Cody Christano: The Life of an American Scum Bucket
You turn to Uncle Soda enraged, "YOUR THE REASON WE SUCK! WHAT KINDA NAME IS UNCLE SODA?! WHY THE HELL DO YOU ONLY RAP ABOUT SODA POP!?"
"Dude, chill out! Your taking this whole rap thing WAY too seriously! This is just kinda a big joke to me man. I never thought we would ever, ya know, make a record deal or anything."
This angers you even more that he has been approaching the rap game as if its been a joke this entire time. Causing you to be laughed at and not taken seriously. You remove your glock 9mm from within your jacket pocket, that you aquired through a shady trade on craigs list.
"Whoa! Where the hell did you get a gun Cody? Put it down man!" Uncle Soda pleads as store patrons duck for cover.
You will not listen to reason. "YOUR OUT OF MIDNIGHT TERROR CREW, UNCLE SODA! TIME FOR YOU TO POP POP AND FIZZLE MUTHAFUCKA!"
"NOO CODY PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!"
You fire all 12 rounds from the 9mm into Uncle Soda's chest. He stumbles backward, sputtering blood all over his hoodie. He falls to his knees, gasps for air, before keeling over, dead.
That was all the bullets you had. You throw the gun to the floor, instantly regretting that you have killed your only friend. Customers and employees in the record store begin to poke their heads out of cover to see you sobbing. Your life has just taken a twisted turn, you only have two options left now.
"Dude, chill out! Your taking this whole rap thing WAY too seriously! This is just kinda a big joke to me man. I never thought we would ever, ya know, make a record deal or anything."
This angers you even more that he has been approaching the rap game as if its been a joke this entire time. Causing you to be laughed at and not taken seriously. You remove your glock 9mm from within your jacket pocket, that you aquired through a shady trade on craigs list.
"Whoa! Where the hell did you get a gun Cody? Put it down man!" Uncle Soda pleads as store patrons duck for cover.
You will not listen to reason. "YOUR OUT OF MIDNIGHT TERROR CREW, UNCLE SODA! TIME FOR YOU TO POP POP AND FIZZLE MUTHAFUCKA!"
"NOO CODY PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!"
You fire all 12 rounds from the 9mm into Uncle Soda's chest. He stumbles backward, sputtering blood all over his hoodie. He falls to his knees, gasps for air, before keeling over, dead.
That was all the bullets you had. You throw the gun to the floor, instantly regretting that you have killed your only friend. Customers and employees in the record store begin to poke their heads out of cover to see you sobbing. Your life has just taken a twisted turn, you only have two options left now.