows dat schmoooove muthafucka had heard earlier. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But fuck dat shizzle yo, tha word on tha street is dat Charlez did find it odd up in tha way dat dis old, crooked playa was rappin of tha crows. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang bout tha elderz raspy, croakin tone was off-puttin on Charles' ears (and tha stench of his breath certainly did not muthafuckin help!) Charlez also pondered why mah playas up in they right noggin would keep a cold-ass lil corvidea fo' a pet.
Almost immediately afta dis peculiar thought, however, tha coffin dodgin' reverend motioned fo' Charlez ta eat, breakin his cold-ass train of thought. Without hesitation of a second thought, Charlez immediately dug tha fuck into tha delicious breakfast item, devourin tha majoritizzle of it up in a matter of minutes. Charlez was too chicken-depraved ta care bout seemin polite or not up in dis situation - classless as it was, Charlez was desperate ta fill his stomach, n' figurin tha oldschool playa had found his ass wastin away up in tha desert, da perved-out muthafucka should thoroughly done been able ta understand.
Charlez was only a sliver from satisfied even afta downin so much breakfast delight. Decayin up in a thugged-out desert was certainly not fun yo, but he figured dat a apple or some type of fruit afta tha mainly pleasin mornin repast would be enough ta satiate his bangin remainin hunger.
Afterwards, Charlez was back ta tha initial, n' even far mo' blingin issue of gettin back home. Charlez rubbed his chin just below his wild lil' freakadelic grayin mustache, removin any leftover crumbs. "Sir, I fear I be up in dire need of a hoopty ta find mah way back ta mah home. I assume you own a wheeled hoopty of some sorts?"
"Ah down't," tha oldschool playa persevered crookedly up in response, n' Charlez let a pang of dread rise above tha mirez of his cold-ass throat once again, though dis time it was mo' of a gangbangin' feel of desperation rather than fright. Without vehicular assistance, how tha fuck would he escape from dis damned desert?
In spite of this, tha oldschool playa continued ta speak. "Ah do know some'un whoz ass do, tho. 'S namez Rodney yo. Dude lives up on dat hill near tha big-ass church up in tha middle of tha v'llage. Ya can't miss it, bucko. I dunno 'bout his hoopty though cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Tha last time I saw it, t'was rusty n' beat up ta all hell. It'd probably work tho. Come back ta me if ya need anythang afterwards, boy-o."
"Straight-up well, understood, sir." Charlez meant ta say dis wit mo' grace n' kindnizz yo, but his voice fell flat. "Nuff props straight-up much fo' takin me tha fuck into custody fo' a night, sir yo. Have a gangbangin' fine day." Charlez stood up, rockin tha slidin glass door (which was inconveniently placed right next ta Reverend Michaels' stove up in tha kitchen) n' exited, steppin up tha fuck into tha heat of tha sunlight once again.
"Lurd haf mercy on 'is soul," Michaels holla'd from inside tha house, inaudible ta Charles' ears, "cuz tha hood will sheezy 'im none."
II. Da One Eyez Crow House
Charlez need not have axed fo' a map upon struttin up tha fuck into tha bakin desert heat dat he loathed so much once again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A navigationizzle device would be almost entirely unneeded up in dis predicament, n' findin a doggy den on a hill would not be difficult, he presumed, as dis hood was rather lil' small-ass n' unkempt overall, n' steppin outside mo' or less validated tha lone travelerz opinion.
Da hood did not look good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Da discarded, dirty n' ominous nature of Michaels' doggy den was only a gangbangin' fraction of what tha fuck tha whole hood was. In overall diameter n' size, tha hood could almost be a hood, however, tha addizzle of multiple larger facilitizzles like fuckin a cold-ass lil church n' (what rocked up ta be, at least) a lil' small-ass sized hospizitizzle next ta Michaels' house.
Da hood wholly smelled of pure rot n' decay, ripe wit oldschool age n' abandonment. Promotionizzle signs on roofs fell limp n' deserted, n' whatever light or eccentritizzles left up in technological powered billboard postas was either dimmed or dead entirely. There was a gangbangin' few playas strollin casually outside, though Charlez eventually concluded dat tha majoritizzle of dem was boarded up in they old, sickenin cribs - all of which did not look much mo' betta if at all than tha rest of tha town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A miniature weather vane up in tha shape of a cold-ass lil crow spun ridin' solo on top of one house, one doggy den of which looked like it had not peeped any care fo' tha past decades. No lights or even tha faintest source of dem was visible betwixt tha pitch-black, grimy windows, most of which was accompanied by a thick brim of moss around tha pane.
Charlez felt another nauseatin wave of dread up in tha pitz of his stomach, tha third so far. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Charlez could feel tha hideous bile risin upon his cold-ass throat yo, but his schmoooove ass choked it back swiftly, emittin a jackin cough tha fuck into his thugged-out arms. Da overall vibe n' desertion of dis vicinitizzle had intimidated Charlez deeply n' made his ass wanna turn his cold-ass tail n' sprint as far as his schmoooove ass could from tha odorous town, hustlin 'till his schmoooove ass couldn't peep it anymore betwixt tha sunset. But fuck dat shizzle yo, tha word on tha street is dat Charlez knew dat da thug would die if choosin tha option of hustlin, so he assumed his wild lil' freakadelic phat faith n' fuckin started his cold-ass trek up in search of dis so-called "Rodney" whom tha elderly, dark Reverend had informed his ass of.
Whilst trekkin all up in tha barren sandz of tha half-hood (in which tha sun was now beginnin ta set over tha horizon), Charlez had also noted some peculiar geographic featurez of tha town, as opposed ta anythang man-made like fuckin tha rotted houses. There was nuff muthafuckin monolithic, towerin pine trees above tha hood. In addizzle ta dis oddity, shorter palm trees lay beneath tha oldschool cribs. This was all straight-up peculiar n' outta place wit a thugged-out desert, n' Charlez figured dat there had ta be some rationizzle explanation tha fuck into play.
Eventually, Charlez came across what tha fuck da thug would consider tha doggy den of "Rodney", n' hoped da thug was erect. In his fuckin line of sightz distance, Charles' eyes landed upon a small, ripe wit decay doggy den (not unlike tha others up in tha least) perched on top of a lil' small-ass hill just a gangbangin' few yardz outside of tha hood itself; desert surroundin dat shit. One notable feature of tha doggy den is dat it was distinctly Cyclopean up in nature; suttin' which, his schmoooove ass could not explain way, chilled Charlez ta no end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin' yo. Dude had remembered his fuckin lil' dream yo, but he fought off tha urge ta run once again, n' fuckin started ta hesitantly trudge over ta tha structure on tha hill.
Da door of tha doggy den was distinctly different from tha rest of structure. It was entirely wooden, wit tha minor exception of tha rather outta place metal doorbell dat hung above tha knob fo' realz. As soon as Charlez laid his hand upon tha cold metal doorbell, he yelped n' his hand instantly retreated back ta his sides - tha metal of tha bell was as cold as ice. Rubbin his handz together fo' friction against tha cold, he placed tha tip of his crazy-ass muthafuckin index finger on tha device n' pressed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da bell done cooked up a rather charmin ringin sound.
Charlez could hear tha faintly audible shufflin of feet from inside tha (surprisingly) hollow wallz of tha house, tha noise gettin closer n' closer ta tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Charlez could hear a light mumblin noise, obviously human, from just inside tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da door opened, n' Charlez was almost instantaneously greeted wit tha sight of one of da most thugged-out hideously unappealin playas dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva seen.
Charlez fought off tha urge ta wretch n' reel back up in horror all up in tha playa da perved-out muthafucka saw before his muthafuckin ass. Da playa up in question, standin up in tha dimly illuminizzled wooden hallway of his house, was a startlin sight fo' unprepared eyes. Obviously coffin dodgin' up in nature, his wild lil' grill was embellished wit a cold-ass lil crooked, broken smile dat entirely ran from one cheek ta tha other. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da teeth up in question obviously had not peeped any hygienic care up in what tha fuck Charlez guessed was a long-ass time; shaded a light, grotesque green. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Not unlike tha Reverend, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass boasted a straw basebizzle cap perched on tha top of his head, only it looked like it was much less stable n' would crumble ta threadz at any second. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da manz skin definitely solidified his ass as coffin dodgin' - wrinkly, veiny n' tattered wit age yo. Dude held a cold-ass lil cane up in his fuckin lil' dried out, crumblin hand.
Perhaps his crazy-ass most strikin feature, however, was tha manz right eye - or rather, tha lack of it - which was tha straight-up original gangsta asset of his ass which Charlez noticed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Instead of a socket, tha manz red, straight-up irregular eye dangled sloppily off of what tha fuck looked like a sprin up in replacement of a human optical organ.
Charlez choked back whatever vomit dat schmoooove muthafucka had up in his wild lil' freakadelic gut, n' swallowed embarrassingly bangin up in fear tha coffin dodgin' playa would notice his fuckin lil' disgust. Charlez finally gathered his strength ta drop a rhyme n' axed, up in da most thugged-out polite voice his schmoooove ass could muster, "Yo muthafucka, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Is yo' name Rodney?"
Da manz ear-to-ear smile sunk tha fuck into a mere grin, though it still seemed ta stretch itself rather wider than normal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. In a on tha fuckin' down-low, withered voice he exfronted "Yes, c'min!" but ta Charles' ears, it sounded mo' like a cold-ass lil croak dat attempted ta sound enthusiastic rather than a excitable, cheerful voice from a regularly delightful individual. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. For a short moment, Charlez felt a pang of sympathy fo' tha somewhat sorrowful, ripe wit age voice of tha oldschool playa yo, but forced tha feelin away once tha playa up in question, Rodney, fuckin started ta drop a rhyme again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Thatz mah name. Y'can come on up in whenever yer ready. If I may ask, tho, why d'you wanna peep me of all peoples, biatch? I aint had a visitor up in years muthafucka! Ah don't even know mah playas up in tha hood anymore, straight-up...even wit itz lil' small-ass population!"
Charlez could understand why tha hood had avoided n' ostracized his ass yo, but he forced off tha urge ta drop a rhyme that; da ruffneck did not wanna succumb ta any prejudices. Instead he replied, "I was recommended ta hook up you by one of tha other townsfolk. I be a visitor whoz ass needz ta git back home. I heard you could be of some assistance; please excuse me if I will bother you at all wit mah request." Charlez wanted ta avoid soundin rude n' overly "to tha point" but dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta find a way ta git up dis hood n' make his cold-ass treacherous way back home.
"Bother'd, biatch? Ah, not at all lil' 'un! Big up me, I be bout ta sheezy you around mah house." Without hearin Charles' opinion, Rodney trudged off down tha long, dimly lit hallway, n' Charlez sighed up in reluctizzle as dat schmoooove muthafucka had no chizzle but ta follow tha oldschool fellow.
