Texts from Bennett by Mac Lethal Read Free Book Online Page B

over his mouth. He was seconds away from dropping an n-bomb to actual, real-life, Third-World-country Africans.
    “Hey! Let’s get your mom inside so she can relax! Here, Bennett, grab a suitcase!” I put Lillian’s bag in Bennett’s arms.
    Harper stared at me, widely opened her eyes, rolled her eyeballs, then walked away. She was already over it.

7
The Gracie Family
    While Bennett and I brought in his family’s luggage and put it upstairs in the guest bedroom, Harper—bless her—sat down at the kitchen table, chatting to Lillian and Tim. We then took Bennett’s gym bag and two milk crates of belongings down to the basement, where he would sleep while staying with us.
    “Damn, you cold pimpin’ now! Dis house is da shit! You could run a full-blown ghetto mafia operation out dis bitch!” Bennett screamed in awe of my finished basement.
    “What exactly is ‘a ghetto Mafia operation’?” I asked.
    “I’m sayin’, mane, you could, like, sell heron’, coke, have hookers, machine guns, and shit. Some stripper poles, sell some crack, and what not, right? But since it’s so nice and shit, if da cops fuck wichu, be like, ‘Hello, officer, I’m a tooth doctor.’ Haha!”
    Bennett tried to give me five after saying that. I politely shook his hand instead.
    “Uh. Yeah. I don’t think we’ll be hosting any ‘ghetto mafia operations’ anytime soon.”
    “C’mon, nigga! You rap, right?” Bennett said, collapsing onto the couch.
    “Yeah. I rap,” I replied.
    “Homie, I’m glad we havin’ this talk. Look, my nigga, rappers gotta glorify da streets and shit. You gotta be backhandin’ hos andstealin’ jewelry from Donald Trump! How you gonna have street cred when you rap ’bout global warnings? We want blood and Lamborghinis wif bullet holes in our music, my G! I could help you learn how to rap like dat.”
    “Do you mean ‘global warming’?”
    “See? A street nigga like me don’t even know da name of it. But fuck naw. global warming, my ass! It’s a cold world. It ain’t warm. Bring dat street shit!”
    “That’s not my style. Nor do I want it to be.”
    “Mane . . . fuck!” Bennett said, frustrated. “Aiight, mane, look. Can I tell you a secret, Cuz?”
    “Uh. Sure.”
    “Look. I ain’t tryin’ to dis you or no shit like dat. But . . . that’s always been your problem, my nigga. You be makin’ dat weirdo, art rap stuff. Rappin’ bout Lord of Da Rings and puppies and all dat shit. You should own twenty houses like this! Makin’ millions! Movin’ Bolivian cocaine like all the famous rappers do. This house don’t even got a stripper pole! Rappers ’posed to have stripper poles in their house!”
    “Okay, yeah, some rappers. But that’s just not me . I have an audience for what I do, full of respectable, intelligent adults who don’t promote violence, materialism, or negativity.”
    Bennett quietly raised his eyebrows, contemplating what I just said. “Pfffffft!!! Hahaha! Mane . . . fuck dat. Violence make da world go ’round! You need to get like 50 Cent and Gucci Mane and make those ghetto, street anthems. Dat raw, gutta shit, for hustlas and thugs, with ambitions like 2Pac, who swim in bathtubs full of money.”
    He was impossible to connect with, and I was already losing patience with him, but I had an idea. I figured my newer material was so polished that it might be somewhat appealing to him. At least appealing enough. Grabbing a fresh copy of my latest album near the stereo, I popped it in the little system I kept in the basement.
    “Okay, check this out,” I said.
    “Is this yo new shit?” Bennett asked.
    “Yeah, this is new. I think you may like it.”
    “Bump dat shit den, nigga. I ain’t heard yo shit in a good minute. Maybe it got better. It used to be booty though! You was rappin’’bout granola bars and savin’ panda bears and shit. Hahaha! Lemme hear dat hood flava! I don’t wanna hear raps about how it’s important to wash my hands and eat my