It was the second Snowfall and the worms halted their advancement; the snow menaced sufficiently. Giovane’s society huddled across the Bushwick residencies, sparkling flames over the works of olden literatures. They failed to captivate the lack-a-day of the people quite like the prophetic cassettes, the overlap of alien abstractions and its attitude so balls to the walls. There was something about this so called Doughy Stoveskee and Play Tōh that wasn’t quite so gripping, the lackluster of forgotten issues and an inability to relate to their abstractions of humanity. A few were saved, such as someone by the name of Vonnegut, but the rest were to be used for kindling, by decree of Grandmaster Giovane. So it goes.
The Snowfall offered itself towards the era of La Menage, when the innocents souls transferred themselves to an even greater Soul bass track, prickling the fruits of tremendous labor; the labor of multiplication. In this respect, Giovane was a master mathematician. In all other respects, math was essentially outlawed. Such a decree, as well is deserved, by proxy would make Giovane the highest mind amongst his society, for he more than excelled in the virtues of their principles, of the cunning linguistics of the Hallow Rap. Consequently, in his prodigious merit and the attractiveness of such a trait, Giovane found it thrusted on himself to be the Great Propogator. So studly was he.
It had been prophesized, in all actually, by the prophets that a coming of the illest and most righteous of their brothers, the beholder of the sickest flow, of the flyest nigga, holiest of the holy mountain would arise from the ashes of their world Hip-Hop; dope as shit, but never touched the stuff. Or so they say. So to say, Giovane was the realest nigga. Had the theologians not brought into contention the etymology of such a title, of what the historical context of a ‘real nigga’ had been, cross-referencing the works of the Wu-Tang Clanship and the Tribe Called Quest along with individual philosophical usages, surely the position of Giovane would have been cemented as that, as The Real Nigga. Until the academics could sort the semantics, Giovane would merely be referred to as The King Giovane, or G-Lion.
Careful in the jungle,
G-Lion on the prowl for G-string
Two fiddy for d’infectious fungal. (Note: The exploration of what these G-Strings were has ultimately been inconclusive save a musing on perhaps being a disease transmitter.)
Thusly, G-Lion was indeed the perfect being to fulfill the role of The Great Propagator. His specimen was slick, on point and the truest blessing to any fortunate woman who could indeed be in proximity to the crib at Wykoff’s Northeast Kingdom. He roamed the pavement corridors of his urban castle, the mean streets of his kingdom, the turf he represented to the fullest of his machismo. He belted the cracking whip of his Skating Board over the icy slopes when the firmament rested, when the onslaught left the children of ambition continue their tendril grasping through the streets.
He entered the other territories, soaring through derelict piers and bod’gis, exploring the full gullet of Wykoff’s thoroughfare that fed into Flushing’s esophagus, passing the signs that read Sumner and Williamsburg, a series of neighborhoods with these indecipherable inscriptions, and then finally Brooklyn Heights. He recognized the word Brooklyn. He had come to contemplate the name, whether it was the birthplace of the Venerable Mos Def and the Notorious BIG. To happen on the holy grounds of his prophets had to be entirely coincidence, save with G-Lion all was ordained and predestined for the destiny he skid along. He was meant to discover these locations.
I thought it was a dream
Finding the holy of the hallow
But I fly more than the sparrow
Narrow focus, easier than it seems
Nothing is impossible is what I deem.
And so it was so, the Holy Land, the Gangsta’s Paradise, Brooklyn Numbah One, was in their sights. G-Lion returned to his society, to the expecting, at the end of the Snowfall with millionaire news. He had found it, surely, the birthplace of their prophets, and it was rightly theirs to redeem from the cold dearth of Oblivion. From this moment, he became a shepherd, a hero, and was responsible no longer just for their well-being, but for their future. This arrived at him as a very heavy, very deposing drag, and so he decided to freshen the mission up with a new name: GG Mane.
They departed for Brooklyn Heights, for their Gangsta’s Paradise. GG Mane and Ghetto Disciples.