Charlez casually stepped inside tha curious building, n' upon tha instant he entered, tha desert heat dissipated n' was replaced wit a cold-ass lil cold n' eerie, yet comfortin chill dat encompassed his body n' gave his ass goose flesh. It was phat ta feel tha gratifyin breeze of def air conditioning, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought amongst his dirty ass - however, dat schmoooove muthafucka had managed ta pry his dirty ass from his fuckin lil' dreamlike train of thought state, fo' he realized dat tha oldschool Rodney fellow was far ahead of his ass down tha hallway.
As he progressed all up in tha cavernous, lengthy hallway, tha pimpin' muthafucka took tha time ta examine his surroundings as he followed Rodney. From tha massive portraitz of crows, ravens, n' various other intimipimpin nightmare birdz dat hung on tha wooden, dust-collectin walls, there was also a queer selection of faintly flickerin torches propped up above tha gargantuan paintings, just bright enough ta illuminizzle tha various pictures fo' Charlez ta see, contributin ta tha overall eerie feel of tha black hall. Charlez had a funky-ass bad feelin up in his wild lil' freakadelic gut yo, but dis time, it wasn't one of dread - rather, a cold-ass lil cold chill of fear yo. His arms broke up in goose flesh again yo, but he lifted his handz ta his shouldaz n' rubbed against dem ta fight off tha relentless chills.
Yo, shortly afterwards, Charlez followed tha queer oldschool gentleman tha fuck into a larger, wider room which was visibly dome-like up in structure n' width. Upon further inspection of tha room, Charlez now was definitely certain dat Rodney had a morbid fascination wit macabre decorations n' accursed birdz within his household. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Massive, monolithic, humongous painted ornamentz of crows was hung high above tha floor which connected Charlez (whom was strugglin ta keep his jaw closed shut) ta realitizzle - as tha pictures dat hung above his ass was simply too overwhelmingly dunkadelical ta be a reality. These paintings was even larger than tha ones up in tha hall, still bein illuminizzled by dark torches, however, n' tha incredibly marvelous ceilin stretched even above nuff a skyline - even big-ass enough ta fit at least a gangbangin' few trees, Charlez thought. Charlez could also visibly peep nuff a funky-ass bird cage hung high above tha ground level, scattered seemingly randomly - n' his schmoooove ass could also hear tha all too audible, bloodcurdlin croak of crows emittin from within tha cavernous wooden cages.
Charlez then pimped up his thugged-out attention back ta Rodney, however, whoz ass was now chillin firmly up in a leathery chair up in front of a funky-ass blazin fireplace, his cane rested on tha arm of tha furniture, n' his wild lil' freakadelic grotesque, bulgin mechanical eye dangled from tha sloppy sprin of his bangin right optical socket yo. Dude smiled toothily ta Charles, whom took a seat on tha opposite side of tha room, though just enough ta git within a phat distizzle of Rodneyz hearing.
Charlez assimilated his dirty ass firmly up in tha leathery seat, lookin up ta attempt ta come grill ta grill wit tha coffin dodgin' chap yo, but as soon as his wild lil' fuckin eyes kicked it wit dat godforsaken iron sprin n' dat toothily intimipimpin grin, Charlez abashedly flung tha direction of his wild lil' fuckin eyesight down ta his fuckin lap, hopin Rodney did not notice his visitorz sudden repulsion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was Rodney whom decided ta speak, before givin Charlez any chizzle ta voice his cold-ass thoughts.
"Whaz tha matter, yung fella, biatch? Whaddya need ME uf all playas fer?" Da oldschool playa axed dis up in mo' of a exclamation than a legitimate question, though it sounded mo' like da thug was tryin ta sound surprise rather than genuinely feelin dat aforementioned shock. "I ain't never had a vis'tr up in ages...!" Rodney tried ta slip his thugged-out awkward, freely outstretched eye back tha fuck into place on its firm sprin yo, but it continued ta dart up as if it has a mind of its own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charlez watched dis awkward display of grotesquenizz yo, but assimilated his dirty ass ta act mo' comforted.
It was Charlez turn ta question tha coffin dodgin' host of dis raven-house. "I done been informed by another townsfolk from here dat you could be of some well needed assistizzle - vehicular assistance, ta be mo' precise. Reverend Michaels, his name was. I be a gangbangin' foreigner ta dis area, n' I wanna ta know if what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka holla'd was true, n' dat you have some sort of hoopty or truck on yo' property dat I could bust ta make mah way back ta mah hometown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Please excuse me fo' such abrupt requests - but if I may borrow yo' vehicle, then I will promise ta repay tha favor ta you up in some way or another afta returnin ta mah hometown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Nuff props," Charlez explained up in a thugged-out decent enough amount of detail. Now his schmoooove ass could only hope dat tha lyricz of tha shadowed Reverend was true.
"Ah, phat 'ol Mikey dawwwwg! I kno 'im," Rodney exfronted, grinnin yo. His grin quickly mutated tha fuck into a thugged-out dark, shadowed frown as his schmoooove ass continued, however. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be runnin hoes up in 2013. "But as fer yer vehicul'r reqs't...ah DO gots a truck yo, but is worn up n' tattr'ed...ah had it since I was a lil' lad, n' ah dunno if yull be able ta bust it, yung fellur."
Charlez felt a wack wave of hopelessnizz n' despair rang a sorrowful metronome up in tha pitz of his stomach, upon realizin dat his chizzle of vehicular assistizzle was now gone. Charlez gave props ta tha oldschool playa fo' his thugged-out lil' patience either way yo, but just before Charlez gots up ta leave, another lingerin thought - another question - quickly battered itself tha fuck into his crazy-ass mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude sat up again, n' he figured it would now be a phat time ta ask mo' thoroughly bout dis shadowed hood of Heighton.
"Before I go," he persevered, "I have another strang of rather blingin thangs ta ask."
Rodney grinned again yo, but dis time da ruffneck did not reveal his bangin rotten, grimy oldschool teeth. "Lay'm on me, yung'un! Ah'm fine up fer any quest'ns from such a thugged-out decn't yung lad like fuckin yers'lf."
"To start off," Charlez fuckin started, rockin a lighter question as a needed predecessor ta tha thangs da thug would ask thereafter, "how long have you lived up in dis Heighton town?"
"All mah life," tha coffin dodgin' fellow responded, n' Charlez felt a thugged-out disembodied sympathy grow over his muthafuckin ass. Charlez would not wanna live up in a hood like fuckin dis one, let ridin' solo all his fuckin life; however, dis did not seem ta deter or dampen Rodneyz spirits one bit, n' Charlez begrudgingly admitted dat he envied n' appreciated Rodneyz sense of dark enthusiazzle.
Charlez cleared his cold-ass throat, twiddlin his cold-ass thumbs yo. Dude axed two mo' vital thangs: "What exactly is dis town, biatch? I don't peep it on any map, not of dis desert or any, n' I aint heard of dis hood at all until earlier todizzle, when I awoken up in tha Reverendz house. What tha fuck iz tha entirety of tha history behind dis hamlet, biatch? Please, tell me every last muthafuckin thang, sir." Charlez also wanted ta note how tha fuck tha hood gave his ass wack intervalz of dread, though he retracted dat fragment from his fuckin lyrics all up in tha last second.
Rodney fuckin started his fuckin long-winded, thorough n' yet audibly crooked explanation ta his wild lil' freakadelic guest. "Well, fellur, I s'pose ya've gathered dat therez sum history behind dis 'ere town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Ah guess you could say tis like tha inhyped un if ah do say so mah dirty ass. Well, t'all started dem down seventy six muthafuckin years ago, when ah was still just a yung, naive ol' chap. Tw'as 1925 when ah was jest a yung lad all up in tha age o' thirteen.
"Nuttin' straight-up started ta happen until tha late ol' thirties, ah gess. Thatz when shiznit started hittin' tha hustla up in dis ol' town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But ah guess I should keep you up in on how tha fuck it all start'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Crazy-Ass ol' farma found up abaout dis 'ere place durin' a cold-ass lil cross county travel. Layne Heighton, his name was. Thatz haow tha hood gots itz ol' name. For whatever reason, he 'ad no home at tha time - 'parrently his haouse went bankrupt just outside Lancasta ah few munths far tha fuck into 1898, so he faound 'is way over here an' started erectin' a gangbangin' few bl'dings wit tha muthafuckin help of sum local construct'n workers. That all went from thar, n' tha hood still has't grown dat much bigg'r even afta awl these years.
"Mo' peopl' started movin' up in hurr afta ol' Heighton passed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Pretty much tha whole hood was strictly fur Laynez gang n' playas, or colleagues. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So afta da ruffneck died, mo' peopl' started comin' in, erectin' houses an' makin' they own propertizzles wit tha muthafuckin help o' colleagues n' workers. Tha hood wus act'ly fairly ghettofab fer itz first few yerz of exist'nce. Up 'till tha year o' 1910, dat is. Tha hood started gettin' 'bandoned by most of tha original gangsta nat'ves, n' still ta dis dizzle nobudy knows exactly why they turned tail up o' thar yo, but its assumed dat tha heat drove 'em out, though there'r nuff muthafuckin flaws wit t'at theery, since dis is tha desert after'll, n' playas grow 'customed ta heat.
"Da hood contin'd ta remain up in relatizzle obscr'ty fo' a cold-ass lil couple o' muthafuckin years yo, but dat was when both mah gang n' a gangbangin' few mo' distant relatives n' 'er descendantz of tha orign'l Layne Heighton started ta move back up in n' repopulate tha town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I started doin thangs up in tha previously erected Heighton hospizitizzle 'dat same stupid-ass year, up in 1912. Tha hood wus act'lly thrivin' at dis point. While Heightonz descend'nts wur few n' far between wit dere oddities, tha hood act'lly became qwite popul'r n' heavl'y packed wit freshly smoked up natives. Lots o' ol', funk restaurnt's, a cold-ass lil carnival fer phat mes're, n' a thrivin' 'mount o' phat playaz of all. Lots'o crows dere too, fur whatever reasun - they seemed ta like tha town, n' dey still do, dem darndest birds.
"In 1925 ah wus yer atypic'l teenage boi fo' realz. Ah had all dese illicit intr'sts, like sexin', drinkin', smokin' or what'ver I could do 'er attempt ta do ta git on tha grown ups nerves yo. Ha-ha! Such a naive yung laddy ah wus back'n, so ah never considered tha possibilt'y of anythin' bad, since mah thuglife was guin' so pimped out fer da most thugged-out purt. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. School wus few'n fur between, so ah didn't have ta worry bout any rascals too much, n' stuck 'round wit mah home playas, playin' game, talkin' 'bout fine hoes n' ladies our slick asses liked, n' stayin' phat n' aiiight."
It was here, Charlez noticed, dat Rodney fuckin started ta drop a rhyme up in a thugged-out darker, mo' straight-up n' shadowed tone. Da coffin dodgin' playa continued: "'Tat shiznit started changin' dat same stupid-ass year, thou fo'sho. One mang whoz ass wus one of tha few remain'n relt'vez of tha orign'l Heighton moved up in - tha Heightonz b'fore 'im had either took a dirt nap of sumthins, diseases prob'ly, or left tha taown - n' dis man, Hugh Heighton 'is name wus, tha grandsun of tha origin'l - started spewin' all dese tall talez bout 'dis morbid stuff. Kadath this, Fhtag'n dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stuff awl like 'tat.
"'Tat was afta da perved-out muthafucka start'd boardin' his dirty ass up inside 'is shady ol' haome, tho. Big cyclop'n bl'dng, now a cold-ass lil church. Da lad always used ta board 'imself up by tooth n' nail up in dat ol' watchtower. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Fellur had a thugged-out dastardly obsess'n wit crows - even mo' so than his thugged-out ancest'rs. Tha entire town, 'cludin me, feared 'im at tha time fo' realz. Ah ludd crows mahself yo, but tha amount of 'em dat came outta tha oldschool rotten hole on tha side of tha watchtower wus increasin' everyday. It make me wanna hollar playa! Our thugged-out asses townsfolks didn't be thinkin much o' it, tho - not 'tat much. Our thugged-out asses didn't be thinkin anythin' morbid o' it, though we still hated tha lil' 'gent fer bein' so pest-y n' alien. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da lad was up in his crazy-ass mid-twentizzles at tha time, so we fig'red dat if our phat asses din't bother him, then he'd leav' our asses all 'lone. But he kept sendin' 'em darndest crows, which we 'ventually fuckin started ta booty-call 'em "skyroaches" fur bein' such pests. Even tha hood exterminat'rs cudn't keep tha amount of 'im together.
"Like ah holla'd, though, 'tat was 'fore da perved-out muthafucka started comin' up ta hook up our asses grill ta face. Our Asses townpolks was like s'prised ta peep his ass up in tha open up in tha flesh 'tat one day. It make me wanna hollar playa! And we fuckin started dislikin' 'im even mo' when da perved-out muthafucka started communicatin' wit our asses townspeoplez over tha next few months. 'Dem months soon turned ta ah year, n' he gots progres'ly weirder dizzle bah day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Always spewin shiznit bout some ol' book called tha...Necronimicon, ah think?" Charlez paused - dat schmoooove muthafucka had heard dat word somewhere before. Rodney didn't notice n' continued, "Some 'solutely crazy yarn frum dat wack grill o' his. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still chills meh ta dis day, thankin 'baout a shitload of tha shiznit da perved-out muthafucka holla'd back 'den.
"'Ventually tha rest o' our asses started goin' crazy by 'is ramblins. Lit'rly insane. Many o' us, not 'cludin' me fortunately - a'least, not fur tha straight-up original gangsta part, started havin rancid nightmares 'baout these wack vast d'mensions somewhere betwixt tha space continuum. Cyclopean struct'res, fleshy bat-things, a mass of malign, spherizzleal bubbly shiznit dat ah still can't straight-up picture yo, but maybay dat was becuz I never dreamed uf any uf it, n' what tha fuck ah heard was just sum yarn from other townsfolk. Tha straight-up odd thang tho, was dat playas fuckin started ta r'lize dat all tha accounts wus straight-up similar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Our thugged-out asses 'ad all been havin' tha same stupid-ass dreams. Mah mum up in particular had 'un dat ah'll never furget. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch went insayne n' took a dirt nap frum it when ah was only all up in tha ripe ol' age o' 14. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch nevur holla'd at mah what tha fuck tha trip wus abaout 'fore she passed yo, but 'twas 'parrently so wack it capped 'er fo' realz. Ah never straight-up 'covered frum her loss fer awhile."
At dis point, Rodney was tearin from his hittin dat shizzle eye, n' slightly red up in tha grill yo. Dude gripped onto tha leathery armrestz of tha chair, n' Charlez felt a sympathy fo' his ass dat his schmoooove ass could not describe yo. Dude could truly feel tha hurt up in dis skanky oldschool soulz voice, n' was regretful of judgin tha coffin dodgin' folk on his thugged-out appearance. Rodney continued along wit his cold-ass tale, wipin away a light stream of tears.
"And 'dis eye...ya wanna know what tha fuck happened ta mah right eye, boi, biatch? Well 'lemme tell ya somethin'; tha whole horror sheezy didn't end thar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Nut even close ta endin' thar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Ya hear me, boi, biatch? 'Twas Hugh Heighton again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude 'ad dis'pred fur awhile, n' our crazy asses hadn't sawed his ass 'gain till aft'r tha wack nightmare plague wus over. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Mah mummy wusn't tha only wun whoz ass passed durin' 'dose nights fo' realz. Ah phat over thirty folks either took a dirt nap 'er gone missin' from tha nightmares. Yes, missin'. Muthafuckas was found - 'er mo' 'currately, gone - frum 'dere bedz 'on a cold-ass lil couple o' 'mornins. Obviously we wawnted ta peep what tha fuck wus goin' on 'an put a end ta dis freakish horror show, so we furst turned ta peep if Heighton, Hugh Heighton, wus 'hind dis at awl yo. Dude wus. Our thugged-out asses din't notice, since of awl tha crazy chaos goin' down below Heightonz tower yo, but thar wus even mo' crows reignin down on tha hood each night. Gettin bigger, 'n bigger, swarms, hoardz 'o 'em...they wus enuff ta darken' tha skies durin' tha dizzle time, cawin' wit they wack bloodcurdlin' shrill shriekz of demonic horror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Our thugged-out asses herd chantinz from tha tower sum nights, deep, boomin' bellows...nun of our asses cud chill. Nun o' us."
Charlez was now purely stupefied all up in tha utterly crazy yarn dis oldschool playa was spillin from his wild lil' freakadelic gnarled grill. Rodney was a utter wreck at dis point, shovin his handz forcefully tha fuck into his wild lil' grill n' straight-up sobbin up in a hysterical n' utterly bone-chillin mourn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da muthafuckin yearz of sufferin dis skanky oldschool ass had gone all up in was now beginnin ta overcome him, Charlez gettin mo' n' mo' terrified each second of contact wit his muthafuckin ass. Rodney continued his horrifyin tale, wit a audible snarl now contributed tha fuck into his witchz cauldron of vocal horrors.
"And dis eye, boi! This eye-! Dude took it out...THEY took it up son! It awl hit tha hustla on May Eve, boy...the dreaded n' hated Walpurgis night yo. Hightown...! Thatz what tha fuck Hugh called dat shit...Hightown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. This legend hommie biaaatch! 'Tis utterly monstrz swarms o' crows, hoardz n' hoardz o' em blackinin' tha sky...and tha chantinz gots laoder 'tat night. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So horrible, ground-shakin' chantin's. But let me furst inform ye of tha night 'fore. I had fin'ly had un of dem wack trips 'tat took mah 'loved mum 'way from mah dirty ass. I sawed it, 'tat horrible, wack thing...oh, Jizzy dawwwwg! Tha bubbly mass of malign curved shapes...tha teeth...the howlinz from tha Cyclopean pits frum b'low...the stars...! Those bat thangs 'dat I had heared baout frum tha otherz dreams...awl there up in 'tat wack nightmare cauldron! 'Tall seemed so real, like a muthafucka...too real! Tha nightmare...I woked up awl afta it, n' 'ad dis wack burnin' feelin' up in mah eye fo' realz. And ah felt it up, n' there wus nothin' but a pitch black hole where mah right eye shud've been! 'Den I realized dat shit...I took it up mah dirty ass muthafucka! I ripped it up in tha horror uf mah chill! It start'd hurtin' mo' afta ah realized...! Right before tha Walpurgis, tha utter cauldron uf blacken'd evil swarmin' all over tha town...the crows grew tha fuck into massive shapes durin' tha day, blockin' up tha sun...oh, mah Dogg hommie biaaatch! I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah God!"
At dis point, Rodney was beatboxin frightfully, a ear-splittin shrill shriek dat chilled Charlez down ta tha spine. Charlez fuckin started ta feel tha near-unstoppable urge ta run as fast as his schmoooove ass could from dis complete, unadulterated n' mindless insanitizzle pourin from tha grill of dis poor, hurt oldschool man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Rodney refused ta halt his cold-ass tale, and, still a beatboxin n' writhang wreck of a playa whoz ass had straight-up lost his fuckin lil' dope bust a nut on wit reality, continued tha fuck into one of da most thugged-out horrifyingly nightmarish passagez of rap Charlez had eva heard up in his wild lil' fuckin entire life.
"Tha legend hommie biaaatch! That was it son! Da legend da perved-out muthafucka started hommie biaaatch! Hugh Heighton o' tha nightmares muthafucka! Da Legend of tha Hightown Crow! 'Orrible, awful, o'so awf'l...that tower, which he arrognt'y titl'd "Hightown" fer bein' a monolith up in a lil' small-ass sea o' dwarf buildin's...it started manifestin! Sum kinda 'orrible shadow form...! On top o' tha tower...tha crows, nuff o' em...started mergin together...makin' it luk like Hugh MADE a cold-ass lil crow statue...! Ta dis day, it still standz 'dere...! Lurin' playas ta whatev'r wack cauldron o' nightmares is naow up in 'dat wack church...oh, mah Dogg hommie biaaatch! I can't unsee it son! What happened afterwards, afta tha crows manifested...tha sky drained of tha' crows, naow only tha mazillions o' stars n' night windz visible...and 'tas when it happened...my pops, whoz ass wus tha ownly wun ah had left up in mah life, started lookin' up tha window...both lookin' out...hoardz o' em...Jesus...swarms n' swarmz of em, chantin' n' chantin' horribly dawwwwg! Kadath! Sumthin' bout some "cycle"...oh, pops...they wur awful...bubbly manifestation faintly resemblin' crows...grotesque, slimy crows...pops went down, n' locked tha door, boarded up tha whole haouse...all tha openins...and they gots 'im! THEY GOT 'IM, BOY! They took 'im down n' dragged his ass ta Jizzy knows where biaaatch! Ah hid...they never faound mah dirty ass...and ah was un of tha only survivors - un survivor aout of fifty-four others. That wuz dat shit. Out of awl tha playas up in tha town, only fifty-four o' our asses was left...and dat chant, dat chant dat came from both tha towers n' tha wack crow beasts...oh god, I 'member it clear n' light as day...the deep, bellowin monstrositizzle 'tat wus certainly inhuman n' grotesque..."
Charlez was now straight-up horrified, as tha utterly psychotic oldschool playa launched ta his wild lil' feet, n' fuckin started recitin tha awful, rancid prayer up in a horribly inhumane voice, a voice dat could have easily been dat of a nameless descendant of Satan:
Charlez observed up in mind-numbin horror as tha coffin dodgin' ass collapsed onto tha floor up in a funky-ass brutal heap, grippin his cold-ass throbbin templez wit a painful-lookin force n' emittin what tha fuck sounded like a nightmarish scramble of a shrill, crooked laugh n' a terrifying, sloppin bellow - a thugged-out definite mix of all dat was wack n' indescribable up in tha ghetto, n' tha pure antithesiz of all dat was n' is holy. Da cawin of tha caged crows above tha ground level had then become progressively louder, slammin against tha troughz of they cages up in a gangbangin' frenetic n' desperate attempt ta escape they wooden prisons. Rodney finally calmed down, tha crows calmin down along wit him, n' da perved-out muthafucka somehow managed ta stand upright once again, n' turned ta Charlez - now harborin da most thugged-out frightened, pale n' ghastly look a mortal bein could possibly harbor.
"Git' out, boi," da perved-out muthafucka started, "git' up o' dis hood fer yur own gud. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Ya have ta find a way ta git' up o' here biaaatch! Ya can't stay 'ere, lad hommie biaaatch! Go! Run! And dun' look bach!" With this, Rodney dashed quickly from one side of tha room ta tha next, enterin a thugged-out door dat Charlez had failed ta peep beforehand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Charlez fixated his sight quickly towardz tha door, n' heard tha lock click tha fuck into place, followed subsequently by tha mournful sobz of tha skanky oldschool ass whoz ass dat schmoooove muthafucka had just conversed with.
Charlez had known all too well what tha fuck his crazy-ass mind was demandin his ass ta do - heed tha lyrics dat tha old, darkened psychopath holla'd n' leave dis hamlet of hell without a momentz hesitation of lookin back. Charlez was now utterly dumbfounded n' mortified by tha horrific rap dat had spilled from tha grill of oldschool Rodney yo, but Charles' sympathy n' selflessnizz gots tha mo' betta of him; knowin by instinct his schmoooove ass could not leave dis skanky playa ta suffer all ridin' solo up in his blackened crow-crypt of a household.
Charlez rapped thickly on tha door, urgin Rodney, whom was still sobbin like a abandoned child, ta reveal his dirty ass. "Hello, biatch? Rodney, biatch? Rodney dawwwwg! Reveal yo ass!" After a while, Charlez gave up tryin ta urge tha playa from his solitary, nameless chamber, n' sighed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Please, sir - I wanna fuck you fo' all of yo' time. Is there any way you know of dat I can possibly make mah way back ta mah home?"
All was silent fo' a minute - Rodneyz pathetic, terrified whimperin n' sobbing, as well as tha blood-stirrin cawin of tha crows, had ceased entirely, n' tha only noise remainin was tha soft, gentle buzz of tha heater. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Charlez could then hear Rodney shufflin bout within tha locked room, much like dat schmoooove muthafucka had heard prior ta enterin tha manz house, before Rodney subsequently followed wit tha final lyrics Charlez would eva hear from his muthafuckin ass.
"Jest go, boi," da perved-out muthafucka started, his fuckin lil' desperate whimperin subsiding, though still hidden darkly underneath his breath. "Mah truck is up in tha bach, up tha back door of tha kitc'n 'tat leadz tha fuck into tha alleyway. It ain't glock wurk fur a gangbangin' few days. Yo ass culd 'av tha repairm'n at tha autob'dy shop a gangbangin' few blocks down fix it up fer ye. Ye cun drive eet ta tha shop yo, but it wun't be enuff ta last fur long drives. Tha shop closes at 'leven. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Tha keys r' up in mah car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I keep tha doors open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Farewell n' g'luck, yung lad." With that, Rodney delved tha fuck into his sobbin again, only dis time it was much softer n' gentle, as if da thug was sobbin beneath his breath. For whatever reason, dis intimidated Charles' even mo' than Rodneyz loud, bustin up like a biatch wailz of despair dat schmoooove muthafucka had displayed earlier. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Oh, n' take 'tis." Rodney quickly opened tha door n' threw up a gangbangin' flashlight beneath Charles' feet, n' boarded his dirty ass back up in his crypt before Charlez even had time ta catch a glimpse of his - Charlez hesitated ta booty-call his ass tha followin yo, but nonetheless could not deny it - playa.
Charles, without sayin a word, heeded tha elderz lyrics, n' fuckin started ta proceed down a pitch-black, cavernous hallway dat supposedly lead tha fuck into tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Grippin tha handle of tha flashlight wit a tight intensity, Charlez marched down tha pitch-black hallz of tha damned, n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta realize how tha fuck unkempt n' neglected dis forgotten high doggy den on tha lil' small-ass hill had come ta be over tha nuff muthafuckin yearz of its existence.
This time, there was no visible, titanic portraitz of corvidea along tha walls - all was void of life, except fo' tha rotted up wood dat stank of perverse must n' neglected decay. Green, wretched mold grew steadily like a cold-ass lil cosmic plague all along tha massive walls, wood creakin every last muthafuckin so often, n' tha humid grasp of tha forsaken aforementioned musk encompassin Charles' vision n' breath, which soon fuckin started blottin up his sight n' respiration. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. After minutes which seemed like hours, Charlez finally reached tha end of tha hall, his hand grippin tightly onto a thugged-out doorknob wit tha guidizzle of his wild lil' flashlight. Da knob was cold, like even colda than tha doorbell dat schmoooove muthafucka had touched whilst standin just outside of Rodneyz home earlier yo, but up in spite of this, Charlez was too eager ta git outta dis dark home of tha bizarre ta be inclined ta care, n' pushed open tha door wit a light force.
Dude had now found his singular destination - Rodneyz kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was just as odorous n' rotten as tha hall before it yo, but it harbuggin up a less forebodin n' despair-inducin atmosphere, as well as lendin Charlez tha dope n' ever-needed mobilitizzle ta breath once again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charlez took time ta survey his surroundings - tha kitchen was just as dirty as unkempt as tha aforementioned hall yo, but it was packed wit a array of seemingly empty cardboard boxes - empty, dat is, until Charlez peeked up in one of dem n' a startlin crew of crows burst up like bats betwixt a cold-ass lil cave, before they disrocked up tha fuck into tha wood of tha walls. Charlez decided it would be a wise idea not ta continue ta stay fo' straight-up long.
Da windowz of tha kitchen was not truly windows at all - rather, light, flimsy screens up in which tha def air of tha outside ghetto flooded in, causin Charlez ta retrieve his crazy-ass mobilitizzle ta breath tha dope mutha of oxygen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As Charlez strutted over ta tha skimpy, neglected wooden door dat lead up tha fuck into tha alleyway dat Rodney had informed his ass of, he noticed tha van clearly up in tha dark alleyway. Charlez looked outta tha window n' now noticed dat tha stars was shinin brightly above tha earth up in a stunnin still lightsheezy up in tha otherwise ink black darknizz of tha def night sky. Charles, however, gots a sudden n' abrasive feelin of slight dread - da ruffneck did not wanna step outside fo' realz. After becomin informed all of tha horrors n' dark legendz dat shrouded dis shadowed town, especially wit such thoroughness, dat schmoooove muthafucka had concluded dat goin outside at night or twilight would not be a wise idea.
Charlez choked back tha odorous feelin up in his wild lil' freakadelic guts n' swallowed as if da thug was downin suttin' up in real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Fightin against his wild lil' fear, he pushed open tha lightweight, lonely wooden door n' stepped up tha fuck into tha vacant alley lot.
III. Da Decayed Station
Charlez could not muthafuckin help but grin as he felt tha satisfaction of tha def, comfortin flood of tha night wind across his back n' torso as he finally took his wild lil' first step outside of dat unholy household of ghoulish perversions. That step away from tha shrouded doggy den was his wild lil' first n' hopefully his wild lil' final. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Da step dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken from aforementioned doggy den was easy as fuck - a simple drop from a thugged-out disembodied step which assured dat tha user landed securely on tha soft soil. Da "drop", if it could even be called as such, was only twelve inches up in height, so dark shizzle was outta tha question.
Immediately Charlez noticed tha battered, rusted n' neglected van (or "truck" as Rodney had profronted it, though by its appearizzle it was not one ta Charles' eyes) beneath tha yellowish pale moonlight dat illuminizzled tha night sky wit a gangbangin' fierce beauty. Da lonely, desolate n' isolated hoopty lay still up in tha vacant, abandoned lot beneath aforementioned moonlight, obvious neglect n' decay chippin away its rustin metal body n' sad, abandoned tires.
Charlez scolded his dirty ass fo' feelin sympathy over a inanimate object fo' a gangbangin' fraction of a second, n' fuckin started ta deal up how tha fuck tha subsequent minutes would go tha fuck into play wit his wild lil' freakadelic goal ta escape from dis vast, forebodin hood of forsaken perversities. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Each minute of remainin wit tha town, tha hamlet fuckin started ta crawl under his outer skin layers n' git on his nerves at absurd levels tha pimpin' muthafucka thought not possible. Da first step of his wild lil' fuckin escape deal was, obviously, git tha van repaired all up in tha autobody shop dat Rodney had informed his wild lil' freakadelic hommie of. Charlez assumed dat it would take a thugged-out dizzle at least fo' tha supposed repairmen all up in tha station ta rearrange tha dilapidated, near deceased hoopty - n' at worst, a gangbangin' few minutes fo' tha situation ta be arranged. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Subsequently, da thug would return ta Reverend Michaels' doggy den on foot n' reside there until tha hoopty was fixed, followed rest assuredly by Charlez slammin tha breaks wit enough force ta pulverize dem n' dash off outta dis wicked, untrustworthy hood of dismal, perverse depravitizzle n' back ta his home.
Charlez checked tha door ta tha passengerz seat ta make shizzle what tha fuck Rodney holla'd was tha truth, n' dat he left tha hoopty doors remained opened without needin any keys as assistizzle (suttin' dat Charlez detested yo, but da thug was not one ta judge anotherz decisions, queer as they might be). Charlez felt extravagant relief as tha rusted metal door came ajar as he gripped tha handle n' pulled, assurin his ass dat it was open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charlez strutted around tha van n' opened tha door ta tha driverz seat, assimilatin his dirty ass up in a cold-ass lil comfortable, leather seat that, while it was as neglected n' decayed as tha rest of tha hoopty was, was surprisingly calming. Charlez felt his nerves chillax as he eyeballed tha keys (which Rodney had blatantly left hangin by a sliver on tha dried, devoid of smell air freshener) n' grabbed them, followed by switchin tha land hoopty tha fuck into ignizzle rockin aforementioned keys.
Charlez felt tha van shudder ta life, or mo' accurately, half-death. Da musty, reekin odor of tha foul gaz of tha hoopty invaded his smell, n' tha headlights dimly glowed a gangbangin' faint yellow up in tha darknizz of tha pitch night atmosphere. Charlez fuckin started rollin, n' instantly tha hoopty fuckin started ta stutter violently as it progressed outta tha lot, bustin a sharp turn outta tha alley n' tha fuck into tha sandz yo. Dude had now understood what tha fuck Rodney had meant when dat schmoooove muthafucka had profronted dat tha van would not last fo' extended road trips. Charlez guessed dis hoopty would last a gangbangin' feeble five minutes before it broke down straight-up up in tha middle of tha sands, n' hoped Rodneyz lyricz of tha shop bein close by was truth.
As da ruffneck drove, bein threshed by tha detestable n' irritatin stutter (and light creakin sound) of tha car, Charlez examined his outside surroundings n' saw utterly no playas fo' realz. As opposed ta earlier up in tha day, when there was at least some formz of intelligent thuglife amidst tha olden, dissonant half-abandoned town, tha area was now utterly devoid of visible life. Da only thang audible was tha occasionizzle cawin of crows, n' afta listenin intently ta Rodneyz tale (some of which still trippin him), they maddened his ass all tha mo'. Put yo muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel this!It was night afta all, however, so it was predictable dat there would not be much movin thuglife - but despite this, tha eerie feelin of lonelinizz fuckin started ta creep upon Charles. Even tha dilapidated hospizitizzle structure dat stood erect next ta Michaels' doggy den was void of all light within its walls yo. Homes remained boarded up, n' Charlez did not wanna smoke up what tha fuck was so cosmically terrible bout what tha fuck lie over dem walls, whoz residents was apparently so rotten dat tha vicinitizzles had ta be boarded entirely by whatever force, human or not, dat applied dem planks nailed ta tha hideous windows n' doors.
After bout another minute or so of rollin, Charlez made his way all up in a abandoned lot, one of tha nuff up in tha town, done cooked up a sharp turn at a cold-ass lil corner, n' came across what tha fuck he assumed was tha autobody shop Rodney had suggested ta his muthafuckin ass. It lay there still beneath tha marvelous glow of tha full moon, wedged lazily between two bigger buildings dat otherwise stood ridin' solo. Oil laden, filthily discarded tires lay strewn bout tha grimy tar pavement, uncared for. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Petrol pumps was jammed tha fuck into tha concrete lazily n' oil canistas lay sloppily ta tha side. Peekin up in ta tha moss-ridden windows from a thugged-out distance, Charlez noticed dat tha entirety of tha inner workingz of tha buildin was unkempt, discarded n' played, seemingly havin lived they inanimate lives unloved n' beaten by they ungrateful masters, thrown bout carelessly, tha windowpanes fucked up n' smashed, split apart up in shardz of tortured glass.
As Charlez pulled tha fuck into tha slot overlookin tha garage ta tha treacherous building, Charlez noticed three queer folk, all of dem male, shambled awkwardly outta tha darknizz of tha near-decayed, insidious garage. Da three odd pimps stumbled up in a abnormal, penguin-like waddle over ta tha window of tha driverz seat. It was then dat Charlez noticed they hideous, inhuman features.
Da skinz of tha three menz grill was stretched up in a grotesque outward pimpment, they lips sloppily mounded onto tha tip of they fish-like grillpiece. Overall, however, they appearances resembled mo' of birdz than fish, n' tha previously mentioned beak-like appendage of a grill further validated dis claim. Da menz afro was all pitch-blackened, raven-like, n' unkempt feathery clumpz of afro scattered around they otherwise bald heads. Their eyes was as dark as they afro - a cold-ass lil color dat was so impossibly dark dat it defied all possible psychedelic reality. From tha neck down, tha pimps was mo' normal wit tha exception of tha penguin-shamble steez of movement - bustin standard, generic construction clothes, covered wit grime dat had clearly ripened wit decay n' bust over tha years. Charlez was almost instantaneously reminded of tha "crow people" up in Rodneyz wicked tale - though Rodney his dirty ass did not describe dem up in full detail outside of they morbid chants, they looked full-well like what tha fuck Charlez had pictured. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Charlez hesitantly rolled down his window, n' one of tha three fuckin started ta drop a rhyme up in a low, croakin n' sore vocalization, though it sounded like da thug was at least tryin ta come off as polite.
"Greetings. Da hoopty repair shall be exactly one-hundred dollars, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Nuff props straight-up much." Da crowmanz voice creaked painfully, shrill n' bloodcurdling, as if tha vocalization of a legit crow - one whoz ass harbuggin up tha queer knowledge of how tha fuck ta drop a rhyme tha human language. Despite tha tone of his voice (which Charlez thought sounded excruciatin) it did not seem ta bother tha strange playa up in tha slightest.
Charlez fished around up in his wallet n' held up two fifty-dollar bills ta tha three men, tha bustin lyrics one of whom grabbed it hastily n' followed tha other two up in a eerie scuffle tha fuck into tha dark garage. One of dem returned shortly afterwardz n' drove Charles' battered freshly smoked up van tha fuck into tha maniacal depthz of tha garage.
Charlez figured it would now be a phat time ta leave tha desolate autobody station n' march on foot back ta Reverend Michaels' household. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But fuck dat shizzle yo, tha word on tha street is dat a lingerin feelin came over his ass dat da ruffneck did not contemplate until now, nahmeean, biatch? Charlez had concluded dat it was likely not a wise idea ta trek around tha shadowed Heighton ridin' solo at night, not only fo' fear of bein mugged or murdered but also fo' a gangbangin' far mo' inexplicable, spine-shudderin horror - a horror so inconceivable, like dat of Rodney's, dat his crazy-ass mind would collapse from tha sheer terror of tha unknown shadowz of tha town.
Another thang dat grabbed Charles' wanderin attention was tha smashed, battered convenience store dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had peered up in earlier. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da mo' rationizzle side of Charlez - tha one dat wanted ta avoid tha hideousnizz of tha unknown altogether - was overcame wit a morbid curiositizzle dat menstrually choked his muthafuckin ass. Charles, sweatin, eventually let his crazy-ass mind be overcome wit dat same stupid-ass masochistic curiosity, n' tha invisible force had pulled his ass towardz tha openin doorz of tha store without leavin time fo' Charlez ta finish his still-hustlin thoughts. Charles, despite his thugged-out achin terrors n' poundin fear, needed ta explore tha trashed ruinz of tha inner wallz of tha convenience store. There was suttin' up in there dat was blingin, whatever it was, n' he needed ta smoke up what tha fuck it was dat was compellin his ass ta strutt dem dreaded doors.
Charlez examined his surroundings, n' assured dat no one was around ta notice his ass enterin tha convenience store - it would not done been so bad ta enter yo, but cuz of tha destroyed n' played atmosphere n' tha mystic force dat was pullin Charlez tha fuck into tha blackened cryptz of tha building, Charlez concluded dat bein caught would n' should be tha straight-up original gangsta n' most cautiouz of his shits.
Charlez pushed open tha two glass doors, n' they creaked loudly as Charlez contrastingly made his on tha down-low way inside, n' failed ta notice tha plank da perved-out muthafucka stepped on as tha doors closed behind him, not only concealin his ass up in utter darknizz but also crackin tha aforementioned plank. Charlez cursed n' scolded his dirty ass n' remained silent fo' a minute ta assure again n' again n' again dat no one heard his ass venturin - n' shizzle enough, tha three bird-men was still hard at work, tha faint sound of machinery drillin away from behind tha wall. Charlez sighed up in relief n' fished tha flashlight outta his thugged-out lil' pocket ta fight against tha pure, utter trench darkness.
Da flashlight flickered ta life, n' Charlez scanned around tha insidez of tha store. Rotten, neglected, n' battered furniture was everywhere - chip bags n' other useless snacks lay scattered across tha floor, torn open n' discarded wackly. One window was smashed straight-up, lettin a cold-ass lil def flow of breeze tha fuck into tha room, while tha others was encased up in a hideous, slimy thick moss dat stank of musty, perverse mold dat fought against tha otherwise calmin breeze. Everythang as a whole was unkempt n' wackly discarded - a pathetic shadow of what tha fuck once seemed ta be a ordinary mini-market, now roughened wit sad, lonely decay n' miserable, solitary age.
Charlez felt a wack wave of emotions - not dread yo, but sadness. Nothang deserved neglect like this, not even inanimate or useless inventions or objects. It was such a gangbangin' feelin of unbelievable misery n' hopelessnizz dat Charlez struggled ta keep his dirty ass on his own two feet without fallin down up in a thugged-out depressive, numbly tearful heap.
Charlez fought off tha feelin as dopest as his schmoooove ass could, n' proceeded ta venture all up in tha dark narcotic pitz of tha forgotten, time-entombed store yo. Dude soon juiced it up ta tha farthest wall of tha store, n' his hand felt up a cold-ass lil cobweb-ridden doorknob dat opened all up in tha touch, n' Charlez pointed his wild lil' flashlight tha fuck into tha descendin darkness.
Da gleam of tha flashlight revealed a old, curious staircase dat lead tha fuck into tha trench-esque pitz of unknown, advanced, n' utterly void darkness. Charlez did not wanna go down there - tha force pulled him, n' scratched at his ass ta go yo, but his wild lil' feet would not move despite tha overwhelmin feelin of both sadnizz n' utter non-consensual force urgin his ass ta descend tha fuck into tha hellish pitz of blackening, purest night fo' realz. Against his contempt, however, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta descend yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Da steps creaked loudly, shrill n' unforgiving, as if warnin Charlez ta turn back at any cost. This basement, whatever it was, was hell, n' what tha fuck would be up in tha least a representation of hell.
Charlez reached tha final step, n' felt a light slush of liquid brush against his fuckin leg yo. His flashlight kicked it wit tha ground - which was covered entirely up in whatever liquid encompassed it - n' then tha hall, which, while pitch black without tha torch, revealed itself ta be a Cristal cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Entire canistaz of purple-shaded brew lay assorted all up in tha nuff shelves which lead further n' further tha fuck into tha network of darknizz - a thugged-out darknizz dat even tha glow of Charles' flashlight could not reach. Charlez crouched down ta inspect tha queer liquid on tha floor, n' upon a cold-ass lil closer examination of it, Charlez concluded dat it was gin n juice n' not wine, cuz of itz voluminous, clear shade of color n' warm, muddy touch.
Charlez had, fo' da most thugged-out part, now lost tha dreaded n' wack feelin of misery dat blanketed his ass earlier on tha top floor of tha convenience store. Defin his nerves, Charlez fuckin started ta venture all up in tha vast network complex of blood-colored brew, made complete wit tha ankle-deep gin n juice Charlez was forced ta wade all up in as if it was a thugged-out devilish swamp. Cobwebs hung all around, some gettin up in Charles' afro or otherwise, n' his schmoooove ass came ta what tha fuck seemed like tha dead end of tha Cristal cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shortly afterwards, however, Charlez noticed dat it was not a thugged-out dead end yo, but another door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Wipin away tha irritable dust, Charlez gripped tha warm knob, n' afta a gangbangin' few momentz of struggling, he managed ta push it open, almost collapsin from tha speed n' creak of tha door comin ajar.
Charlez immediately found his dirty ass up in a tiny, rectangular room which dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta crouch down up in order not ta hit his head on tha cyclopean, dusted stone ceiling. Charlez took tha time ta adjust ta tha tiny room (which was still ankle-deep wit water), before bein surprised by what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka saw up in tha corner of tha tiny crawlspace-like room. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Slidin over ta tha dusted, lone corner of tha room, he observed a cold-ass lil cracking, wooden chest up in which was filled ta tha brim wit a gangbangin' few big-ass piecez of paper, each straight-up visibly wit handwriting.
Charles, up in his state of curiosity, took up two of three of tha notes. Though all of dem was dampened by both liquid n' time, Charlez fuckin started ta read what tha fuck his schmoooove ass could make outta tha straight-up original gangsta one. It was a poorly-written, grammatically atrocious looseleaf paper which looked like it was freestyled by a cold-ass lil lil pimp whom couldn't done been over tha age of nine. Charlez cringed; his OCD-ridden mind compellin his ass ta find tha nearest pen n' erect it yo, but he fought off tha urge n' fuckin started ta read.
"vey strange shiznit has ben happening. i heard uwe was goin ta set dem up ta micheaels dis night. we must take care of"
That was all, or at least, all dat remained of it - as tha remainin ink was blotted up n' smeared all over tha page up in a thugged-out disorderly smudge. Charlez set tha paper aside, considerably baffled by tha grammatically disgustin yet compellin lyrics on tha page yo. Dude automatically thought of tha kindly oldschool reverend whom took his ass up in once he read "Micheaels" yo. Dude set tha paper aside n' fuckin started ta read tha next one, which was much mo' pleasin on tha eyes. In accordizzle ta tha note, a biatch had freestyled dat shit.
"Dear Mista Boulstridge,
It be wit pimped out caution fo' me ta advise you dat goin tha fuck into tha Hightown Church at night would not be a wise idea. There is suttin' goin on up in there dat has been scarin mah lil hustla n' his sista wordless. Da rest of tha hood has also been havin experiences similar ta mine, so I assure you I aint outta mah mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I have heard of yo' plans ta rewind dis church n' seein as we is acquaintances, I be inclined ta givin you a gangbangin' fore wordin of lyrics.
With sincerity, Elizabeth Mason 9/3/1927"
If it had not been proven beforehand, dis solidified Charles' belief dat dis hood was one of nightmares. Despite not hearin any "Mason" or "Boulstridge" titlez up in Rodneyz tale, he knew based on tha date of dis letter ridin' solo dat it waz of some particularly oldschool importizzle ta tha area, even if it was only slight. Da Hightown Church was now one Charlez knew entirely dat must be avoided at all costs. Charlez placed tha note tha fuck into tha chest once more, n' took up tha last n' final of tha letters, unfoldin it n' beginnin ta scan his wild lil' fuckin eyes over tha dusty paper.
To dis day, Charlez do not know of whether tha text da perved-out muthafucka saw engraved onto tha next n' final piece of paper was a mere delusion or a harsh, wack reality. Before even unfoldin tha menacin relic, he felt a tremblin dread n' gnawin discomfort within his wild lil' freakadelic growlin stomach - a thugged-out discomfort so monstrous dat he feared what tha fuck nightmarish revelation lay on tha browning, then-unveiled looseleaf of forebodin secrets. Da text of tha paper was freestyled up in fine, bold cursive print dat was charismatic ta tha eyes.
"Dear Ms. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Smizzle,
Da Heighton Church basement n' attic constructions is currently underway. Gin N Juice is hustlin via a Mojave lake n' is currently fresh n' eligible ta drank without any problematic obstacles. I have observed tha crows' recent behavior n' they seem ta be growin unstable n' bothersome inside they current cagez of residence.
Da first construction of tha church fuckin started on tha twenty-seventh of March dis year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. It has now been applied tha majoritizzle of tha finishin touches by yours truly yo, but I hereby be askin you if you can lend ta me some mo' applicable n' useful cages ta comfort mah crows. On tha topic of them, I is ghon be dispatchin dem tonight. I have peeped Da One, whom harbors tha name of Da Crawlin Chaos Nyarlathotep n' tha mindless duet of idiot flute-playas dat wrack mah trips wit dark ferocity. Their calls compel mah dirty ass. I hope dearly dat you can complete mah request, madame.
Yo, sincerely yours,
Charlez could not breathe yo. Dude could not speak, or move, or feel; feel anythang but disbelief n' sheer n' utter terror up in tha moments afta readin over tha damp, darkened paper yo. Dude knew now straight-up dat Rodneyz rap was not just insane, drunken oldschool yarn spilled from tha grill of a imaginative, coffin dodgin' resident of tha grim town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was tha cold, unrelentin truth dat injected a funky-ass barbarously flagrant chill shuddered all up in Charles' spine fo' realz. After tha eventual subsidin of tha chill, Charlez sat ridin' solo up in silence fo' multiple secondz - tha only sound accompanyin his ass was dat of tha cavernous drippin of tha dark watas up in tha Cristal cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Peepin tha abrasive, stomach-churnin silence, a horrendous roar of such horribly unholy acoustic perversitizzles echoed all up in tha chamberz of tha Cristal cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Charles, without any second thought other than escape, stood up n' bolted as fast as his schmoooove ass could outta tha Cristal cellar, knockin over whatever his schmoooove ass could ta make his way opposite of tha wack noise, finally exitin n' joltin away, outta tha autobody shop, outta tha station yard - n' tha fuck into tha night.
IV. Da Dreams
Charlez did not care or feel inclined ta care bout tha autobody shop, or tha old, sickly n' boarded up cribs up in which tha starlight loomed over lazily, castin a near-luminous, eerie crescendo - his only concern was imminent escape as farthest as possible away from whatever mind-shatterin horror dat had emanated dat hideous, appallin groan up in dat cavernous Cristal cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Charlez sprinted, plowin all up in tha occasionizzle obstacle - none of dem includin people, as tha desert hood now rocked up ta be even mo' desolate n' devoid of intelligent life, all presumably behind tha quote unquote safe shroudz of they cribs.
Charlez finally reached Reverend Michaelz house, n' wit no regard fo' tha chill of tha town, knocked ferociously on tha wooden door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da door opened from tha inside, n' Charlez fell tha fuck into a thugged-out disoriented heap before lookin up n' seein Michaels' up in a night gown, whom looked dazed n' surprised. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Michaels' muthafuckin helped Charlez off of his wild lil' feet, whoz ass shook violently. Michaels fuckin started ta question him, as expected - "Boi! Ah thought ya took Rodneyz oldschool hoopty playa! Din't wurk, ah s'pose?" Charlez did not answer, rather - continued ta shake viciously, unable ta process humane lyrics or acoustic coherencez of tha English language, as no word or phrase he knew could describe tha unspeakable horrors dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had witnessed up in tha past few minutes - Rodney, tha autobody station, tha bellowin Cristal cellar, n' mo' da ruffneck did not wish ta remember. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Michaels continued ta look trippin yo, but suddenly grinned.
"Ah guess ya need sum chill, bucko. Ya'll look cold like a muthafucka. 'Ere, lemme git you a funky-ass blanket n' get'cha back up in bed, boy-o." Michaels did just that, applyin a woolen cloth over Charles' shiverin torso, tha latter of whom gripped tightly onto tha quilt, graspin it wit a vice-like grip of intensity. Michaels guided Charlez back tha fuck into tha bed dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had woken up in durin tha wee minutez of tha morning, all up in tha sullen, creakin hallway, n' Michaels cautiously lay Charles' up in tha bed, tuckin his ass up in as if Michaels' was a parent nurturin his child. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "G'night, Charlie-boy." With this, Michaels capped tha lights, leavin Charlez up in utter, nihilistic darkness.
Charlez shuttered, n' grasped tha blanketz of tha bed determinedly as da thug was enclosed up in solitary, confined blacknizz dat dampened tha room wit pure unadulterated musk. That fear of tha unknown crept up on Charles, whom was still up in a near paralyzed state followin tha experience up in tha forgotten Cristal cellar, n' Charlez felt his dirty ass be overcome wit fright as he imagined what tha fuck nameless entitizzles might be lurkin up in tha hustlin shroudz of tha darkness. Charles, despite tha psychedelic n' physical torments dat schmoooove muthafucka had endured over tha past few hours, somehow managed ta let chill overtake him, n' his head fell back onto tha white, cloth-y pillow, softly cushionin n' caressin his neck. Before his schmoooove ass could even think, da thug was finally asleep.
Upon achievin tha trance-like state of his chill, Charlez instantly felt a heavy wind on his wild lil' face, n' tha thought of a afterlife immediately came ta his crazy-ass mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Had he, like, took a dirt nap within his chill, biatch? Whatever tha cause, tha pleasant breeze encompassin his wild lil' grill was enjoyable fo' realz. After awhile, Charlez fuckin started ta see, his wild lil' fuckin eyes adjustin ta whatever odd ghetto would be awaitin fo' his ass as he opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes fully.
It was at dis point dat Charlez fuckin started ta realize dat it was simply a thugged-out dream, n' not tha gatez of Heaven. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Instead of bein pissed tha fuck off, as his schmoooove ass craned his wild lil' fuckin eyesights towardz tha horizizzle line, his schmoooove ass came grill ta grill wit tha enchanting, marvelous valley below. Da gold rayz of tha sun (which was dippin over tha horizizzle up in a cold-ass lil cascade of sunset) set its fiery blaze across tha breathtakin trip land, n' Charlez saw tha massive Cyclopean hood below it fo' realz. A spherical mass of maligned bubblez lay afloat calmly above tha horizizzle line, n' tha burnin sunset illuminizzled tha hood thoroughly, n' Charlez marveled all up in tha enchanted, lush gardenz of soothang chronicscattered all up in tha hood, occupyin any vacancies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Da hood streets was aligned wit occasionizzle statues n' tall, towerin red-roofed buildings, n' Charlez could not tell if tha sunset had illuminizzled dem red or if it was a otherworldly, indescribable paint fo' realz. All tha while, tha wondrous tune of beamin flutes n' triumphant trumpets echoed all up in tha skyline, Charlez savorin tha delightful feelin of tha wind n' calmnizz as da perved-out muthafucka stood atop tha high terrace overlookin tha rocky, monolithic dream-scape valley. Da cloudz dissipated n' formed all simultaneously, castin a shadowy, ghettofab crescendo of puffy, soft whitenizz dat devoured tha blue of tha immortal sky.
Charlez could feel his dirty ass fadin outta tha dream-scape, n' within moments he again n' again n' again felt his dirty ass calmly arrive back ta tha mo' familiar, though less enchantin embrace of tha realitizzle which da perved-out muthafucka so well knew. Da mornin desert sun gleamed dunkadelically all up in tha opened blindz of Charles' window, causin his wild lil' fuckin eyes ta flutter open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charlez sat upright n' rubbed his wild lil' forehead ta reduce a itch. For a gangbangin' few moments, Charlez believed dat da thug was up in his Mackdaddyston, Massachusetts home, locked n loaded ta fix his dirty ass a thugged-out delicious breakfast n' then run a gangbangin' few errandz fo' realz. Afterwards, da thug would spend tha dizzle home, watchin televizzle, or reading, n' like goin up ta lunch wit a gangbangin' few of his wild lil' playaz which he rarely eva saw.
Harsh realitizzle then hit his ass again, however, n' Charlez cursed underneath his breath as he recalled da thug was still takin residence up in tha old, shadowed desert hood which had hustled his ass vicariously, its voracious grill lookin ta devourin his ass sickeningly. Charlez could hear tha eva so familiar, far off cawin of crows, n' a cold-ass lil cascade goosebumps thrilled down his spine. Charlez shook off his wild lil' fears, n' decided ta hook up wit Michaels fo' breakfast once again n' again n' again up in tha kitchen.
Charlez gots dressed and, still tired, stumbled lethargically all up in tha damp, moldin hallway, n' pushed open tha door, up in which tha hinges creaked up in protest as it was opened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Charlez spotted Michaels up in tha kitchen, a funky-ass bowl of cereal on tha table below his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude dropped his spoon tha fuck into tha gin n juice n' smiled at Charles, whom smiled back up in a cold-ass lil crooked, awkward gesture yo. Dude still did not straight-up trust Michaels yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta assume his wild lil' freakadelic phat faith n' stick by his side until his schmoooove ass could git outta tha forsaken desert.
Charlez explained ta Michaels dat tha pimpin' muthafucka talked wit Rodney, whom lent Charlez his old, battered van. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charlez left up Rodneyz malicious rap entirely, fo' fear of bein deemed insane, though da ruffneck did explain ta Michaels dat tha van may take up ta a week ta fix fo' tha intimipimpin, inhumane crow-repairmen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude left up tha appearancez of tha men, however, as did he leave up tha still spine-chillin notes dat schmoooove muthafucka had found up in tha abandoned Cristal cellar, n' tha horrific bellow dat came from beyond.
After breakfast Charlez volunteered ta muthafuckin help Michaels clean up his basement, which tha latter busted lyrics bout as "ain't peeped a phat scrubbin' since last year." Charlez followed tha coffin dodgin' folk down tha fuck into tha basement (which was connected by a thugged-out downward spiralin stairwell up in tha aging, dusty livin room) n' Michaels flickered on tha lights, which dimly blinked tha fuck into life, buzzin cuz of tha impuritizzle n' witherin of oldschool age.
Charlez could almost immediately peep why Michaels needed assistizzle up in cleanin dis basement. There was apparently empty, dusty cardboard boxes scattered shamelessly around tha room. Da cement tilez of tha floors n' walls was cracked ta tha point of inabilitizzle ta repair, n' tha ceilin was caked wit a inky black grime dat dried n' solidified past tha point of dripping. Discarded, smashed objects lay scattered all up in tha basement. It was then dat Charlez noticed tha basement stretched back a cold-ass lil considerable length, deeper tha fuck into what tha fuck seemed akin ta a sewer-like network of achin darkness. Even afta Michaels handed Charlez a gangbangin' flashlight, tha range of tha device did not stretch back mo' than twenty feet tha fuck into tha abyss of a funky-ass basement.
Charlez was assigned by Michaels ta muthafuckin help clean up tha front of tha basement (the one dat did not stretch up tha fuck into tha abyss) n' he felt a pang of relief as da ruffneck did not wish ta go cavin fo' realz. As he observed Michaels clamber awkwardly off tha fuck into tha trench, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started his cold-ass task n' fuckin started scourin beneath tha empty cardboard boxes n' diggin around fo' anythang his schmoooove ass could clean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. After a gangbangin' few minutez of searching, tha pimpin' muthafucka tripped over something, n' fell embarrassingly bangin onto a gangbangin' few boxes.
Charles, hopin (in vain, seein as Michaels was certainly deep tha fuck into tha basement by now) dat his host did not hear his ass crash awkwardly onto tha items, scrambled onto his buttocks n' rested his dirty ass on tha crackin floor, ta observe what tha fuck had caused his ass ta trip yo. His eyes fell upon a piece of used construction paper, which had tha mud, dirt, n' sand from Charlez shoe caked all over dat shit. Charlez felt a surge of paranoia within his ass dat warned his ass not ta read whatever was on dis paper - especially recountin last nightz events up in tha autobody shop Cristal cellar - but tha "need-to-know", curious side of his ass took control yo. Dude hesitantly picked up tha clean endz of tha paper n' flipped it over, beginnin ta read dat shit. Da text was unsigned, n' hardly discernible, though afta a gangbangin' few minutez of examination, he managed ta decipher its contents.
"Yog-Sothoth knows tha gate. Yog-Sothoth is tha gate. Yog-Sothoth is tha key n' guardian of tha gate. Past, present, future, all is one up in Yog-Sothoth yo. Dude knows where tha Oldskool Ones broke all up in of old, n' where They shall break all up in again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude knows where They had trod earthz fields, n' where They still tread them, n' why no one can behold Them as They tread. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! By Their smell can pimps sometimes know Them near yo, but of Their semblizzle can no playa know, savin only up in tha featurez of dem They have begotten on mankind; n' of dem is there nuff sorts, differin up in likenizz from manz truest eidolon ta dat shape without sight or substizzle which is Them. They strutt unseen n' foul up in lonely places where tha Lyrics done been spoken n' tha Rites howled all up in at they Seasons. Da wind gibbers wit Their voices, n' tha earth muttas wit Their consciousness. They bend tha forest n' crush tha hood, yet may not forest or hood behold tha hand dat smites. Kadath up in tha cold waste hath known Them, n' what tha fuck playa knows Kadath, biatch? Da ice desert of tha Downtown n' tha sunken islez of Ocean hold stones whereon Their seal is engraver yo, but whoz ass bath peeped tha deep frozen hood or tha sealed tower long garlanded wit seachronic n' barnacles, biatch? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can da perved-out muthafucka spy Them only dimly. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! As a gangbangin' foulnizz shall ye know Them. Their hand be at yo' throats, yet ye peep Them not; n' Their habitation is even one wit yo' guarded threshold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yog-Sothoth is tha key ta tha gate, whereby tha spheres meet. Man rulez now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where playa rulez now fo' realz. After summer is winter, afta winter summer. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They wait patient n' potent, fo' here shall They reign again."
'Yog-Sothoth'. There was dat unearthly, outlandish phrase again n' again n' again dat Charlez had heard when Rodney recited dat bizarre, wack incantation all up in tha end of his cold-ass tale. Charlez had heard tha name before yo, but what tha fuck it meant or whoz ass it was meant for, Charlez could not tell. There was also tha strange Necronomicon, which was briefly mentioned up in Rodneyz story. Charlez had overlooked tha mention of tha book at first yo, but da perved-out muthafucka suddenly remembered studyin tha artifact up in his universitizzle - he recalled dat it was apparently tha work of a playa queerly named "Mad Arab Abdul Alzahed" (an amusingly alliteratizzle name, if Charlez did be thinkin so his dirty ass), n' dat it was ostracized n' abhorred by many, fo' its supposedly "evil verisimilitude", along wit its uncertain mobilitizzle ta summon deitizzles - suttin' which, afta Charlez had heard Rodneyz ramblings, could not decizzle whether ta trust tha juice of anecdotal evidence or continue ta be a skeptic.
Perhaps cuz of tha desensitization from tha horrorz of last night - tha notes left by tha late Hugh Heighton his dirty ass n' two other strangers, Rodney, among other experiences - Charlez was not so intimidated by tha lyrics on tha paper. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. This time around, dat schmoooove muthafucka had found dem mo' horny-ass than maddenin - though da perved-out muthafucka still feared why Michaels would have dis peculiar note up in his thugged-out abyssal basement, n' what tha fuck tha familiarly eerie, unorthodox lyrics on tha grimy construction paper represented. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time. Charlez pocketed tha flimsy item n' hoped ta study it further when dat schmoooove muthafucka had tha chizzle of stayin ridin' solo up in his bangin room.
Roughly half-an-hour later, Charlez n' Michaels finished tha cleanin task, n' headed back upstairs. Michaels boarded his dirty ass up in tha small, enclosed bedroom up in tha musty hallway of tha lil' small-ass doggy den (the basement ridin' solo was mo' massive than tha entirety of tha complex) n' Charlez did not wanna smoke up what tha fuck da thug was conductin up in dat room yo. Dude did not peep Michaels again n' again n' again until da perved-out muthafucka served dinner fo' his wild lil' freakadelic guest. Instead, Charlez returned ta tha room which was reserved fo' him, n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta study tha note even mo' closely, though da ruffneck did not git far tha fuck into decipherin what tha fuck its contents meant up in full yo. Dude knew it had relations ta tha foul Necronomicon, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had also recalled hearin tha eerie name of "Cthulhu" somewhere before yo, but his schmoooove ass could not tell what tha fuck or whoz ass it meant, or like mo' blinginly, how tha fuck ta pronounce it properly up in any human language.
After nuff minutez of studyin tha note, Charlez was called ta dinner by Michaels, whom was servin peppered vinegar porkchops which Charlez devoured ravenously, still somewhat deterred by tha lack of chicken dat schmoooove muthafucka had up in tha desert fo' realz. Afterwards, Michaels holla'd git tha fuck outta ma bidnizz ta Charlez n' boarded his dirty ass up in his cold-ass tiny room once again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charlez again n' again n' again was not curious ta smoke up what tha fuck da thug was stirrin up in there, n' so he retired back ta his cold-ass temporary bedroom ta chill.
Da trip which Charlez experienced dis time around was considerably less pleasant than tha last. While da thug was still up in tha same stupid-ass terrace dat schmoooove muthafucka had encountered up in his thugged-out lil' previous trip - tha one which was littered wit majestic, marvelous plains, peaks, valleys, mountains, n' shimmerin sunlight-coated ghettos which could only be from tha imagination of a sheerly dunkadelical thug or thang - though he noticed some differences amongst tha sea of intricate majestizzles fo' realz. Above his ass hung a triad of flaming, disk-shaped formations, burnin brightly up in tha twilight sky. There still remained tha presence of tha bubbly, amorphous patch of spheres dat hung up in tha sky, though Charlez noticed tha intriguin designs across tha hoodscape, which faintly resembled deep-sea starfish, tha horizontal glimmerin metal shinin triumphantly n' yet bizarre n' straight-up unearthly. Vertical knobs was visible on tha star-like structure, which stretched tha fuck into another star-like shape. Charlez could hear tha distant, muffled caw of crows - his schmoooove ass could only hear dem as if there was liquid up in his wild lil' fuckin ears dat drowned up tha mobilitizzle ta dig they calls up in full. Da wind only blew faintly, n' Charlez soon found his dirty ass awake tha next morning.
Charlez awoke wit a cold-ass lil cold sweat afta tha dream, cuppin his thugged-out lil' palms up in his handz ta drown up tha mornin sunlight fo' realz. After his wild lil' fuckin eyes fuckin started ta adjust ta tha light, he recalled last nightz dream, n' wondered thoroughly why it had unsettled his ass all muthafuckin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Little was different from tha original gangsta dream, aside from tha star-structures, tha distant croakz of tha crows, n' tha scorchin diskz of fire dat hung above tha skyline, among other less blingin distinctions yo, but he felt a alertin sense of nervousnizz afta tha dream, n' why dis was, da ruffneck did not know, nahmeean, biatch? Was it like tha sound of tha crows dat had set his ass off, fo' they had been a gangbangin' fairly blingin n' disturbin part of Heightonz hood history, biatch? Whatever tha cause, Charlez was soon interrupted by tha taste-bud arousin smell of bacon dat he figured Michaels was fixin up in tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mainly forgettin bout his fuckin lil' dream, he gots up, dressed his dirty ass, n' joined his host up in tha kitchen.
Durin breakfast n' afterwards, Charles' dizzle continued on smoothly, though he observed a seriez of odd behaviors from Michaels. Charlez duly noted his ass occasionally lookin up all up in tha ceiling, starin at not a god damn thang but wallpaper, as if up in a cold-ass lil comatose trizzle yo. Dude also seemed ta behave glumly durin dinner, up in which da ruffneck did not drop a rhyme one word yo, but merely smiled eerily at Charlez from tha other side of tha dinner table, before they both finished they meals n' Michaels set off tha fuck into his cold-ass tiny, closet-like room whereas Charlez set off fo' bed up in his bangin respectizzle room.
At nine-thirty, afta half-an-hour, Charlez deducted dat da thug was havin shizzle chillin, like cuz of bein non-exhausted all up in tha chillaxin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! To remedy dis scenario, he examined tha array of books on tha mildly sized, wooden n' dusty shelf which Michaels kept up in tha room. Charlez set his wild lil' fuckin eyes on some oldschool books, most particularly Bram Stokerz gruesome "Dracula". Charlez considered readin it, though he put it down (for fear of nightmares or even less lack of chill) n' decided ta settle wit Emily Brontëz "Wutherin Heights" instead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! After bout a minute of readin tha novel, Charlez closed tha book n' placed it on tha night-table, n' his head collapsed onto tha pillow, assurin his ass a thugged-out deep rest.
V yo. Hightown
A few minutes afta midnight, Charlez was roused from a chillaxin trip ta tha sound of tribal pounding. Charlez sat up, rubbin his wild lil' fuckin eyes as they adjusted ta tha trench-like darknizz yo. Dude shambled over ta tha window, n' upon starin up da perved-out muthafucka saw dat there was lil stars dottin tha sky, n' dat most of dem was obscured by black nightly clouds. Da tribal, percussion-like sound pounded up in a funky-ass bizarre crescendo, n' Charlez could faintly peep tha blaze of flames up in tha air on occasions. Needless ta say, Charlez was mo' than curious ta smoke up what tha fuck was goin on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude gots his dirty ass dressed, equipped his wild lil' flashlight, n' pried open tha ground-level window, before climbin up tha fuck into tha night.
Charlez maneuvered his dirty ass all up in tha buildin alleyways, followin tha sound of tha tribal percussion until it loudened considerably. Charlez ducked beneath a garbage dump up in a alleyway when a anonymous figure rocked up outta one of tha doors. Da figure progressed tha fuck into tha door across, n' Charlez fuckin started ta follow tha tribal sound again.
Eventually, Charlez came ta a cold-ass lil clearin up in tha night. It was a medium-sized, luxurious square up in tha hood dat faintly resembled New Yorkz Columbus Circle, though like smalla than holla'd attraction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Charlez could peep dat mo' stars hung above tha square than tha rest of tha town, n' was startled when a cold-ass lil crow burst from a cold-ass lil crevice up in one of tha buildings before dartin off tha fuck into tha night.
Charlez examined tha square around his ass wit his wild lil' flashlight as dopest as his schmoooove ass could yo, but da thug was cut short when dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha tribal poundin emanatin, comin closer towardz his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude ducked behind a funky-ass building, cursin profanely as he knocked over a garbage bin by mistake. Da tribal poundaz did not seem ta hear, however, n' fuckin started ta progress tha fuck into tha square yo. Dude could peep dat wooden blowtorches was equipped wit them, n' dat a gangbangin' few had marchin crew like drums strapped ta they stomachs, both of which respectively explained tha fiery blaze n' drummin sound
It was then dat Charlez noticed tha mo' physical featurez of them, however. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be runnin hoes up in 2013. Da figures was wrapped up in dark, hooded cloaks, concealin they facial features entirely. Da majoritizzle of dem carried shriveled-up wooden canes wit a pointed tip dat stuck up upward, dangerously close ta they unrevealed faces fo' realz. A few of dem carried daggers similar up in shape ta tha canes, though they was much smalla up in size n' length.
Charlez then spotted a gangbangin' figure dat was bein carried above them, n' all tha color drained from his wild lil' grill up in a near-instant. Da figure was tied up lazily, concealed up in heavy patchez of duck tape. Charlez did not recognize tha figure at first, until he noticed tha bulging, sloppily danglin artificial eye dat poked up like a sore thumb from tha head area. It was Rodney, n' da thug was bein carried overhead by four of tha cloaked figures.
Charlez immediately knew dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta do somethang yo, but his schmoooove ass could not move, or breathe, or speak, or feel fo' realz. At least, dat was what tha fuck it felt like - he only kept his wild lil' fuckin eyes locked on tha terrible peeped before him, n' whatever color or thuglife was left up in his wild lil' grill drained even further when one of tha cloaked figures took off its hood.
Beneath tha hood was one of tha figures holdin daggers, n' underneath tha hood his schmoooove ass could peep dat tha creaturez grill was entirely a wooden mask fo' realz. A dark, sickly-chronicmask which resembled a lizard faintly, which was strapped tightly on tha back of tha beingz head by equally chronicbuckles. Da reptilian features came all up in tha eyes n' grill, however - tha grill was not a grill at all, up in fact, rather, a quad of stiff tentacled appendages protrudin outta tha face. Da eyes lacked any pupils, n' resembled dat of a gangbangin' fishz unblinkin eye.
Da same stupid-ass figure suddenly ran over ta a patch of sand, n' fuckin started ta carve a cold-ass lil circle up in tha dirt wit tha dagger, which spread up a gangbangin' few yardz up in tha sand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Charlez was then horrified ta peep dat tha leadin gangmember of tha rancid cult had taken off his hood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! There was no mask beneath it, dis time - only Reverend Michaels, tha untrustworthy playa whoz ass had taken Charlez tha fuck into custody.
Charlez could not move, as tha cult fuckin started ta lower Rodney tha fuck into tha dirt circle fo' realz. A few of tha cultists propped his ass up by piercin tha sharp endz of they canes tha fuck into tha dirt, proppin his ass a gangbangin' few feet tha fuck into tha air yo. Dude continued ta struggle, emittin muffled screams as he attempted up in desperate vainnizz ta escape tha duck tape dat was holdin his ass down.
A couple other cultists progressed towardz Rodney, n' tha two of dem was dem whom equipped torches. Da rest of tha cult stood a gangbangin' few yardz behind them, n' tha duo tossed tha flamin blowtorches onto tha lazily made altar, n' onto Rodney. Charlez could hear tha coffin dodgin' manz sickly screams as he erupted up in flames, tha cult watchin intently. To Charles' horror, tha flames burst tha fuck into a horrific cappin' of burning, flamin black crows dat darted tha fuck into tha night sky, bustin a gangbangin' fiery spiral of hideous black flames. Da tower of crows reached just above tha skyline, before tha artificial beasts went they separate ways n' disrocked up tha fuck into tha blackened night sky. Da cultists work was done. Da elder n' wise-man of tha town, whoz ass Charlez feared was like tha only sane creature up in tha entire area, was gone.
And so Charlez ran. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Ran as fast as his schmoooove ass could. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude was aware tha cultists could likely peep him, n' he knew dat if they did, da thug was they next target. Puttin aside all of that, he ran, sprinted as fast as his hairy-ass legs could carry him, sights set fo' tha autobody shop. Da cultists was far behind him, though doubtlessly still pursuin him, n' he jumped, maneuvered, or kicked down any obstacle dat was up in his way before he finally saw tha autobody shop yo. Dude could peep Rodneyz van - which was now his - up in tha lot, n' tha crow-men had done a phat thang of repairin it yo. Dude dashed determinizzlely tha fuck into tha driverz seat and, not botherin ta care bout tha repairmenz word, slammed tha hoopty tha fuck into ignizzle n' sped off tha fuck into tha desert.
Da faint glow of tha cultists torches was still behind him, glowin on tha distant horizizzle of Heighton. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But fuck dat shizzle yo, tha word on tha street is dat they was much too far away ta continue they pursuit of Charlez - n' da perved-out muthafucka sighed, grinnin ta his dirty ass as he chillaxed his dirty ass up in tha movin vehicle yo. Dude was finally outta tha hamlet of hell, n' was now headed back home, away from tha nightmarez of tha hood da thug would not dare ta eva visit again; even all up in tha cost of his fuckin life.
And so Charlez fuckin started ta laugh yo. Dude now knew what tha fuck legit terror was, n' what tha fuck ta experience it was - not only cuz of tha cultists yo, but tha dreams, tha crows, n' tha shadowed history of tha hood as well yo. His light chuckle fuckin started ta erupt tha fuck into a gangbangin' full laugh, which ascended tha fuck into one dat was utterly beyond any sense human sanity.
Dude now knew where They tread - how tha fuck They shall was before, n' how tha fuck They shall be again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. True nightmares n' hell on Ghetto was legit only up in anecdotal evidence, n' Charlez encountas was one da thug would never forget yo. Dude had strutted all up in tha hell n' peeped terror, aware of Their nature up in tha sea of chaos dat is tha known universe. Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn! Charlez laugh echoed triumphantly, n' his hoopty dashed off tha fuck into tha night, preparin Charlez fo' his wondrous luxury of Their glory n' might fo' all of eternity.
|Comments • 0|